9:10 - 9:45 – She throws her scrambled egg in the floor, pitches her cup of milk at me and chants, “UP! UP! UP” at the top of her lungs (“up” is her word for anytime she wants to be unrestrained or set free)
9:45 – 12:00 – Amelia cries and screams pretty much non-stop. Normally, she’s a fairly resilient, even-tempered kid, rarely crying even when she falls down. Not today. Nope, she cries when she falls. She screams when she runs into the cabinet. She cries when she drops her toys. She screams when I tell her to stay out of the dogs’ water bowl. She walks over to her high chair and cries as she tries to climb it. She screams when I pick her up and put her in the high chair. She cries for Cheerios. She cries when she eats the Cheerios. She cries when I pick her up. She cries when I put her down. She screams when I leave the room. She cries when I come back. Cry, cry, cry. Scream, scream, scream. And after 2+ hours, all I want to do is cry and scream.
Finally, she walks over to me and lays her head on my leg. I reach down and pet her a little. Then she bites the piss out of me. I jump and yelp. She—of course—screams. I pick her up and lean her back. Sure enough, there’s yet another tooth coming in. I haul her to the bathroom, screaming in my ear, and give her a dose of Ibuprofen. I rub her gums down in Orajel and pop a pacifier in her mouth (let me do an early "thanks" here for Orajel). We go to her room and rock until she’s still and only whimpering. I ease her into bed with her lovey, Sassy, and cover her up. She whines as I leave the room but is soon quiet.
12:45 – She is screaming like a banshee. I don’t usually check on her immediately if she wakes up and cries, but she sounds like someone is pulling off her toenails. I go in and she tries to climb the crib to get to me. We rock again.
1:15 – She finally stops sobbing and put her back to bed to finish her nap. By this time, I feel like I’ve ingested a brick and my whole body is tense and sore. I’m quite certain I will suffer from mild PTSD brought on by the past four hours.1:30 – In the shower with the water turned up as hot as I can stand it, praying that the only thing I hear over the monitor for awhile is the sound of Amelia’s noise machine. It’s so hard to see and hear my daughter suffer and hurt. I remind myself that she only has a few more teeth to go, thankful that this is one cross we won’t bear for much longer—and thankful that I have a sweet-natured, tough little cookie who is an absolute dream to be with 99% of the time. Perhaps that’s why days like this seem especially hard and tiring. It seems I’ve found the downside to a good kid.