Sleep, at all costs.
Last night was a success. Jack nursed at 9:30pm, 2:00am, 5am, and 8:30am. Phew. Tonight... The crankiness hath begun and I am pulling every trick I can think of to avoid a hysterical meltdown (by the baby, I totally mean the baby). First, made the kid milk-drunk by encouraging a long nursing session. Second, got those blinky little eyes to stay shut by a round of gentle jiggling. Third, I stuck him in the mechanical-swing-device.
Should the swing fail us, there's a bumpy sidewalk on Dwight Street with our and the stroller's name on it.
Whether Jack is actually hungry or he just wants something to do, he makes his wish to nurse known immediately. And in this house, no boob-request goes ignored. (Unless I am currently lactating and the request is coming from my husband. Did I really just type that?)
Unfortunately, in my experience, comfort-nursing is not the relaxing quiet time that you might imagine. No, while nursing for up to an hour, both hands are occupied (one on boob, one on kid), eyes are carefully trained to his mouth, the nearby clothing / pillow / bedding are generally getting ruined by spilled milk, and the mind is focusing all powers of thought on baby's mouth and cheeks (is he about to bite down painfully? has he started swallowing milk? does he need a burp? does his latch need to be readjusted?). Oh, and my back hurts. Nursing can be exhausting.
This is why Baby Product Manufactures of All Sorts have invented the brilliant object known as The Pacifier. Brilliant device. Superb idea. I bought a whole bunch of different kinds while I was pregnant.
Too bad our baby doesn't like any one of them. He spit this one out after 30 seconds:
The jury's still out as to whether my attempt at boob-trickery scarred him for life*.
*I wasn't sure how I'd feel about it. We asked our pediatrician, and here was his response: "I've never understood nipple confusion. If the baby wants the real thing, he'll just spit out the pacifier". Case in point.