Last night was hideous. He is refusing to be put down at the moment. He’ll be sound asleep and the second his little butt hits the mattress he’s wide awake and freaking out, like his startle reflex is dialled up to eleven.
It took hours of trying everything. Cuddles, bum pats, gentle reassurance, rocking chair, bouncing, walking. Eventually I got him into his cot. Happy days, time to wash bottles, have a little cry and get some sleep myself.
Oh how I was wrong. So wrong. It started softly, around 11:30pm. A few crackles and whistles. Then, out of nowhere, FREAKING FIREWORKS.
I was livid. Who was this sentient piece of festering toe cheese?! Which canker on the face of humanity decided that 11:30pm on a Tuesday night was the best time to light up our skies? Startling every creature great and small for a two mile radius. I was ready to flay, sauté and devour the f!?#3r.
At 1am I gave up, brought LO into bed with me and got a broken five hours sleep. I’m like a wet dishcloth today, utterly useless and slightly musky. Please tell me it has something to do with the moon and LO will go from being a dribbly screaming Nosferatu back to his delightful sleepy self.
If you know of any sleep gods please let me know, I just spotted a lovely little dust bunny behind the sofa that will make the perfect sacrifice.