Let it be known that, at five weeks and two days, Jem slept through the night.
I only wish I had been able to fully enjoy it.
As it was, she entered her own banshee wailing contest last night and won. K's magic technique for calming her didn't work. She drove him crazy, and she drove me to hie myself hither to the Brown Jug for a bottle each of Canadian Mist and ginger ale in the hopes of channeling Grandma S via hi-ball (Grandma S endured six babies and lived to a ripe old age with remarkable sanity; the hi-ball was her drink of choice). With my hi-ball in hand, I resumed my frantic attempt to read The Happiest Baby on the Block as Jem lay next to me on the couch, eyeing me evilly and holding my finger in a death grip (at least she had stopped wailing by then).
When she finally settled enough to make going to bed remotely visible, around 10:00, I chose to keep her in the bed with me, rendering a good night's sleep impossible since I didn't put her in the positioner (which made her scream earlier when attempted). With a free-range baby in the bed, I became a paranoid wreck, checking on her constantly. She nosed her way toward me, forcing a retreat till I nearly fell off the other side of the bed.
Yes, I realize that I'm mixing metaphors, that chickens and wars don't mix. Get over it.
Around 3:30 she started grunting and snorting. She wouldn't eat, though, and despite a diaper change, her eyes stayed firmly shut. It wasn't till 6:00 that she did her hungry snork and tried to eat her hand.
My fingers are crossed that she'll try this again soon. I shall be fully prepared to appreciate it, that's for sure!
