If we were having coffee, I would be quietly sipping a ginger tea. You ask me about it, since I’m normally such an avid coffee drinker, and I’m quiet for a moment. I have trouble telling you the anxiety I’ve struggled with since college, which seems to have gotten worse since we moved. I have stomachaches almost every day, hence the ginger tea.
You apologize and say you didn’t know, then ask me about seeing a doctor. I will, I tell you, and Cohiba is really pushing that, too. I hate struggling with this, though – seeing a doctor is a pain in the ass. To cut up the somber note our meeting has begun on, I tell you that I started watching the new 90210 as I’m crocheting. Your eyebrows raise and I tell you that I hate myself. No wonder your stomach hurts! you say, eyebrow arched, and we chuckle.
If we were having coffee, I would tell you how much Cohiba helped me this weekend, because I was not feeling good. Wasn’t Cohiba sick? you ask, and I say he was, but I didn’t have what he did. I think mine was just more being run down and not getting enough sleep. Writing too much? you ask, and I wish that was it. It was the Wee One, sadly. Thus far, we have been happily bedsharing with her, sleeping with her at night. I know its not recommended, but we all got sleep and we all loved it. It was working for our family.
For the past few weeks, it stopped working. Cohiba hasn’t been sleeping with us because he was sick and didn’t want to give it to her, so I was the only nighttime parent for when she woke in the night or got up at 4:30, I was the only one handling those things, which means I didn’t sleep much. So I started sleep teaching her – I’ve been putting her to sleep in her crib for the past several days, with relative success. We’ve put in a bedtime routine, which I’m glad for, but that also means a lot of crying, which sucks (and makes my stomach hurt.) I think I’ll miss sleeping next to her warm little body, but Cohiba said he thinks she sleeps sounder in her own space, and I know we both like being able to get into our bedroom at night.
If we were having coffee, I tell you about the baby monitor we bought, one of those things that goes on the top of her crib and we can see in the dark? You nod. The only problem is when I first put her down, I can hear her cry from her room, and then a split second later from the monitor in our room. As if hearing her cries wasn’t hard enough, now it’s in stereo. Talk about a stomachache, I joke.
My tea is finished and I tell you I need to get home to relieve Cohiba, who woke up early this morning to feed the Wee One and was still up when I left. We part with the assurance that I’ll call you if anything comes up.