I am just not quite keeping up with my blogging. On the other hand, my house is semi-presentable, no one is threatened by piles of laundry toppling over on top of them, and several snuffly noses seem to be on the mend. So, all in all, not a loss of a week.
Sleep issues abound. Currently coping by doing some co-sleeping. Trying to do that as safely as possible.
However, the other night, nothing would comfort BB. He went to bed at 7:30, but was up again several times. At 10:30, I tried everything. NOTHING. Not pacing, rocking, or (the sure-fire solution) nursing. So, I popped him in the sling and presto! he was immediately calm. It took but 10 minutes of combined pacing and rocking and he was out.
So there I sat, in my rocker, in the dark thinking why didn't I think of this sooner? Worked like a charm? I hope he is comfortable; he barely fits the sling anymore. I hope he can breathe okay with his head in this position. He sure seems settled. etc.
In this midst of this self-congratulation, I realized that I could no longer hear him breathe (he has been kind of wheezy with this cold).
At that moment, I knew I had killed him. Knew it. There was no moment of fear; it was the full rush of responsibility for my child's death, planning the funeral, the aftermath. It took no more than an ear to his face to hear his little breaths, but the damage to my psyche was done. He was fine, actually breathing better than he had in a week. I was not. I bawled.
Apparently, I am harbouring a very powerful fear-of-killing-my-child phobia. Jeez, wonder where that comes from.
P.S. Email if you need the photo site link again.