It is nearly impossible to hold a sleeping baby and not want to drift off yourself.
I know this because we're trying to get Nolie to sleep without having a bottle in her crib, and she is seriously pissed off about it, and it's hard for me to deal with because I conk out the minute I try to put her down. I've been rocking her to sleep, with her Gigi and her bottle, then putting her down in the crib (after rousing myself from my little catnap, that is). I let her settle for a minute--she tugs furiously on the bottle and sweeps the Gigi back and forth across her face, back and forth--then goes back to sleep. Then, unfortunately, the oh-so-delicate maneuver of trying to get the bottle out of her hands backfires and she wakes. Pissed.
I remember a friend with two small kids telling me several months ago to get Nolie holding her own bottle as fast as we could, so that she could put herself to sleep at night. "You'll never get any rest if she can't hold her own bottle," she said. I don't think this is true. Nolie is an excellent sleeper, and up until recently, she'd fuss for a few minutes and then be out.
But somehow, maybe in the madness of the move, we got in the habit of giving her the bottle in bed. I'm not sure why I'm so worried about it, except for some vague concerns about her rotting her teeth out, or getting addicted to having messy, nipply beverages in bed (some of my friends still have this problem). Something just tells me it's going to be bad news down the road. So the bottle's gonna get yanked soon.
Just maybe not this week. Nolie's a roly poly little gal now, scooting around in a gimpy, peg-leg sort of crawl, and she can sit up like it's nobody's business. So that's got her a little furious, too. She can sit herself up in her crib automatically, but is not sure how to lay back down. The bottle seems to soothe her enough that she doesn't automatically sit up. So we'll wait on the bottle yanking until she's figured out how to lay down.
Addie, who has taken to wearing gorgeous, expensive, real fur coats like the one in this picture (jk) had a welcome-to-school night at her new school tonight, and gave everyone the business. "Mommy," she came up yelling every few minutes. "That boy doesn't know my name!" The indignation. How dare that two-year-old shoveling sand down his pants not know Addie's name. What kind of school is this, anyway?
There's also a whole 'nother bit about trying to explain the concept of "allergies" to Addie, who is still convinced she had "chicken pops" a few weeks back, and who is going to have to go in for more allergy testing soon because of her endlessly clogged nasal passages (dear lord, please just don't let her be allergic to the cats. Let it be the cheese). But I think it can be summarized thus. We are in the car again, where all the most interesting conversations happen, and I cuss at a huge garbage truck in front of us that starts backing up, not knowing little old us is behind him. "Dang it," Addie says. "I'm allergic to that truck!" And at that moment, I was too.