Last night I was fully awake at 4:30am. Did I have insomnia? No. But apparently the intestines of everyone ELSE in the house did. Start at 3am when Rynn wakes up for a feeding. Carry the baby to the glider, turn on a recorded episode of NCIS, and notice the stench of poo wafting gently on the air. And there, near the door, is a neat little turd pile next to a puddle on the carpet.
Because my arms are full of previously-mentioned feeding baby, I could do nothing for about 10 min. except growl angry threats at Nell, who just looked at me forlornly from her spot next to the TV. It wasn’t until she slunk back to go sleep with Sam that I realized that apparently SOMEONE forgot to walk the dogs before bed. I’d blame Clayton but he’s still in CA for work.
…eh, what the hell. ALL. HIS. FAULT.
So I just growled at the poor, sweet dog who actually tried to hold it and only last until almost 3 O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING. I, who, though I am a Forgetter of Things, NEVER forget pet-related stuff. Especially important pet-related stuff like taking them out to do their necessaries. Never in the history of Me have I forgotten this! Until last night. When I proceed to whisper death-threats at the dog for my mistake. Rarely do I start the day feeling like an ass quite this early. New record.
But back to last night…Inhale aroma de’ poo while the baby feeds. When she finishes, burp the baby, put her back in the cosleeper, and clean up the dog’s mess. Open a window and turn on the fan to get rid of the poo stench. Wash my hands and get back in bed. While trying to stop hating myself for forgetting about not letting the dogs out long enough for me to get back to sleep, I hear a whimper, followed by a rip-your-throat-out growl. Silence. A few seconds later, whimper, growl. Whimper, whimper, BIG GROWL. Nell’s having nightmares again. I get back out of bed to soothe her, realizing only as I touch her head that I’m a crouching figure, reaching for her in the dark, to wake her up from a recurring nightmare that I’ve long suspected is about someone abusing her. Thankfully, no hands were eaten. Back in bed.
Rynn begins to snort, much like a rooting hog, from the cosleeper. She grunts. I roll over, away from her, hoping she’ll get the hint. She holds her breath and then lets it out with a wet, snoring sound. She whimpers. Snorts again. Coughs, then sneezes. Followed by her little “ooh” noise, that she does after ever sneeze because I think they surprise her every time they happen. (I question the intelligence of my baby that she hasn’t realized that SHE’S the one making these noises…) I sigh. More snorting and grunting. I squeeze my eyes shut really hard–which is pretty stupid, actually, b/c even if I COULD magically fall asleep at that moment, I’m still going to be the one who has to take care of whatever’s causing her discomfort. So I reach over to her, with my eyes still shut, and stick my finger right into something wet and goopy. My first thought is that I just stuck my finger in her mouth. When I open my eyes, I realize my hand’s at the wrong end.
Back into the bathroom to wash my hand.
Pick up the disgusting baby only to realize that we’ve had our first official blowout. Up until now, we’ve had minor leaks, the kind that sneak up over the back of her waistband and leave a tiny tan line of nasty, or that sneak out to stain the thigh hem of her onesie. But, in accordance with Murphy’s Law, not tonight! Strip her of the swaddle-blanket thingy that is really just one big sopping mess now and lug the chunklet to the changing pad.
Realize the onesie’s soiled, too. Strip the baby, clean her. Throw up a little in my mouth because OH FOR THE LOVE OF NACHOS DOES IT HAVE TO BE GREEN AND SMELL LIKE RANCID MILK AND TOMATOES?! New diaper: on. New onesi—where’s the onesie? A voice at the back of my sleepy mind goes, “You mean one of the onesies you washed but forgot to stick next to the changing pad before going to bed?” Yes, brain. One of THOSE onesies. By the way, do you have to be such an ass?
Leave the half-naked baby, trudge out of the bedroom and into her nursery for a clean onesie. Discover, after wading through the small pile of clean laundry that I DIDN’T wash those onesies after all, but find the next best thing: a footed set of pajamas with ducks on them. There’s even duck heads on the feet. How cute.
Trudge back to the half-naked baby, wondering when that dog poo smell will go away. Open the window a little further. Fiddle half-asleep with her arms to get them in the right holes and wonder if the night is ever going to end. Get the baby mostly dressed and realize that she’s already peed her new diaper. I know that, despite the fact that my child will HAPPILY spend the entire night in a puddle of her own poo, she detests being even the slightest bit wet. Off comes the new diaper. Clean her, stick on the SECOND new diaper, fight to stay half-asleep, and try to fit her feet into the tops of the little duck heads. (And as I’m typing this, I notice how morbid those animal-feet PJs really are…)
Get the left leg on and snapped and realize that the entire right leg of the duck PJs is soaked. Stare dumbfounded as I try to realize why. Sleepily wonder how Rynn managed to spill a cup of water without my noticing. Finally clue in to the fact that she managed to pee herself while I was in the process of swapping the first pee diaper for the second new one. My daughter is a pee ninja.
Rynn’s, of course, now fully awake. She gurgles and grins and coos at me b/c apparently this is some kind of fun late night game Mommy’s decided to play. The only thing running through my head is “Clean the baby. Save the world.” I hear Sam stop storing and give this really big sigh, like “DUDE! SOME of us are trying to sleep around here!” (And don’t think that was a product of late-night imagination because there was TOTAL attitude in that sigh.)
Clean the baby AGAIN. Like Skynet, I become completely self-aware, and realize that I won’t be able to get back to sleep at all tonight. A glance at the clock says that we’ve now been up for an hour since we began. Return to the clean onesie dilemma and consider sending the baby to bed naked. After trudging back to the clean laundry for a half-hearted second look, I find an elusive clean onesie hiding underneath the socks:
Back to the bedroom, and WHY DOES IT STILL SMELL LIKE DOG POO? Reclothe my daughter, stick a pacifier in her mouth, and tell her if she doesn’t go immediately to sleep, trolls will eat her. Surprisingly, she complies, which makes me think she might have some redemptive intelligence after all. And eventually, lulled by the harmonies of my dogs snoring and Rynn’s quiet breathing, I’m able to get back to sleep. But the last thing I remember is being in total awe that for once, it wasn’t the CATS that were the problems.
Ok, that’s not true. I also remembered about seventy other things I forgot to do before bedtime, but I refused to get back up. Hopefully, leaving them alone won’t end up staining the carpet later.