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The Baby That Never Sleeps

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The Baby That Never Sleeps

People say if your first baby is easy, then your second will be hard.  And vice-versa.  Well, I am here to tell you that is, without a doubt, totally and absolutely 100 percent TRUE.

I’m no statistician, but I’m confident my one-household sampling makes my conclusion iron-clad.

I had no idea what an easy baby Miss Skye was until her brother came along.  Her brother who took one look at me and decided I looked too well-rested.  Her brother who is proof that you should never trust the cute boys — I suspect he’s getting kickbacks from MAC Cosmetics for the truckloads of concealer I futilely apply every day to cover the dark circles under my sleep-deprived eyes.

Know how you can count a tree’s rings to determine its age?  You can also count the number of bags under a mom’s eyes to determine how many kids she has.  True story.

When Skye was ten weeks old, she would wake up every four to five hours at night.  I’d reach over to the bassinet, plop her on my boob — Yes!  PLOP! — and when she was done chowing down, I’d throw her back in the bassinet, where she would go right back to sleep.  And during the day?  She napped in her swing for an hour or two at a time, allowing me to do important things like write my column, pay my bills and rub the kitties’ bellies.  ALL kids must be like this, I thought to myself as I leisurely painted my toenails and sipped my Mai Tai.

If Mother-of-Two Candy could talk to Lucky-First-Time-Mom Candy, I would tell her, No offense, but you are a naive idiot.  I’d also tell her to stock up on concealer because that stuff’s only going to become more expensive and necessary.

Drew wakes up every two to three hours at night:  10 p.m., 12 a.m., 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. before his sister wakes us up with very loud calls of MOMMMMMMYYYY! between 7 – 8 a.m.  He eats voraciously and burps loud enough to shake the glass on my nightstand, after which I put him back in the bassinet where he starts GRUNTING his disapproval.  Oh yes, there is grunting.  When a baby grunts, it usually leads to something else entirely, but with this little man, it signals a piercing WAIL is on the horizon.

Next the legs start flailing and the arms break free of the swaddle blanket in Hulk-like fashion; I know if I don’t pick him up in the next ten seconds, he’s going to grow very angry, turn green and develop legs strong enough to leap across continents.  So I’d better get him quickly because, as a mother, I’d feel terribly guilty if he landed in Siberia without a proper hat and coat.

Once I pick him up, the only way I can get him back to sleep is to let him lie on my chest and suck on a pacifier — a recent development after weeks of having to walk him and ssshhh! him and Happiest Baby on the Block him.  And when I put him back in the bassinet…?  Even if it’s an hour later…?

*GRUNT*

It would be one thing if he only pulled this stunt on me at night, but no…!  Sir Drew-Grunts-A-Lot refuses to nap during the day, as well, UNLESS he’s lying on my chest.  I try walking him outside in the stroller.  Putting him in the swing.  In the crib.  In the bassinet.  In the baby carrier.

Next stop if he doesn’t cooperate soon:  In Siberia.

So Drew naps ten minutes here, ten minutes there, just enough time for me to hop online and google “concealer, bulk, sale.”  This is why my columns have been less frequent and I respond to Twitter messages ten days late, causing the person to Tweet back:  “Huh?  Who are you?  And what are you talking about?  #Rude  #TooLatetoRespondNowBeeyotch.”

I’m considering hiring a “Mommy’s Helper” a few hours a day until Drew starts sleeping better or he enters daycare next year, whichever comes first.  If it’s the latter, lord help me; Mommy’s Helper had better come armed with a case of vodka.

On second thought, maybe the vodka is Mommy’s Helper.  Off to google “vodka, bulk, sale”…

Because sharing is caring, as I tell my kids. (Except my wine. Never my wine.)
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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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