Friday, April 22, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
Long Night
Last night's roller coaster started in the late afternoon sometime, when one of the cats shed a claw in Sophie's bed. That claw stuck her in the back at 1 am. At 1:30, she woke back up, this time because of a hair on her pacifier. At 1:45, it was a nightmare. At 2, a lost pacifier and too-bright a nightlight, which I turned out. At 3, another nightmare, but this time, as I was laying her back down to sleep, static rolled across her body. It was bright and vivid in the dark room, probably hurt a little, and completely freaked her the hell out. She jumped out of bed into my arms and screamed for a solid five minutes and insisted that we go in the living room.
To be honest, it freaked me out, too, and I left her with Christie while I checked the outlets near her bed to be sure that it was just static, not household current. I offered to let her sleep with me, but she was, as usual, too giggly too sleep. But she almost did. Until the blanket shifted, and she saw static. Cue freaking the hell out. Again. This was about 4 am. Back to her own bed.
Lather, rinse, repeat. Add to this her finger, which was cut rather badly a couple of weeks ago, and which we've only gotten her to remove the bandaid from today. I know what it can feel like to have a finger that's been bandaged be suddenly open to the air, and I imagine the nerves were a bit raw. Plus dry skin, plus dry air. This time (it's 4:30) she wanted her mom. So I handed her off and Christie worked on getting lotion on her back, while I got the humidifier running. 4:45, another freakout, and this time she wants me. And it's back to her bed this time.
The effect of having a toddler pointing over my shoulder into an empty room, screaming "I want them to leave me alone" is taking its toll. I realize in my rationalist head that toddlers ascribe agency to everything in their world, and that she thinks that the little static sparks are individual things that are tormenting her, but still. I find myself asking her questions like, "Who are 'they'? Can you see them? What do they look like?"
Her answers, like myself, are less than coherent.
I sing her to sleep, and leave the room, but she's crying in a matter of minutes. I run in before it escalates, grabbing my blanket and the flannel quilt off the back of the couch on the way. I wrap her in the quilt and tell her that her mommy made it for daddy when they first met, and it's filled with all the love in the world. Then I wrap myself in my blanket and try to fall asleep while she grips the first two fingers on my right hand with all she has.
Just as I'm dozing off, she asks for her own blanket back. I worry that the polyfill is a static engine, but she's two, and it's from Target, and it has owls on it. How can I argue?
To be honest, it freaked me out, too, and I left her with Christie while I checked the outlets near her bed to be sure that it was just static, not household current. I offered to let her sleep with me, but she was, as usual, too giggly too sleep. But she almost did. Until the blanket shifted, and she saw static. Cue freaking the hell out. Again. This was about 4 am. Back to her own bed.
Lather, rinse, repeat. Add to this her finger, which was cut rather badly a couple of weeks ago, and which we've only gotten her to remove the bandaid from today. I know what it can feel like to have a finger that's been bandaged be suddenly open to the air, and I imagine the nerves were a bit raw. Plus dry skin, plus dry air. This time (it's 4:30) she wanted her mom. So I handed her off and Christie worked on getting lotion on her back, while I got the humidifier running. 4:45, another freakout, and this time she wants me. And it's back to her bed this time.
The effect of having a toddler pointing over my shoulder into an empty room, screaming "I want them to leave me alone" is taking its toll. I realize in my rationalist head that toddlers ascribe agency to everything in their world, and that she thinks that the little static sparks are individual things that are tormenting her, but still. I find myself asking her questions like, "Who are 'they'? Can you see them? What do they look like?"
Her answers, like myself, are less than coherent.
I sing her to sleep, and leave the room, but she's crying in a matter of minutes. I run in before it escalates, grabbing my blanket and the flannel quilt off the back of the couch on the way. I wrap her in the quilt and tell her that her mommy made it for daddy when they first met, and it's filled with all the love in the world. Then I wrap myself in my blanket and try to fall asleep while she grips the first two fingers on my right hand with all she has.
Just as I'm dozing off, she asks for her own blanket back. I worry that the polyfill is a static engine, but she's two, and it's from Target, and it has owls on it. How can I argue?
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