We’re not sleeping much at the moment. The girl is teething and remembers this around 1am every morning, at which point she wakes, screaming. We haven’t yet found the exact cocktail of cuddles and Calpol that will interrupt this cycle, so we mostly sit with her as she dozes and wait until her snoring is sincere enough that we risk putting her down. The very act of putting her down, of course, usually activates some hitherto hidden pocket of pure adrenaline in her body, causing her to leap back to life in more pain than she was before.
So, we take turns letting her slumber in our arms, grabbing whatever form of broken sleep we can that way. It’s not ideal, but we sympathise. A few months ago, her bottom left molar, the size and shape of a Monopoly house, screwed its way out of her gums, and its opposite number is now on the way. I don’t envy her in this. That first molar is so comically large it’s hard not to imagine the horror of it bursting from my own flesh unexpected. In none of these imaginings would sleep be a priority.
