Cheers to the freaking weekend

Emma’s swing died on Wednesday morning. Like, died-dead and not just batteries-dead.

And I realize this is snarky of me, but I’m rather shocked at the number of people who asked me if the batteries were dead when I said the swing was dead as if there was no possible way I would’ve thought to just, I dunno, change the batteries. Boggles the mind, that.

Anyway.

The swing. It died. At 3:00 in the morning. By 5:00 on Wednesday a.m. I was close to tears because I could see the writing on the wall for what the day would hold. No naps. Or at least really short, crappy ones. And those tears, they threatened all day. They were the tears that never came.

Tears that still haven’t come.

I’m not grossly exhausted or overtired right now. I mean, could I stand to sleep more? Sure. But so could just about any mother. I manage. We have a system. It works.

But that system is kind of dependent upon a working swing for naps during the day.

And Emma? She needs her sleep. And it’s been really hard to get Emma any sort of decent sleep while also managing Joshua. He’s so…needy? impatient? three? and I worry that I’m being unfair to him more often than I think I’m being fair.

I worry that all of the time I spend focused on getting his sister to sleep is somehow adversely affecting him. That the seeds of resentment are growing in his heart toward his sister and toward me. That he’s feeling neglected in whatever way a 3.5 year old can understand neglect.

Today was bad. So bad. I tried as best I could to get her to sleep for nearly an hour this morning and when it was clear that wasn’t going to work, we went to Target so she could sleep while I wore her. She slept for 30? 40? minutes or so, and when we came home, I readied Joshua for his nap, hoping that I could lay down and nurse Emma to sleep in my bed.

Joshua, ever the thrower of monkey-wrenches, decided he just didn’t want to nap today. And I got angry. At him. At myself. At the dead swing taunting me from Emma’s room. At the entire day.

I started blaming myself for being unable to get her to sleep in her crib. Dan can do it. Why can’t I? What’s wrong with me? Is my timing off? Am I just broken? Is she? How am I so bad at this?

And the longer I pondered those questions, the more I wanted to just cry, you know? To just have an ugly cry and be done with it. But it’s like my tears are stuck. Dammed up in my ducts. They won’t come out and I just need them to come out so that I can purge myself.

If I said I was doing okay this week that’d be a big, fat, lying lie.

Thank God it’s Friday, right?