Time seems to have collapsed into a warm, taffy-like goo, so it's difficult to determine exactly how many hours I've been awake. Judging by archaeological evidence consisting of swaddling blankets, burp rags, miscellaneous cups of coffee and water bottles up to a depth of three feet in some places, I'd say that last night's crying jag lasted about twelve hours.
I might as well get used to it: I'll be saying "I just don't get my kid(s)" for the rest of my life. They're irrational. In fact, Joseph seems suicidally insane. We know he's hungry, but he does this head-shaking thing that prevents him from latching on and eating. When he does, then he starts screaming. He hasn't gotten control of his fists yet, so that's a big problem. I tried gently explaining that he can't have both the boob AND his fist in his mouth at the same time, but his response has thus far been, "I'll do it MY way, thank you very much."
It's amazing human beings have been able to survive childhood all these millenia.
Anyway, here's a fun little minute-long clip showing what we do around here at night:
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