(Preface: right now in our temp apartment, we are all sharing a bedroom. Lane’s bed, our bed, and Jake’s crib are all resident in one bedroom. It’s not ideal, but it’s working well enough, and it’s slightly pertinent to this post to I wanted to make sure you knew.)
I’m sick. Not like at-death’s-door sick, but death-sent-me-an-email sick. A bit of nausea (and a lot of revisiting the slice of pizza I had for lunch) and chilly like crazy. Our thermostat is at 69 and I’m still sitting here in fuzzy pants and slippers and the coziest biggest thickest sweater I own, plus I have a down blanket wrapped around me. Digestively, something is… happening. I’m not sure what but my imagination is running rampant and I will spare you the details of that.
I always do Jake’s bedtime. Always. The boy is a boob fanatic, and has always nursed to sleep. Lately though, there’s been a willingness on his part to lay in his crib after nursing and not (constantly) scream his head off. We have a very flat pillow in there, and I’ve found that rubbing the pillow seems to settle him and convince him it’s a great thing to put his head on. And, in the absence of most other noise he’ll drift off to sleep.
So, ‘upgrading’ my illness to death-called-and-we-chatted-awhile, I laid a bit of a guilt trip on Frank and he mostly took care of parenting this evening. He gave Lane a bath after she had a poop accident (because watching Sleeping Beauty with a small interruption is worse than poop in your pants? I don’t get that) and then I nursed Jake while Lane got her bedtime stories, put him in his crib, and promptly told Frank to take over.
And lo and behold, sleep was achieved… by all of them. Frank included.