I tried to feed my son some ground up beef stew. His reaction, if I interpret correctly, was "This is horrible!! Why are you trying to kill me?? I'm a good boy! You hate me and I'm going to diiiiiiie!..." or something like that. Sigh...
Granted, he's been battling a tummy bug since Saturday (though he's never been sick enough to take to the doctor), his sleep has been out of whack lately, and his appetite is about as predictable as Wall Street. I'm finally conceding the fact that he's regressed to an itty bitty baby that can't handle more than the most basic of food choices. Why does it get under my skin when he won't eat what I've prepared for him? I need to not take that personally.
Meanwhile, said itty bitty baby was up at 2:30 or so this morning and, after listening to him cough and squawk for an hour DH went in to comfort him. I followed soon after and elevated his mattress on one side to help promote draining. Fed him a bottle since he'd only taken about half an ounce before bed (which he gobbled up hungrily), which sent him happily back to sleep. Sometime before dawn, I dreamed I was very good friends with Brittney Spears.
I need more coffee now.
