The baby was up five times last night. Five times. And each of those times he wanted to eat. A lot. By the time 7am rolled around, my nipples were a foot long and sorer than a stubbed toe.
What happened to once a night? I could handle once a night. I walked around the house this morning for a half hour before realizing my pants were not only on backwards, but inside out. That’s how tired I am.
As I’m writing this, he is laying on the floor, screaming in anger at my lack of milk and sympathy towards the situation. I suppose neither of us is being very mature.
Dear baby, go back to sleep.