"It is so late and my brain is as purple and full of fury as Myles’ tiny face. He is four weeks old and he has been crying all day, every day, for three weeks.
He doesn’t nap. He doesn’t even doze off, except for the rare, and brief, moments when he falls asleep on our chests as we are sitting on the couch and we are able to avoid movement of any kind, including breathing, blinking, and involuntary muscle spasms.
Otherwise, he is awake and crying, at times passing out from his efforts, which requires us to splash water on his face to wake him.
He sleeps four to five hours straight per night, which is nice, but not usually any more than that.
I can tell you now that this will be over by nine weeks, just like that, like magic. One day he will be crying all-day, and the next he won’t.
But that’s still five weeks away from this moment. Tonight it is he and I alone in the living room, the lights off, the occasional car passing by below.
He is lying on his boppy pillow across from me on the ottoman as I stay sitting and motionless in our big ass chair.
Nothing will soothe him and I am exhausted. I should wake Debbie, but I feel like I am on my own, and this is my cross to bear.
I stare at him and I try to remind myself that he is suffering.
As he continues crying though, that feeling of empathy passes and hardens into something else, something angry and frustrated and full of confusion about what he needs.
I picture lifting him by his miniature shoulders, shaking him, and yelling, 'What do you want?'"
