The Horrifying Gods of Teething are making damn sure I regret never, ever being bitten on the nipple while nursing, making sure I regret being slightly pleased by Alex’s non-Jack-o-Lantern-type smile for the first 12 months of his life. I’m getting paid back for every time I ever sneered at a bottle of Ambesol, and friends, let me tell you this: payback is a BITCH.
Earlier this week, I was feeling pretty rung out, dragged through the muck, and buried by my cat in a pile of soiled kitty-litter. I tried to pinpoint why, and finally decided that my thyroid must be out of whack (neglecting to remember that well, actually Becky, my thyroid is GREAT during gestation. It begins to suck when I come down with a nifty little ditty I like to call “Post Partum Thyroiditis.” And yes, my people, it is as sexy as it sounds. I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE).
I trundled off to my endocrinologist (can I just tell you how decrepit I feel admitting that I have an endocrinologist? I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE!), certain that my TSH would be off the charts, insane, and I would require a heaping double helping of my already ridiculously high dose. My trusty nurse friend called me to report that actually, Becky, my thyroid was behaving magnificently.
It was then that I turned my previously blind eye to the toddler standing before me, ripping apart the cords from my laptop, pulling each and everything I’d ever put in my kitchen out of the cabinets, while simultaneously laying on the ground, screaming for “kitty” (his term for wanting to watch YouTube videos about, you guessed it, cats) while banging his ample noggin against the Pergo.
I think I might be suffering from a mutant form of Asshole Toddler-itis.
While he’s never really been a model sleeper (I will not go into it here, for fear that other pregnant women may read this and hyperventilate), only ceasing to get up every 1-3 hours at the ripe old age of 10+ months, and his napping schedule would have you convinced that I was addicted to crack during my pregnancy, he used to go down for his pathetic naps pretty easily.
Blankie, bottle, bed, DONE.
Now, I know better than to think that The Way Things Are Today is the same as The Way Things Will Be Tomorrow; I’ve had kids and am not terrifically naive, but I was not really expecting that he would suddenly have to scream himself to sleep as though he was being poked by the fire of a thousand burning suns. And yet, my eardrums tell another tale.
It appears that he’s taken his Willful Level from the top of the charts to 11, leaving his 20 week pregnant mother and his harried father scratching our heads. What do we do now? Can I drop him off at the Toddler Shop and take a quieter loaner model home for several weeks, while Alex’s attitude is readjusted? Can I build him a wee house outside to live in where he cannot destroy anything else I own (I’d bring him out meals and change his diaper–don’t worry)?
And more importantly, will this ever end?