I barely slept last night. The baby next door was crying loud and hard. It was probably a bad case of colic. I bet her (or his) mom hardly slept, too. I remember how it was with Justin. I delivered him via a caesarean operation, and we were out of the hospital after two days, or was it three? As difficult and painful as it was to get up from bed several times during the night, I saw to it that I was the one personally tending to my son’s needs when everybody else is ho hum sound asleep.
That was my routine for about two months until I could not do it on my own any longer. I wasn’t getting enough sleep, I was tired and unusually cranky, and I was losing weight. That is when I called for help. I asked my husband if we could take turns feeding the baby at night; my son is bottle-fed, by the way, after only a week or less of having breast-fed since I was on medication at that time.
My husband dutifully obliged, and that was actually all that he wanted to hear me say. He thought I was doing okay on my own, that there was no problem, and that everything was fine. On my part, I was waiting for him to get the message and have the initiative to volunteer to do things on his own, but that wasn’t going to happen. Men…they need to be told always. Why do I keep forgetting this?
That’s all water under the bridge. I’ve gone through that phase, and I’ve survived. I hope the mom next door is getting all the help — and sleep — she needs.