So at 1 a.m. on my birthday, Eric wakes up for his midnight feeding. And his mother? She don’t say nothin’ at all. We’ve all been layin’ low the past week or so, felled by the tiny rhinovirus. Sniffles, snuffles, etc., courtesy of day care. No biggie. But usually M handles the midnight feed, while I take the morning hour. Sunday night/Monday morning, though, M was not accepting any calls. So off I trudge to feed the boy, who takes his usual bottle, passes out, and all’s well with the world.
Then at 5 a.m. on my birthday, Eric wakes up for his morning feeding. But his cries are a little more urgent than normal, and instead of taking the bottle, he arches and continues screaming. Uh-oh. This is a new development. We suspect it’s new teeth erupting (he already has three lovely little teeth down below), but we can’t find any trace of them except the inconsolable screaming and the hungry lunging for the bottle, putting it in the mouth and then immediately rejecting it. This fun game of keep away kept us awake for a couple of hours; M finally got the boy calmed down by singing hush little baby over and over, and eventually he consented to drink a little bit and go off to school.
Happy birthday to me.
The actual day was quite nice; I went out to lunch, had a nice little celebration at home, got some lovely presents (books, delectables from Oregon, more books, a camera for digiscoping, more books), and went to bed exhausted and early, as usual.
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