What is wrong with her? I have no idea. No temperature, no rash, no broken bones. Everything appears to be fine. Is she teething? Sick to her stomach? Making my worst fears come true by morphing into Infant Natalie V2.0? Again, no idea. All I know is that it sucks. Hard. Much like a Dyson, it doesn't lose suction either. Sucktastic, one might even say.
I'm a little bit worried about her as she has been a very even-tempered baby up to this point. Not call-the-doctor worried, just trying-to-discover-the-trigger worried. The Bon still has happy periods during the day when she'll cuddle with me quietly, smile that big gummy smile at The Bigs or enjoy some alone time on her playmat. Then out of nowhere, the dark clouds roll in across her face and Hurricane Bonnie hits with a vengeance. Watch out because when the screaming starts, it will knock your socks off. I can't find a pattern. Doesn't seem related to gas or eating. It's got me stumped. Stumped and swaying from exhaustion. I'm officially a danger to myself and other. Just what you'd want in the caregiver of three small children, right?
What I wouldn't give for a nanny. Or a manny. Or a nursemaid dog like Nana from "Peter Pan." Someone to keep the kids safe for an hour so I could sleep. The hour would be a drop in the bucket but you have to start somewhere and Miss Bon doesn't seem interested in getting me back to the recommended 8 a night. Maybe she doesn't understand that it's not just 8 a night, it's 8 in a row per night. I'll have to drop a pamphlet from the local sleep clinic in her crib the next time I breeze by it.
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