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Thereapos;d been quite a bit of rain before I got up here--3 inches in a day or two-- and it probably didnapos;t help that it rained night before last. Never-the-less, Carrie decided it was time to go down to the south pasture (about a 15 to 20 minute ride south of the farm) and pick up the new calves that had been born there over the last couple of months.

She knew there were six or seven of them (she had a printout, and how that related to anything I havenapos;t a clue...), however after a couple of hours the were only able to bring in two or three of them. A couple had died (one had actually been born dead), and the others they just wereapos;nt able to grab, what with the mud, standing water, and underbrush. Sometime next week weapos;re all gonna make another attempt.

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Itapos;s 11pm.

Wait, wait, do you hear it?�


.... Nope.


Because my kid... Is... ASLEEP�For the first time in a week sheapos;s asleep before 1am and so far weapos;ve only had one false start (as opposed to 3 or 4).
Last night (or rather, this morning), I was up at 4am while my sweet, darling little girl decided No Mommy, Sleep Is For The Weak, We Shall Stay Awake ALL�FREAKING�NIGHT. I�was so exhausted, and we were both frustrated. I�was ready to strangle my own child (figuratively, not literally, and unless you have children donapos;t even judge me for that sentence because EVERY�MOTHER�has felt a stab of resentment at their child when theyapos;re exhausted.. They donapos;t mean it, but it happens, and we feel horrible for the rest of our lives for it. Iapos;ll remember those moments when shes 65 years old, if Iapos;m not completely senile or dead). I was so overwhelmed that I�even half attempted the cry it out method.

The Ferber Method, aka, Crying It Out, is a crock of fucking shit. Who cries more, the baby, or you?�Itapos;s torture. Sure and utter torture. Not for the baby so much as the parent. She cried for 35 minutes STRAIGHT�and was upset to the point of vomiting. I�moved her into bed with us finally and just let her sleep with me. I�cried, and kissed her sweet forehead, and told her I�was sorry for being a bad mommy. I�realize that she has no idea what an ordeal it was for both of us (in fact, tonight she has no idea what transpired), however I�felt guilty as hell for even attempting it. Itapos;s ot for us, clearly.

I�did homework today and called around to behaviorialists and pediatricians. I�got my answers and I�formed fact-based, solid opinions on how I�want to raise my daughter... And armed with my�new information I�started a bedtime routine all over again. She fought a nap all day today and remained happy and smiley and alert. So I�let her stay up. Come bedtime, I�warmed her mattress, turned on Baby Einsteinapos;s CD, nursed her, patted her, let her doze in my lap and then clipped her into her cozy crib. Time:�9:06pm.

9:35 she woke up crying. I�again nursed her, burped her, carried her around for a bit, and let her doze off again. Once she was sufficiently sleepy, I�put her back to bed. Time:�9:55pm.

So far, no waking. Cross your fingers.

I�feel so much more in control tonight. Hereapos;s to... SLEEP�
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I know; I know. My journal has become a reservoir for Twitter backwash. I apologize.

Honestly, between work, Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, social mischief, travel and household duties, I really havenapos;t taken the time to write.

But if I plan to make a living with words and donapos;t want to copy edit for the next 30 years, Iapos;d better put characters to screen.

Yikes. Weird thought. If a catastrophe ever knocked out electricity, the vast majority of everything Iapos;ve documented in life would be lost. That thought scares me almost as much as the notion of dying.

Aaaanyway, back to some promised updates.

1. On Sept. 18, I promised to tell about the preceding Mondayapos;s troubles. Here goes.

I awoke early Monday morning to drive home from Chicago. I was scheduled to work at 3 p.m. And figured I had plenty of time to get home, shower and hit the office. But flooding on the I-94 forced my route much father south, and the entire traffic flow from I-94 was diverted to the puny U.S. 30. Needless to say, the five-hour drive ended up taking seven, plus the hour time-zone advancement. Knowing I would be late to work, I called the office. As the phone rang, I saw lights in my rear-view mirror.

The patrolman said I hardly had exceeded the speed limit (something I very rarely do), but he ticketed me because I was distracted on the phone. The cost of the speeding ticket put a serious question mark over fall travel plans.

When I arrived at home -- exhausted, embarrassed and dreading a full-days work atop the mess -- I noticed my garage looked different. Thatapos;s because Murray, my first and only moped, was missing. He had been stolen, and I was crushed.

And that, boys and girls, was one of the worst days of my life.

The upside: I bought a new moped, Sylvia, a 1980 Sachs Suburban. Sheapos;s clean, sweet and fast. I couldnapos;t be happier. But she cost some dollars, which means no trip to California for Shelbyapos;s wedding, no return to New York for Christmas and fewer road trips to Chicago in the winter.

Since then, my Murray was located by the police and will need some serious rehab work. He may be a clunker, but your first moped never loses its charm. I love Murray to bits; heapos;s just a few bits short of being road-worthy.
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