The last three weeks have been hell. My baby with the good disposition and excellent sleeping habits turned unrecognizable. A constant whining was the soundtrack of my days, not crying but a moaning that would only be stopped by occasional Tasmanian Devil like outbursts.
The nights were no better. Joe and I split up the nights into shifts as we did in Frank's newborn days. Orajel (the natural kind before anybody gets their panties in a twist) was applied. Tylenol was dispensed. Teethers were thrown on the floor (by Frank.) Wine was poured (for me.) Even when my poor baby slept, he moaned from the pain in his sleep. So I was up and down trying to comfort him before he would wake himself up completely because if he did there was a good chance he would not go back down for hours. And what I learned from all this is, unlike adults, babies can be up all night and still want to play all day.
Finally, yesterday both his bottom front teethe had broken through. He looks so cute. And I am relieved. Although, I don't know why, he still has eighteen more to go.
