Right now I am writing this post with a fat pit in my stomach.
Today my Chief, The Chief turned six months old and I can't stand it.
Six months old means that in six more months he will be one. I don't want a one year old, I want a baby. I don't produce babies on demand like some people do (complicated) so I'd like it if he could be a perma-baby. Besides, where is the logic in him turning one? It is not necessary, almost everyone I know likes The Chief just as he is. Growing any more beyond this point only lessens his chances of staying adorable. Do you see what I mean?
I know, I seem to write about this a lot lately. It is more painful than I once thought.
But the back to the pit in my bowels . . .
I promised my mother that when The Chief turned six months old I would--on this very night--attempt the old fashioned (boderlining torture) routine of the Cry Out. This promise was made on several mornings where I had not slept the night before due to my son's choice to cry intermittently through the night. And when I say intermittently what I really means is THE ENTIRE NIGHT. When my bedside clock read: 6:01 am and I was certain that I had achieved a meager fifteen minutes of sleep I'd call my mother to complain.
"You need to let him cry himself back to sleep." She'd say sleepily.
But how could I?
He's so cute.
Too cute, in fact.
No specimen of such cuteness should never, ever have to feel sad, lonely or even the least bit hungry. Which is why The Chief always ended up cuddled next to me--plucked from his nearby bassinet--serially attached to my feeding buckets (ahem).
And you know what? I think it is pretty much ecstasy.
But I can see in the not-to-distant future my need for a night of REM and beyond. Don't get jealous of my scientific mention of REM, I only know about it because of the band. Anyway, tonight I was standing on the butter aisle in the worst Albertsons in the world trying to figure out if buttery spread was indeed butter, and feeling like nigh unto fainting. This is the universe saying that I should in fact let my child learn to cry himself to sleep.
It hurts my whole being to even type that last sentence.
Not only is my mother and the universe prodding me here, but in a very serious meeting with my very un-serious bishop last night he admonished me to put The Chief down to help him accumulate the skills associated with self-soothing. Us Mormons take our bishops very seriously (even if they are un-serious) and throughout the day today I would think of ditching out on tonight's task and his words would come to mind,
"It might take two hours, even four hours of straight crying."
"But in a week's time you will have a baby that sleeps through the night."
Then I made him promise me, as my bishop, that it would be so. And he promised. Which is big, because if in a week's time my baby isn't sleeping through the night, my bishop could go to . . .
Oh no! Is that The Chief stirring in the next room? That familiar audible whirring of emotions starting to cry out for my help??? What do I do?
WHAT DO I DO?
Just located my handbook.
"What To Do If The Chief Starts To Cry And You Are Positive That He Is Just Fine"
1.) Eat one of the remaining pieces of oreo-crusted pie in freezer.
2.) Paint toenails some festive color.
3.) Eat the other remaining piece of oreo-crusted pie in freezer.
4.) Call mom and blame her for stress and over-eating (leave out cute toenails).
5.) Pick him up and nurse him back to sleep because that is one of your favorite parts about being a mom.
(Alright, I just added number 5. But it's not unreasonable, don't you think?)
Yikes. I am in for a long night.
Are you in for a long night too?
Try these links to pass the time:
Reachel has produced one last (I mean it) cycle of Nie Nie t-shirts. To ensure holiday shipping, orders must be placed by THANKSGIVING. Ok, if you are an international reader that means no later than NOVEMBER 28! But seriously, you should try celebrating THANKSGIVING. It is tons of fun even though it is all about Americans and America. I celebrate Cinco De Mayo which has nothing to do with me, but I love enchiladas!
Go here to order.
Want to read our story with all sorts of lovely British vocabulary thrown in? Try this article from London's You Magazine.
Lastly, if you are really hurting, you can go here to see really boring photos from my brother's phone. Warning: one especially boring photo is of his bum.
Good luck to all of us.