I have not written a blog post in an eon. 

I would like to say that it’s because I’ve been doing something very fancy – taking a cruise on the Mediterranean, going on a national book tour or exploring deep space. 

But no such luck. I have just been doing the usual – taking care of the kid, working, getting by. 

Except, I’m exhausted. Totally and completely tired. Eight months of having a baby, and I want to wave a little white flag of surrender and beg the grown ups to come in and take over. 

My kid won’t sleep. Well, he will, but not without an inordinate amount of coaxing or waking me up ten million times. The past three nights have been reminiscent of newborn times – waking every two hours to a baby that’s SO URGENTLY HUNGRY RIGHT NOW. Lord, have mercy on my soul. 

We’re in the process of implementing this set daily routine with a long gradual lead up until bedtime with the hopes that the child will go to sleep easier at night and have a more regular waking pattern with longer intervals of sleep. That is the goal, the hope dangling on the horizon that I must force myself to steel my eyes on when I just want to drop the kid on his bed and run away. 

I am pretty patient all day, but when evening rolls around, I am done. I have no sympathy for anyone but myself, the person who wants only to drink a glass of wine and lay on the couch. I say things to Teddy like “Stop it!” and “Just go to sleep already!” as if he is likely to hear me, understand and comply, if only to hear his mother stop whining. 

I feel like my work is suffering. Exhibit A: the fact that I haven’t written in an epoch. Exhibit B: a thousand little mistakes in my daily work for which I just can’t cut myself any slack. Exhausted me is also judgmental mean me, and the main person I have to judge is myself (other than that rude infant who keeps me awake). I keep pushing myself to do more. This week, I very nearly accepted a second job, something so ridiculous that it’s evidence of losing my mind. 

I have a good buddy who is a single mom. I try to think about her when I’m feeling sorry for myself. Anytime I mention to her how hard she must be working to take care of her baby and work full time, she just tells me she’s okay and that she doesn’t know any different. I wish I was that cool. Instead, I am just a ball of goo, lying in my bed at night and hoping my husband will pick up the baby and let me sleep. 

I don’t know how everyone else does it. You, mothers of the world. Those of you who work full time and take care of kids. All the people who have more than one (!) kid. I am in awe of you. And also, do you mind watching my kid so I can take a nap? 

I’m sure I should say something about how this is just a stage and it’ll get better.  Yeah, I’m sure it will. Right now, though, it just feels endless. When will I sleep again? When will I feel sure of myself and not like I’m barely holding it together? 

I don’t know. What do I know? I am exhausted. Yep. Definitely exhausted.

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