on pride and humility

Today Joel came home to a perfectly content family. Charlotte was napping (in her crib! with blackout curtains keeping the room relatively dark!), then I fed her a bottle, then she hung out with Joel while I finished dinner. Then she sat quietly in her swing while we ate, and I commented multiple times on what an awesome kid we have. I told Joel how so many women at the breastfeeding support group I attend have stories about their babies screaming bloody murder, spitting up constantly, refusing to sleep, etc. etc. We both smiled smugly about our happy, easy baby.

Around 6pm Joel went to a meeting and I went upstairs to nurse Charlotte. She ate peacefully.

Then proceeded to scream for the next 35 minutes.

Nothing I did soothed her. I sushed and I swayed. I put her in the Ergo and walked around. I swaddled her. I turned on the fan. I sang. I whispered to her. I turned off all the lights. I gave her a pacifier.

Finally I decided to put her to bed, so I changed her diaper, nursed for a long time, swaddled her in the sleep sack, and kissed her goodnight. She fell asleep promptly.

And woke up 5 minutes later. So I nursed her a little more, snuggled, sang, patted her back, put her to bed.

She stayed quiet for 10 minutes, then needed more to eat and some more snuggles and a little rocking before she fell asleep again.

Here's the moral of my story: pride comes before a fall and parenting well requires humility.

I was so proud that my baby sleeps good chunks at night. I was so proud of getting her to nap with those blackout curtains. I was so proud that my daughter can soothe herself (sometimes!). I was so proud that she only spits up a little. I was so proud of her weight gain (up to 9 pounds, 6 1/2 ounces!).

Now as I'm typing I can hear her stirring, again. This going to bed process has taken over an hour and I'm utterly exhausted.

And humbled beyond belief.