So baby has had a run of excellent sleep, and I'm a wreck.
You'd think, if you were a sane and rational human being, that it would be the other way around: baby up and about, mama prostrate; baby snoozing, mama restored.
If you are a sane and rational human being, I am impressed.
To be honest, the kid's always been a pretty sturdy sleeper as babies go, with none of the night-day confusion so terrifyingly outlined in books. And now, at twelve weeks, he's slept a full adult quota -from 8PM to 6AM or 7AM straight- for ten out of the past eleven nights.
I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Is it so strange, that a run of smooth sailing strikes terror into the hearts of those of us with a nose for disaster? When the plane ride is silken I fear turbulence; when the notes come smoothly I wait for the hitch.
Good times- the grin before the fist in the gut.
Which shouldn't, now that I think about it, prevent me from grinning back. O sleep!