My Ass is Getting Kicked by Someone Whose Foot Doesn't Reach That High

So you know how I said how much I missed the Little Miss and was so very happy to have her home?

That really hasn't changed so much, except that I'm ready for her to go back to Grandma's now.

It's the sleeping, you see. She doesn't do it. And I miss it, oh how I miss the sweet uninterrupted nights of scream-less slumber that I knew, lo, these many days ago.

We have been doing battle every night over this sleep thing. That's seven in a row, folks. I want her to sleep, and she doesn't feel the need. I want her to sleep in her bed, she wants to sleep in mine, with me, right next to me with her feet up my nose. I want her to go to sleep when I put her to bed. She feels I should rock her, or at least sit in her rocker, for the hour plus that she languorously takes to drift off. 2-3 times Every Single Night.

I. Am. So. Sick. Of. This.

We have both been wearily rolling out of bed in the morning like boxers in the fourth or fifth round - bleary-eyed, wearing down, but still willing to dodge a few more punches. She's got an unfair advantage in the form of 2 1/2 hour naps every afternoon, while I have to make do with whatever caffeine I can suck down and the toothpicks that prop open my eyelids.

In spite of this, I've been making slight progress with a newish tactic, which I call Shutting the Door and Ignoring What Happens Within. The crying has decreased from 40 minutes the first night, to 30 minuets the next, and last night at 2:30 it was only 7 minutes. Granted, I think she's been sleeping in a crumpled heap on the other side of the door, but you know, she's sleeping. And her bed is in there should she choose to use it.

I get that it sounds positively barbaric, but I tell you, it's probably a better tactic than, say, leaving her on the neighbor's doorstep, or shipping her to Tanzania. Which have both crossed my mind.

Today while I was doing the only thing I was able to focus on at work - surfing - I discovered that the lack of sleep is not only making me dumber, and older, it's also making me fatter. Oh my Lord I hope that this shakes out before I'm 350 pounds and sitting in the corner sucking my thumb and rocking.

My good friend Dorothy writes that Sleep is for the Weak. Well, sign my weak ass up.