Sleepy stuck pig

We moved Newt to his own bedroom this past week. It was becoming increasingly necessary, as the child not only refuses to sleep longer than 3-4 hour stretches at a time (on a good night) but also thrashes wildly about while snoozing, as if dreaming of the day his legs can break free forever from the tyranny of the Halo sleep-sack. The constant racket from his tossing and turning means that even when he's asleep, we're not.

Having him in his own little room at the end of the hall, however, means that one must fully awaken, put on one's glasses, and journey past the bathroom, past Cletus the Former Fetus' bedroom, and through the office to handle the middle of the night bottle/diaper extravaganza. Which happens -- did I mention? -- every 3-4 hours.

I had forgotten what a truly crazy-making phenomenon sleep deprivation can be. Fortunately, this particular brand of sleep deprivation comes with the following delectable, chewable snack:



Hey, and guess what? My one sad little leftover ovary still works! I know, because I've lost my weight in blood since Thursday. Seriously. I feel like I leave a trail of menses wherever I go, like one of those girls who used to write in to YM or Seventeen with embarrassing stories about going on a date and bleeding through their white dress onto a white couch or a white sandy beach. I always wondered: who were these crazy girls running around in white dresses like brides, too stupid to be properly vigilant about feminine hygiene, rubbing up against boys on fancy white furniture? And now I know: they were my future, except instead of a white dress I'd be wearing jeans held together with a safety pin, and instead of sucking face I'd be sucking the snot out of a baby's nose with a bulb syringe, and instead of a white couch I'd be bleeding on my hardwood floors. You're welcome.