The Pants Dance.

Dear Diary, 

     Mix laziness with writer's block and you get no posts for a few days. Sorry about that. And thanks for still reading! 

     So, 3 months ago we decided to let our little nugget cry it out. But to our dismay, a month of no sleep and multiple thoughts of driving our car off a bridge went by before I finally threw my arms in the air (like those people on the infomercials who are in black and white...you know...the people whose lives were basically damned before the beloved product came along and saved them and put them back into color) and took her to the pediatrician, hoping that they'd also have knowledge in sleep-training an otherwise sleepless baby. The answer? Reflux. Buy some Zantac stock, people. We will be keeping them in business. 

     But even with this incredible medicine that she loves, yet tastes like death, the baby still wanted comforting at 4 am. Why comfort = boob is beyond me. Some kids want blankets and stuffed animals, and some kids want a boob to snuggle up to. So after a while of finally getting sleep in the wee hours of the night, I decided this 4 o'clock feeding also had to go. I made a deal with the mister that for every night in a row we let her cry it out and comfort herself back to sleep, we do the adult version of the pants dance. No extra persuasion needed. What I'd give to be a man for a day if for no other reason than to understand their excitement towards the finer things in life. 

Sincerely, 

Me.