I took my little guy on a hot date this week. We left the rest of the gang at home under the expert tutelage of Daddy and had the pleasure of joining my parents and my brother and his wife for dinner at an Italian restaurant to celebrate my sister-in-law’s birthday.
After we’d enjoyed good conversation and loaded up on carbs, my brother scraped most of his leftover fettuccine alfredo into a to-go box. However, he left the plate with a few remaining noodles within Thomas’s reach. My hungry, resourceful man wasn’t going to let those creamy, cheesy noodles go to waste. He grabbed the plate, pulled it closer, and shoved a few fistfuls of pasta into his mouth. Then he grinned. Life is good, man.
This man loves to eat. He’s still not crawling, and I told my husband we ought to put a big plate of food just out of reach to help propel him forward. Thomas went very quickly from turning his nose up at solids to digging in and stuffing his chipmunk cheeks with anything you put in front of him. I’ve found all of my babies prefer to go straight to table food closer to eight or nine months rather than starting mushy solids sooner.
I’ve always considered all of my kids to be adventurous, healthy eaters with the exception of 3-year-old Mary Elizabeth. She’ll still regularly nosh on a few nutritious things like avocado and tomatoes, but her selection of healthy grub she readily eats is far more limited than that of her big sisters and now little brother. Interestingly, Thomas weighs only seven pounds less than his preschool sister. She’s on the small side, and he’s on the bigger side.
I’m not sure anyone will care about any of this, but I have nothing intellectual to say. I feel kind of fried and have actually been strongly considering taking a hiatus from this online life I’ve become so entrenched in and in fact, I wrote a lengthy post that did have a lot to say but decided to let it marinate a bit longer before deciding whether or not to publish it.
I’m just plain, old-fashioned tired. Tuckered out. Zapped. Depleted. Exhausted.
I have limited free time right now, and I’ve got to prudently choose what will nourish me the most. Those feel-good endorphins that come from exercising are what I really need, so I’ve been trying to squeeze in more time to break a sweat rather than trying to force blog post and/or article ideas past the embryonic stage. I’ve started to run again without too much pain from my chronic injury and have found my body is craving more sleep, but life just doesn’t seem conducive to spending adequate time in the horizontal position.
And it’s starting to show. Or at least I sometimes feel dumb. My babysitter told me recently about a study that revealed that chronic sleep deprivation (defined as getting less than six hours of sleep for several consecutive nights in a row) knocks your IQ down 2o points or so. I may have gotten some of those details wrong because, well, my IQ has definitely fallen a few notches. A few years back I heard about another study that suggested that chronic sleep deprivation causes mild dementia. My only consolation was that once you started sleeping again, the dementia symptoms would fade. I’ve always said that although my brain is fuzzy right now, I almost always pick up on the stupid things I do or say (or at least I think I do???), so I haven’t completely lost it yet. (I actually first referred to Mary Elizabeth’s healthy grub as her healthy garb but fortunately caught it. Those cerebral slip ups are happening more and more.)
Anyway, the hungry man has been sleeping a little better, but my 3-year-old has been waking up a few times a night with growing pains. She cries and says her legs hurt. It soothes her to have her legs massaged. Poor girl. Poor mom.
So there you have it. I have nothing brilliant to say. No big insights to share. Just some whining about sleep (or lack thereof) as well as some commentary on a happy baby who likes to eat (more than he likes to sleep through the night).
(If you actually stayed with me through all of this, bless you.)
Hope your weekend is delicious.