At 3:30 am, I glued the last ribbon in place and wearily headed off to bed. It seemed as soon as my head hit the pillow that Michael woke up incredibly fussy. Still on a high from actually finishing a Christmas project, I fed him and rocked him and soothed him patiently until he went back to sleep. "I am such a super-mom," was my last thought before I drifted off to sleep.
It's 7:00 am, and I dimly hear my little man crying again. I lie there, unreasonably hoping that he will just go back to sleep. When it becomes obvious that I will have to get out of bed and deal with the situation or risk having THREE cranky kids, I stand up and make my way down the stairs to fix Michael a bottle. Through bleary eyes, I locate the formula and start heating up some water. I grab a couple of Tylenol to take while the bottle is warming. Then I drag my carcass up the stairs again to feed Michael. Being the responsible, "super-mom" I am, I prop the bottle up in his bottle holder and climb back into bed. I hear the bottle drop to the floor and the crying start again. Sighing, I walk over to Michael's bed and reposition the bottle. This happens three more times, and I am getting frustrated. "I just need to sleep for another half-hour or so, buddy! Please just drink it!" But the crying continues. Resigning myself to the fact that I will not be getting any more sleep this morning, I pick up his bottle and stare at it. Something is not quite right. The formula looks, well, very watery. And then it hits me. I forgot to put the formula in! Poor Michael had been trying to let me know that he was not about to drink warm water!
Ahhh, so the illusions of super-momdom quickly fade away. Stay tuned for an episode of "Nap Poop Art" and yes I promise it is as gross as it sounds.