We Must Be Crazy

I think I'm more tired right now than just about any other time since Celeste was born. Work is in full-bore karōshi mode. My sleep has been crap since before we went to New Jersey. We've been mixing in a bit of low level entertaining every night this week (Monday, drinks after work with E---, S--- and G---; Tuesday, my cousin R--- gets to town; Wednesday, low-key hanging out with R---; and tonight, we're having E---, S--- and G--- over for a spot of dinner). I'm no where near where I should be for work on Monday, but we're popping up to Pennsylvania to see friends on Saturday. I just got Celeste down for her nap, and I really should be napping, too ...

Actually, she was pretty funny. She made big sleepy faces, so I took her up to her crib and put her down and she protested, but no big tears. I let her do some small fussing, with periodic checks to make sure she knew I was around, but also hoping she'd soothe herself to sleep. After about 15 minutes, she was smiling really big and waving her arms like she really wanted to get up; I figured I'd misread the sleep cues, picked her up, and the floodgates opened.

After a little walking and bouncing, I put her back in the crib and she was still sobbing, but not as much, so I tried singing. Sometimes that works for me, often it doesn't. I started in on some Billy Bragg, but that didn't seem to work for her, so I picked up the closest songbook to hand — The Irish Pub Songbook. Maybe because it's St. Patrick's Day (Erin go bragh!) or who knows why, but she calmed down by the end of the first verse of "Dirty Old Town" and she didn't even cry when I missed (badly) some of the notes in "Danny Boy." By end of "The Old Bog Road," she was out.