Zeph has had croup for the last week. If you're ever unsure just how long a week is, take care of a baby with croup. The first few days were all cuddles and naps, the last few days have been all crank and fits.
Croup has brought back the midnight (read: 3am) feeding and I indulge because he hasn't been eating or drinking enough during the day--in fact I'm pretty sure Zeph learned to arch his back (away from a bottle or spoon), shake his head emphatically, and block his mouth with his tongue all this week. Brilliant, my child is.
So with the second round of midnight feedings--absent the euphoric hormones--I'm noticing someone is sleeping right through all the crying (not mentioning who, exactly, is doing the crying...as it's usually a toss up).
Last night, however, after Zeph had been crying for 20 minutes I finally went to rescue him. Zeph cried until I pushed "start" on the microwave, and like magic, he stopped. Then from the other room, muffled by the whir of the glowing microwave, I hear a voice from our bedroom that I could have sworn said, "I'll help."
I pause the microwave and say, "What did you say, Joe Dear?" (Because when stress is high and sleep is low our sweetest dispositions come out and I become "Darling," and he becomes "Joe Dear.")
Dear repeats himself, "Pavlov."
*Joe Dear insists I say some creative liscence was taken during the writing of this blog. But that would be lying. Silly Joe Dear.
