Big. Fat. Fail.

It's 4:55, you say. What right-minded person blogs at 4:55?

"Right-minded" being the operative term.

I would beg you to nominate me for Inept Mother of the Year, but with tonight's track record, I would lose that, too, and screw that whole "it's an honor just to be considered" crap - the disappointment would surely drive me into a downward spiral of depression.

Not sure what happened here. I know that we had a lovely day; we were all in fabulous moods; everything was grand.

At 1:30, I am awoken by some mild fussing that DH handled (like a pro, I might add). At 2, the mild fussing returned and without warning, evolved into full-blown hollering. I leaped up to see what was going on and found that Turtle had done a little drooling that had resulted in dampness on his drool pad and gown.

Well, says I. No-brainer. My boy hates being wet (baths excluded). I get him up, grab a gown, and attempt to change him. Of course, much as he hates being wet, he hates getting changed even more, so he protests with a wail that wakes DH. But it's ok. New gown (we'll call this Gown #1), new diaper, fussiness averted, crying calmed... and back to bed we go. Hurrah.

I'm dozing off, and then the apnea monitor goes off.

I don't know if you can really appreciate the ear-splitting shrieking that is the apnea alarm, but it's really quite enough to take years off your life, especially when you're not expecting it. Allow me to point out that we haven't had an alarm in days. I'm tempted to say a week, even. So this one is even more unwelcome. I bolt out of bed, check Turtle. He's breathing just fine, and sound asleep. I have to wait for the monitor to stop beeping so I can check his leads, which seem to be in place. Reset the alarm, and lay down.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Five times this happens. I tear up. DH gets out of bed. Poor Turtle is unswaddled, and has the leads stuck and unstuck on him over and over again. Same result. In a fit of desperation, we change the leads (I had just put new ones on yesterday, so god only knows how they wore out so quickly). I'm in tears. I intend to stay up because now it's 3 and I'm a frazzled wreck. DH tells me to see if Turtle will sleep til 4/4:15 for his feeding (ususally he gets up around 3:30) and to sleep. I listen, like an idiot.

3:30 - Turtle wakes up. You know, because his diaper is wet.

3:50 - He's happily chowing down on his bottle, eating like a champ.

4:10 - I'm pretty sure this is where it all went wrong. He's been burped and fed and burped and he's just starting to zone out when I hear his tummy rumble and I figure I'll give him one last burp before I change him and put him down, when he spits up on himself. Ok, fine. It happens. I was changing him anyway. He screws up his face, goes all red and angry and starts hollering. A little more than what he would normally do for spit up on the gown, but it's been a rough night.

Gown #2 in place, I go for the diaper. Well, the hollering was because of poop. Or that he had just started pooping. Because as I was changing his diaper, he was still going. Two diapers bit it for that change - no problem. But what's this? His tummy seems a little damp. Wouldn't you know it? He did an extra little pee, and managed to get it around the little cloth I put on him for just that reason (serves me right for scoffing at the peepee teepee - you know if I had the "proper tools", I would never have these problems).

So, Gown #3. My laundry pile on the floor has gone from 0-5 in 45 minutes. Super. I pick him up and start to gently rock him when wham. We have hiccups. Did I say super? Now, he's ok with hiccups, usually, so I just hold him, try to get him to suck on his paci a little (that tends to help), and he's settling just fine, so I wait for his eyes to glaze over a tad and then put him down.

Bad. Move.

It takes three attempts to get him down, leads hooked up and swaddled before he agrees that maybe it's time for him to close his eyes and make his baby pteradactyl noises (never imagined babies would make these kind of noises, but apparently they do).

I'm afraid to lay down because I know that the second I do, he's going to decide it's time to get up again. And I can't handle that.

I had this really crazy thought that I would get up at 7am, and be all set to leave for the festival after his 8am feeding, but ... well .... bwhahahha. Not happening.

Oh, and while I'm at it, he has this awful dry skin on his forehead, and I pretty much think it's because of my craptastic mothering, too. I have the world's most sensitives skin, and he clearly inherited that from me.

www.isuck.com