With my first baby, I learned that the first three months are the hardest. I also learned that it gets worse before it gets better: newborn fussiness peaks around six weeks and slowly drops off from there. This time around, the roughest parts for me were the seventh and eighth weeks, because we’d hit that peak and it seemed like things should have been improving but they weren’t.
We made it through. Things did start to improve, slowly and erratically but noticeably. Younger Brother dropped to two night feedings, then one. His naps are still all over the place, but that’s less awful now that I’m not as desperate for naps myself. He’s a sociable happy bean when he’s awake, cooing continuously in his delightful baby voice. He “talks” to me, to the mirror, to the ceiling fan, to the toys on his chair.
I enjoy spending time with him—and with his brother, although three-year-olds require an entirely different sort of energy—and I enjoy having time to think by myself again, too. There’s still a sort of underlying panic in my mind about all the things I need to do, but I can ignore that feeling much of the time. At this point, I figure my priority is to get us all through Christmas, and then I can step up the job searching and other activities in the new year.