Sunday Night

I am watching Northanger Abbey right now, and am finding strange and frightening parallels between myself and Catherine Moreland.

a) we're both are/have been addicted to Gothic, trashy literature.
b) we both end up with good tempered, sensible, straitlaced clergymen.

The Beast Regresses

The last few weeks have been hard. Beast, at 17 months, suddenly decided that he no longer was going to take naps or go to bed at a reasonable hour. I've had to listen to hours of him crying in his crib.

The low point was a couple of Sundays ago when he yet again was in his crib crying while he should have been napping. I let him cry up there for 45 minutes, convinced that eventually he'd give in and go to sleep. But no. Mike eventually got home from his endless church meetings and I had my emotional breakdown. As always Mike was a rock. Took us both for a ride through the hills, and Beast finally slept in the car.

Things are better now. We've established a new routine for putting him down. Lullaby music on the cd player in his room. Sitting in the rocker with him and reading for 20 minutes before bedtime. It's a lot more work than it was before, but it seems to generally be doing the trick.

Mike's Quote of the Day

"Flared nostrils make me hungry." (says Mike as we watch Jane Eyre)