Last night I would have given my dear, sweet Zachary a tumbler of scotch and a Winston filter if it would have made him happy… or at the very least, quiet. Does the flu shot turn all babies into relentless masters of evil? The poor child was inconsolable. I couldn’t hold him. I couldn’t put him down. I couldn’t feed him. I couldn’t eat in his presence either. So I did what any normal mom worth her salt would do… I sat in the floor and cried with him.
This is not the first time as a mother I have had an “I don’t know what to do to fix this” moment… and I sincerely doubt it will be my last. But it was one for the books. The rough and tumble evening was followed by throwing toys during bathtime, a temper tantrum at bedtime (of the the headbutting, kicking, screeching variety), then restless, whiny, broken sleep. Zac’s night didn’t improve either. <BA-DUM CHING! Thank you, I’ll be here all week.>
So here’s (Cheers?) to hoping for a better Thursday! Because Wednesday sure felt like a fucking Monday.