I know that you desperately want to hear more about my evening with Channing Tatum and the cast of Anchorman, but, Fictitious Diary, I have something galumphing around in the ol’ noggin I need to write out. It happened last night. I’ve never been really big on dressing up for Halloween, but I think I need to invest in a ginormous chicken costume—not so much like Foghorn Leghorn, but more like the crazy San Diego Chicken mascot—because I am officially a chicken. I am scared of sleep training my baby.
You know me, Fictitious Dairy. When I was younger and dating, I always got that “feeling,” and I knew when it was time to break up with them. You remember me “writing” about that, right? That feeling was akin to trying to ignore the proverbial “elephant in the room,” but if the elephant in the room is sitting on you—while wearing another elephant—hard to ignore.
This is why, FD, finally after months of sleeping in two-hour increments, the elephant showed up, and I can ignore the feeling no more. The time to try sleep training my 6 month-old has arrived.
I read all the proper material.
I talked to all the proper people.
I made a proper plan.
FD, let me tall you, it was a solid plan involving:
◦ A stop watch (a stop watch app)
◦ A video monitor
◦ A pen and a piece of paper to take notes
◦ A baby
◦ A martini
◦ A martini for me*
We were ready.
Or so I thought.
Fictitious Diary, it’s amazing how quickly a well-devised plan can fall apart.
In our case, it took three minutes.
He cried so hard when I put him in bed on his own that he threw up all over the bed, all over himself, and then when I picked him up, all over me. It wasn’t the crying that freaked me out. Or the flailing. Or the vomiting. Really, FD, I’d have to say it was the choking on his own vomit that did it. He can sit up on his own, and is rolling around like a pro, so I just figured he would move. Nope. Lost in a world of dark panic, my little one tossed his cookies (well, the Mrs. Fields I had eaten earlier) all over. Everything.
So, FD, maybe I can go another couple of weeks (or years) without some sleep.
Although my husband is going to start wondering why I’m wearing a large chicken costume.
*I did not give my baby a martini. (I drank his before he could have a sip.)**