Megan has just entered the "I'm so friggin' tired that girl must be re-sleep trained" zone. One night, what seems to be many moons ago, Megan stood in her crib for less than 3 minutes, got so overwrought and pissed off she quiet literally made herself sick. And from that moment to this one, Mom and Dad were reluctant to let her simmer.
Then tonight Miss Thing got up at 11:30. Daddy got up with her. He offered her some warmed milk. He rocked her. He laid her down. I got up with her at midnight. At 12:30, I slipped back under my covers thinking we were good for the night. At 12:33 am Megan was pissed off again. I went in. I hugged her. I handed her a bear (which quickly got catapulted out of the crib, thank you very much.) I handed her another bear, a doll, a stuffed frog and a squishy animal of undetermined origin because I can only see so well in the night-light lit room with half-opened eyes. I laid her down. She stood right back up. She kicked at the frog. I told her something about loving her but "Please, dear God in Heaven, just go to sleep!"
I walked out.
She shrieked so loud I'm almost surprised our car alarms did not go off. I called back "You're ok. Go to sleep, sweetheart."
I wrote sleeping off. I turned on the PC. I got invovled in blog reading. Meg gave up on protesting (without puking mind you). She got quiet. She lulled. I sat and figured I'd wait a bit lest the squeaky floor boards wake her. She woke anyway and yelled some more, but this time petered out much sooner.
Its 1:30. She's been silent for over 20 minutes. I'm thinking it's safe to return to my bed. If only I weren't so friggin' awake.
Lesson learned: Megan is a girlie-girl in touch with her inner-tomboy and her melodramatic girlie-girl theatrical abilities.
Logan could (and still can) throw one doozy of a tantrum, but nothing he's ever done - not even the full-body meltdown complete with red-faced screaming and rivers of tears - can compare to baby sister. You want to see fireworks, try taking the phone away from her.
"No, honey, the phone is not a toy. Please don't dial 911 again."
Enter 1-year old tantrum that makes the Excorist posessions look tame. Now you can image my evening.