So Riley is generally a good sleeper, but every time he changes that, I post about it. So it may seem he is a poor sleeper, but that is not the case. And I'm about to complain again. It doesn't bother me to wake up numerous times in the night to feed him. It doesn't bother me to nurse him to sleep as long as he settles down quickly. It doesn't bother me to have him sleep in my bed, as long as he starts off in his own. So, as you can see, I'm not that picky. But here is what DOES bother me: waking up in the middle of the night to a baby who is WIDE AWAKE AND WANTS TO PLAY! Oh boy. Last night he woke me up around 1:30 a.m. and I brought him into my bed, breastfed him, and he kept popping off to babble or climb on me or smack Brent in the face or kick me in the stomach. For two hours. This means that I fell asleep around midnight, woke up at 1:30, and stayed awake until about 3:30. And then. And THEN! He woke up to Brent's alarm at 7:00, squealing and excited to be alive!! Was I excited to be alive?? Um, no.
He normally naps at around 1:00 in the afternoon, but he crashed at 10:45 this morning. Surprising. I think the worst part is that I can't just let him play around while I sleep because he wants to be touching me at all times while playing in the dark in the middle of the night, which keeps me awake. If I could just put him in his crib and let him play, I would be okay, but there is no way he will put up with that without protest. And his brothers sleep in his room so if he protests it will eventually wake them up [but really I just can't bear to let him cry, though he's old enough now that I could Ferber him or pick up/put down sleep train him without guilt because he's well attached and has established trust--he's my #3 baby and I just can't do it. But I WILL if he makes this middle of the night coffee break a regular occurrence!].
What to do?
Complain about it, obviously. On my blog.
I've also been having trouble with anxiety again this week. On the weekend I missed 2 supplement doses in 36 hours, and I paid for it on Sunday. Hoo boy! I was anxious and angry and sad and just so afraid. Afraid of always feeling that way. Afraid of slipping back into a funk. Afraid of being the mom who yells and stomps around and generally dislikes her kids all winter [I exaggerate, but I'm always afraid of being That Mom]. Afraid of becoming unhappy!
It was a good confirmation that the natural supplements I've been taking [heretofore referred to as my crazy meds] are working. Which I appreciate. But I did already know they were working. And then later this week, on Wednesday, I forgot to bring my evening crazy meds to work with me on a 1:00 pm to midnight shift, so I was 7 1/2 hours late in taking them and I paid for that on Thursday. Wednesday night our last call of the night was one of those "I've fallen and I can't get up" calls, which are generally routine public assist calls. We go, pick the person up off the floor, settle them in their bed/chair/walker/wheelchair, take some vital signs, offer to take them to the hospital, but leave after they refuse. But this one, though the patient kept reassuring us that he was fine and just needed help to get up off the floor, gave me very good reason to suspect a stroke. The entire left half of his body was drooping and weak, and he was having trouble answering my questions. He understood me perfectly, but couldn't always get his body to reply in answer to my questions, or move to follow my directions. So, off we went. BUT between his wife knowing nothing of his medical history except "He takes puffers for something," and the patient being pretty much uncommunicative, I had not much of a story to give to the hospital. I phoned ahead to let them know what I had discovered in my assessment of him, but for medical history I had almost zilch. Same with a story of what happened that night; did you trip and fall or get dizzy and fall? Did you lose consciousness? Did you eat today? Did you hit anything on the way down? What position did you land in? Did you hit your head? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
The nurse at the ER looked at me in front of six other people and said, "You are a very poor historian."
I went to her later and tried to explain myself, including the fact that it was the end of my shift and I was very tired. She rolled her eyes and said, "Yeah, well..." and shrugged her shoulders. I think she hates me. Why do random people you work with hate you? Isn't that weird?
Anyways, this scenario was driving me crazy by replaying in my head all day Thursday. I couldn't let it go. It funked me. I shouldn't allow people who choose to be jerks to funk me, but when I'm teetering on the edge of anxiety and fighting it off and forgetting my crazy meds, I just can't. It is too bad we can't all be more gentle and human with each other, you know? Allow each other to have moments that look like weaknesses; give each other the benefit of the doubt?
Then midday I let my dog out to pee and he decides to poop. Awesome, because it's not in my kitchen, right? One of my neighbours (the one who lives six doors down from me and whose lawn isn't in any danger of being pooped on) says to me, "Do you mind coming over here and cleaning up after your dog?" with a VERY crabby look on her face. "Yes, I'm planning on cleaning it up," I said. No way no how am I rolling over and taking accusations that I don't clean up my dogs poop. I DO clean it up, and hate doing it, and will take credit for doing it even when I hate to. She points to the ground and says, "It's right here. You need to clean up after your dog." "Yes I know it's right there, that's why I'm standing here, to watch where he poops and then go get a bag and come back and clean it up. I ALWAYS clean up after my dog." She says, "Hm. There's another pile over here in Susan's front yard." I didn't believe it was from Simon, though it is remotely possible. "From my dog?" "I'm sure it is; it's pretty small." Okay, I don't mind cleaning up that poop too, on the off chance that it is actually Simons, and because Susan doesn't have a dog so why should she have to clean up dog shit in her front yard? But I was PISSED OFF that this nosy busybody neighbour who doesn't even live next door to me is reprimanding me for not cleaning up my dog's poop when in actual fact it is clear to see that I'm standing outside in the rain in my socks in my yard, watching him poop. It's obvious to me that I fully intend to clean it up, and if it isn't obvious to her, then she should wait a few minutes to see if I do clean it up. And if I don't, she should be more polite about asking me to. Or she should mind her own fucking business and keep her trap shut, but we're talking bloody busybody. Let's be realistic.
I couldn't let that one go, either. When I went out to collect the poops in a bag I yelled over to her yard "I ALWAYS CLEAN UP AFTER MY DOG!!!!" and slammed the door. I don't know if she heard me or not but it sure felt good. I'm pretty sure she did hear me. I'm SO READY to MOVE out of this bloody townhouse with your neighbours sitting in your lap and the existence of a strata justifying spying, gossiping, snooping, and generally poking around in other peoples' business. I'm sick of it. SICK. OF. IT.
And I increased my dose of St John's Wort because I obviously need some help coping this week, and today I feel much better. I've lost my obsession with the neighbour and the nurse, and daily life feels more manageable. I was taking 1/3 the recommended dose anyways, so it was pretty safe to increase it, I think! Especially now that the sunshine is gone for good, and the rain has settled in to stay. I need some extra help. I should also journal my thoughts about these two incidents so I can be better prepared next time someone treats me unfairly. It's just so tough! I hate being treated unfairly! I'm good at my job, and I'm good at cleaning up my dog's poop. I shouldn't have to take flak from RETARDS WHO JUST LIKE TO MAKE OTHER PEOPLE FEEL LIKE SHIT!
It's a pro-D day so my kids are home from school. I should probably stop ignoring them and go make some lunch.