This morning, Elliott illustrated that familiar proverb, be careful what you wish for -- you might get it. He slept well yesterday; at least seven hours, spread throughout the day, on me. We became nervous as to what the night would look like, and wished for a good night of sleep for him. A night of sleep, apparently, ends around 6am. He was up to full speed (by which I mean volume) until 10am, pausing only to take the dog for a walk.
Wrestling with a crying baby at 3am is hard. Harder than 7am, certainly. That does not mean that 7am is easy, especially as the task fell on me: he had fed through the night but I had been allowed to sleep through half of it.
This is what victory looks like, when Momma finally won against our tiny tyrant.