This is what 6am looks like at our house: saggy diapers and ukeleles and big, snot-smeared hugs.
It’s also what 8pm, 11pm, and 3am look like. Yes, he sleeps in those cowboy boots. No, not for any longer than two or three hours at a time.
He’s lucky that he’s got those big, snot-smeared hugs down to a perfectly cuddly art, because otherwise, seriously, there just might be a rodeo somewhere featuring a toddler calf-wrangler and ukelele half-time show.
(Don’t make me tell you that I’m joking, because then I’d be compelled to add a ‘sort of,’ which, you know, will bring out the haters.)
(Seriously, though, people, nothing is working, and although I hasten to stress that this does not make me a bitter, miserable person, it does make me very, very tired, and not a little bit cranky. So.)
(When your child can out-cry-you-out, and the co-sleeping is one long dance of head-kicking, hair-yanking pain, what do you do? Seriously. WHAT DO YOU DO?)