Mark it on your calendar . . . .

Last night, for the first time in his entire life, Curran nursed only once between midnight and 8am. Only once. I awoke with a start at 8 with uncomfortable full breasts and thought that either the apocolypse had occurred or he had mysteriously vanished into thin air. He normally averages 3-4 times, which has been getting, well . . . . old. I am not normally an angry person. In fact, you have to do a whole lot of crap to me before I get mad. However, recently I have been a little more than irritated when Devin brings Curran to me to feed at 4am, for the second or third time that night. I sigh and scowl. Sometimes I even swear under my breath. It is beginning to bring to mind a line in one of my favorite books recently. In Operating Instructions by Annie Lamott, she describes a baby that cried constantly. The father would hold the infant, and the mother would retire to her rocking chair (which was strategically placed out in the middle of a corn field behind the house) and would rock and rock, repeating the mantra, "This is NOT a good baby."

I think I might go play the lottery today, 'cause my luck has finally turned. Although, on second thought, it was probably a complete and utter fluke, not to be repeated until he is 27 years old when he finally weans. Probably just the universe fucking with me. It's got to give me a good day every couple of months, so that I consider procreating again. But, just as I'm daydreaming of that newborn baby smell, or the first smile, I think of night or two ago when I contemplated putting him in the dryer, or getting into my car and just going far far away. And then I have a tantrum to deal with, or a poopy diaper to tend to, and the thought completely disappears.