Dear M,

You turned thirteen months old the other day, and I am too damn tired to write something heartfelt and poetic about it. When the hell are you going to start sleeping better? You seem to be growing more dependent on my boobs for getting back to sleep, not less. This is a development I am less than pleased with, by the way. Although I don’t particularly relish prying my ass out of bed once a night to nurse you, I’m willing to do it. But more than that? You can forget it. So papa is sent in instead, and you are definitely not on board with that plan. And all of us end up being awake for however long you decide – thirty, sixty, ninety minutes. And then you’re back up at the crack of dawn; not ready for the day by a long shot, but once again wanting boobage. I refuse to submit. If I submit, then you’ll be wanting me every 3 hours, then every 2, and it just ain’t gonna happen.

And believe me when I say you aren’t hungry. I know when you’re hungry. You suck so hard you almost peel my skin off. This … this is just playing. This is, “Hey mama, come on over for a visit.” Let me tell you, in most parts of the world, it’s considered uncouth to visit at 3 AM.

I sometimes think about having another baby, but I am so utterly exhausted I honestly don’t know how I would physically cope with being pregnant or dealing with a newborn again. I need to recover at least a little from what we’ve been through. Except we’re still going through it … the recovery stage nowhere in sight. And then I think about going through this all over again with a NEW baby, and I pick up the phone to make R’s vasectomy appointment.

Aside from all that, things are going fan-tas-tic. Honestly, they are. You’re so damn cute, you break my heart. And that about sums everything up.

Now I’m going to try to get some sleep.

Love,
Mama