Sunday, September 26, 2010

The hell that is teething.

Let me preface this by saying Cam is an amazing little baby.  She only really cries when hungry, angry, lonely, or tired.  She is a happy baby, who will give you a wide smile whether a friend or someone she has just met. 

However, when cutting a top front tooth, she is a beast of a baby.  Beastly, I tell you!  Whiny.  Demanding.  Mercurial.  In other words, not a lot of fun to be around.  She will be happily cooing in my lap one moment, then thrashing about angry as all get out the next.  We've seen flashes of this temper before, but she was much younger.   When we brought her home, her nickname for the first several months was "The Angry Hornet".  Going from perfectly placid to a shrieking banshee the next.  We were so happy when she grew out of that "stage".

Lulled into what we thought would be a lasting personality, around month 4, Cam became our happy, contented little Babycakes.  We still had our issues with sleep, mainly waking and not being able to soothe herself back to sleep, but a sweet, smiley little human.

Still, when she cut her two bottom teeth last month, she never displayed any of the  beastly behavior we have come to abhor as of late.  Those bottom two teeth just appeared one day.  One day, I stuck my finger in her mouth and was shocked to feel her little baby raptor teeth poking back.  It was a joyous moment.  As if the child had solved the world's peace problems.  I smiled and cried, clucking at her how brilliant she was.  Inside my mind was clicking another category in which my child excelled:  never had reflux, not a terrible sleeper, no colic, no illnesses (knock wood), met milestones like a champ, good eater.  In other words, an "easy baby".

Nothing about Cam has been easy this past week.  The blood curdling screams have almost sent me back to the bottle (joke).  Those screams are reserved for when we are riding in the car, and I can do absolutely jack shit.  The kind of screams that make her gag on her own spit, and I nearly drive off the road because I can't tell if she's choking to death or not. Until the next volley of screams start. 

The whining, THE WHINING has plucked my last nerve.  Every little transition has become a battle.  The bibs are no match for the copious amounts of drool.  Outfit changes several times a day mean I get to wrestle an unbelievably strong 7.5 month old, all the while gritting my teeth saying awful, dreadful things such as "yes, I know I am the worst mother alive.  It sure does suck to have dry, clean clothes to little shit."  Yes, I have called her that far more times than I would like to admit.  Mama's Little Shit!

I don't believe in god, but if I did, I would be praying like a mother fucker for this little bastard tooth to break free of it's gummy home, and bring my sweet, smiley baby back to me.  

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