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5:51 a.m. - 2001-08-08

ANYBODY WANNA BUY A BABY DIRT CHEAP?

I hate my baby.

HATE him.

Okay.

Maybe "Hate" is too strong of a word to be using here.

I LOOOOOATHE him.

I DESPIIIIIIISE him.

He's nine months old now. He should be sleeping all through the night, like he did for his first seven months of existence.

But the last month or so, off and on, he's woken up in the middle of the night.

All the experts say, go into his room, console him for a few minutes and then leave his room. Five minutes later, go back in his room, console him, then leave his room.

That's all wonderful and all and is perfect for the new age parent that is loving and kind and carefree.

But tell me something, experts...what happens when the little bitch wakes up at 1:15 in the morning, screaming like Martha Stewart is standing over his crib with a basket full of arts and crafts and will NOT...I repeat...WILL NOT GO TO SLEEP?!?!?

At 1:20, Susie went in to his room. He was sitting straight up, just wailing away.

She laid him on his tummy and patted his butt.

He sat straight back up and kept wailing.

She came to bed.

1:25. It's my turn.

I go in there, he's wailing away. Sitting up, eyes closed tight, tears rolling down his little face.

I put him on his tummy, pat his butt and sing "Rock A Bye Baby" as quietly as possible while he just keeps yelling.

This little charade goes on and on.

At 2:40....yes....two motherfucking forty a.m....we are BOTH at our wits end. I knew if I had to get up and go back in there one more goddamned time, I was going to put him in his closet, shut the door and not open it until 2006.

I laid there, trying to think of what I could do to shut him up that wouldn't leave him scarred for life.

Finally, it hit me.

"I'm taking care of this once and for all," I said as I threw the sheets off me and got out of bed.

"Don't kill him!" Susie blurted out.

"I'm not," I said. "But when I come back in here, he WILL be asleep."

Yes.

It was time for ... the Orajel.

I went into his room, he's sitting up, crying, wanting to get out of his crib and play or crawl or pull the dog's tail...whatever he could do other than sleep.

I grabbed his orajel out of his medicine bag and squeezed a couple of drops on my finger.

"C'mere baby," I said as I reached into his crib.

His little baby hands came to meet mine and I bypassed them, shoving my finger in his mouth and rubbing the orajel over every single inch of his mouth.

He howled.

He screamed.

He hates the Orajel. He knows once he's gotten the Orajel, it's all over. It's like the Wicked Witch of the West when she had that bucket of water thrown on her. He's melting....He's melting...he's....he's....he.....snorrre. Snorrrre.

He sat there, crying and drooling.

Even the Orajel could not get him to sleep.

So I picked him up, we got in the glider and I spent 30 minutes rocking this horror child back to sleep.

At 3:20, I put him down in his crib. He yelped once like a dog that's been spanked. Then he was out like a light.

I stumbled blindly back to the bed where Susie was sound asleep.

It's 6:10 a.m. right now.

I am SOOOOOO tempted to go into Andy's room and start fake crying at the top of my lungs.

Let him have a taste of his own medicine.

Alright...I don't hate, loathe or despise my boy.

I love him.

But damn, if he didn't find a way to get on my shit list already...

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