Yesterday started out like any other day.

The Bear was up at 5:45am. We played for a few hours. He ate porridge with blueberries at 7:30. He was in bed for his first nap by 9, and was so exhausted he fell asleep in my arms. I woke him to burp and then gently laid him in his crib. He looked at me groggily and smiled. Then he rolled over to his side, Froggie clutched tightly in one hand, and promptly passed out.

For the next three hours.

Fantastic.

By noon, we were up and ready to go -- had to stop and sign him up for swim lessons and then make a quick run to Target. When it's 107 degrees out, you pick your errands very carefully. We were home by 1:30 and he finished his entire lunch by 2pm. Things were looking like every other day of my life and I had no warning of what was about to transpire.

At 2:15, I carried him up to bed, again, bottle in hand and Froggie in the other. Scotty rubbed his eyes, yawned, and exhibited every other symptom of a tired baby. He sucked down all six ounces of his bottle, burped, and snuggled with me as I sang gently. I laid him down in his crib, tucked him in, and tip-toed out the door. Another successful nap, right?

Wrong.

He fussed a little for about 10 minutes. I heard him on the monitor and ignored it. Then another 10 minutes went by, and he still wasn't asleep. I began to pace. I hate this part about Motherhood - do I intervene? Do I ignore it? Does he need something or is he just fussing? If I go up there, will I actually re-stimulate him and then make it even harder for him to go down? Is he moving to one nap a day? (all of my baby books state that babies transition from two naps to one "between 12 and 21 months of age." Oh, that's specific. So helpful).

I waited until the fussing became all-out crying before I finally went upstairs. Was there poop? A sneaky burp stuck in his throat? Did Froggie fall out of the crib? Now that Scotty can roll over and pull himself up in his crib, it's getting harder and harder to convince him that this is a "sleeping" place, not a place to party and get your baby on. He thinks bouncing while holding on the to crib sides is the most fun thing, ever. But he definitely wasn't bouncing or dancing - no, he was full-out crying.

So when I opened the door, I wasn't surprised to see him standing up. What did surprise me, however, is the moment he saw me, he threw himself down on the crib mattress, tummy-side down, and began wailing. I mean, wailing. Romanian-orphan-baby-no-one-ever-picks-me-up wailing. Arms and legs flailing. He looked like he was swimming in his sleep sack, there was so much movement. His little fists were clutched into tight balls and he was literally beating his crib mattress with them.  I just remember looking into the crib thinking, "Okay, drama llama. Get a grip."

I scooped him up, did a quick diaper check, and began rocking him. He immediately calmed down. And began giggling. And cooing.

Ooooh. I see what's going on here. He wants to play, not sleep.

I felt like telling him that in about fifteen years, he's not even going to want to acknowledge/admit that I'm his mother, let alone lose sleep to hang out with me. I know you think I'm cool now, but that will all change. Trust me. Get your sleep now so you can be an appropriately snotty adolescent when the time comes.

And not surprisingly, when I put him in his crib again, the screaming started. The flailing started. The giant tears rolled down his cheeks in droves but what me totally lose my marbles is when he combined all of this with little yelps of "Momb! Momb! Moooooooomb!"

Holy hell.

So I did what any self-respecting stay-at-home-mother does. I walked downstairs, grabbed my cell phone, and texted my husband. It said, "Scotty has been screaming since 2:15. Totally being a butt cheese. Doesn't want to nap. I am done. Done."

When Brian called me, I finished up my very rational line of thought by telling him, through my sobs, that 1.) I hate him, 2.) I quit and 3.) I am going to back to work. Tomorrow. Because I can't take this anymore. I said all of this while watering the flowers in the backyard, my only escape out of the House of the Screaming Baby. I began to mentally write the Craigs' List ad for a 'Free Baby to a Good Home!' in my head while we were on the phone. Should I post it on Facebook as well?

By the time Brian talked me off the ledge (and we agreed that I did not have to go the grocery store in 107 degree heat after the emotional exhaustion of the afternoon), I reluctantly went back inside and up to the nursery. All was quiet. Did a coyote come and drag my child off? I didn't know, and there was no way in hell I was opening that nursery door to find out. For all I knew, a rattlesnake had entered the nursery, Scotty fell out of his crib, or he magically apparated. I didn't know and I didn't care. All I knew is that it was quiet for the first time in up to 90 minutes and I wasn't about to accidentally wake my child and have this whole bloody mess start again.

And within forty-five minutes, I heard baby coos on the monitor. Guess a coyote didn't break into our house. When I reluctantly opened the nursery room door, I was met by big smiles and silly wiggles. Like the last two hours had never happened.

I will say this: we never did the whole 'cry it out' sleep training when he was younger, because we never had to. But now that Scotty has a much better recognition of the world around him (and that we are still existing, just downstairs, thanks to object permanence), I might look into this technique. To save his sleep and my sanity.

It's so funny because this morning, Scotty launched into Nap Tantrum #2. But I was so much better prepared for it. It's like the first time something new happens as a parent, you freak out. But the second time? No biggie. I went up to his room every ten minutes, gently put him back on his back, tucked him him, rubbed his head, and left. And by the third time, he fell asleep. No Romanian-baby-theatrics, no beating the crib mattress...just a fussy kid who doesn't want to nap.

With his birthday approaching in the next few weeks, it makes me think of all of the other 'firsts' that will be happening...and who's tantrum will be bigger: his or mine.

So I  had planned to write this long blog entry about weight loss (or the last thereof...) since the big wedding is only 30 days away, but another situation has sucked away all of my time and attention for the last two days. And I cannot even begin to describe how freakin' annoyed I am that once again, this situation has come into our lives and we are forced to deal with it. I'm not going to detail here since lord knows who is reading this, but I will say this - I am sick to death of a certain person who will not leave us alone. Get a life. Leave us alone. Please. You are a big, fat, purple monster.

This is on top of a baby who randomly decided to nap strike today - and I'm talking full-on, blow-it-out-of-the-water, I'm not sleeping, 'nothin-no-way, no-how, nap. I'm half surprised that Scotty didn't stick his tongue out at me at one point, when I checked on him for the one millionth time.

I'd like to think I would be in the right state of mind to handle a nap strike, but due to the aforementioned situation, I am not. So I am leaving. I am putting Scotty in the car, we are going to Pier One and we are going to look at throw pillows to pass some time until he decides to go sleepy-time tonight. And maybe I'll smell some candles, too. I need a little bit of serenity now.

Grrr....

So we've had some issues with Scotty sleeping through the night (he's totally teething...it has to be teething, b/c my goodness, he is a fussy bear these days).

Anyways, for the last few weeks, our glorious streak of 'bed at 7pm and sleep 'til 7am' has been replaced with several craptastic wake-up times, such as 2:30am...3:30am...and there was even a 12:30am wake-up thrown in there for good measure. I think he wants to make sure I don't get too comfortable; gotta keep Mom on her toes at all times.

So on Friday night, I woke up not to baby coos or Scotty's rustling, but to the sound of the microwave. Had my five month old finally figured out how to heat up his own milk? Could I be so lucky? Considering he cannot yet roll from back to belly, that would be a resounding...no.

Instead, I found my husband in the kitchen.  Brian, current owner of a fairly miserable head cold, had woken up to heat up more Thera-Flu. Poor guy.

I headed upstairs, slightly irritated that my pleasant night of sleep was yet again disturbed. If one of my boys was sleeping, it seemed like the other one was not...and if Scotty slept through the night, Brian did not.

I was cataloging these thoughts as I lay in bed, trying desperately to fall back asleep when I heard another familiar sound: Scotty was up. The clock read 3:25am.

I am never going to get to sleep for more than 6 hours, am I?

No sooner did I post about  my new books and guess what? Our dear Bear launched an all-offensive sleep strike. It's almost as though he sensed my excitement and felt the need to quash it, immediately.

His new favorite thing to do is sleep for ten minutes, be cheerful for about 20 minutes, turn into screaming/nasty baby for 20 minutes, and then pass out again. This means every forty to fifty minutes (during the day), he is sleeping. Think about this: it is nearly impossible to get ANYTHING accomplished when you literally have about ten minutes on your hands, max. I feel like banging my head against the wall out of sheer frustration. It was so bad that this morning, I was already crying even BEFORE Brian left for work (I can usually hold it together until at least 10am, when I see the sink full of dirty bottles and my breast pump, sitting next to the couch, just smirking at me). Brian had a morning breakfast meeting and I think my tears scared him so much that he actually came home after the meeting (and scared the beejeezus out of me) and brought me bacon. Aw, so sweet. Bacon makes everything better.

I have mentally been composing a blog in my head for the last few weeks about the joys and trials of being a stay-at-home mom...I don't mean to open a can of worms, since I know the topic is very, very controversial, but I really can't figure out what is better: staying at home or working. I think working moms have a greater appreciation for their babies since they are so excited to see them at the end of the day. But staying at home certainly is no picnic, either, and I feel like I am Bear-ed-out by about 6pm. Don't get me wrong...I feel so lucky to be able to stay at home, but my goodness, it never, EVER, ever EVER ends. Bear this, Bear that...all Bear, all the time. And if Scotty is sleeping, it usually means Brian's home. So when exactly do I get Kim time? Not like going to work sounds any better, but at least you can go out to lunch with co-workers without having to tote a 35 lb car seat and worry about the baby waking up during lunch, thus meaning you eat yet another meal cold.

I don't know...it's a lot to think about. Either you slice it, it seems like children are just lots of work, whether you are home with them all day or not.

Speaking of which, someone is SCREAMING upstairs again. Must. Go. Comfort. Am so tired. Soooooo tired.