Dear Teething

Dear Teething,

Simply put, I hate you.

You have turned my baby, who rarely, if ever, cries, into a screaming maniac.

She's not sleeping; I'm not sleeping. And, frankly, it's all your fault.

Granted, you've ganged up with your buddies Growth Spurt and Learning to Crawl, basically rendering Ella a constantly eating, un-explainably fussy, utterly confused, and completely over-tired little machine.

Thanks to you all, my poor baby doesn't know what to do. Who would, with you shoving pointed porcelain prongs through her itty-bitty little gums.

I mean, come on, Teething. Not only does that seem unjust, but it seems downright mean.

And it's not just even Ella I'm worried about. I have a personal bone to pick with you, too.

After all, thanks to you, I think I've totaled out at about five hours of sleep in the last three days. In short, I feel like I've been hit with a pillow case filled with lead and rocks and sharp things over and over and over again.

How did I not see you coming? Why did no one warn me?

It's so bad that I'm regretting not training for you, dear Teething. Think of all that time I didn't go on week-long benders in college. Think of all those years I spent as a good girl. Think of all the time I should have practiced feeling hung-over.

Now, I feel hung over, but without all the fun the night before.

Unless you count being up every 90 minutes with my girl while she writhes in pain fun. (For the record, I don't, Teething. Not even a little bit.)

It's like you enjoy torturing my little girl. My precious baby. My precious, defenseless child. Whose mouth feels as if it's afire, I'm sure.

Teething, you've turned her into a whimpering, slobbering, not-napping mess.

She wakes up all the time at night - and she's never done that. Not even as a newborn.

She's crying enough to wake her father, and that man sleeps through everything.

She's miserable, Teething. Miserable.

And it's all your fault.

I'm combating you the best way I know how - amber teething necklaces, cold teeth-ers, homeopathic teething tablets and gel.

I perish to think what she'd be like at night without those weapons. I fear neither she nor I would make it out alive.

So, I beg of you, go away.

I know I doubted you before. When we felt her first tooth and had barely noticed a whimper on Ella's part prior to it bursting through, I thought I was scott-free. I thought, "Maybe I have an excellent teether!"

And then the truth hit.

Point taken, Teething. Point taken.

Still, now? Now, I hate you, Teething.

I. Hate. You.

With a fiery, deep passion, akin to the figurative flames with which you are piercing my child's gums.

So, again, go the heck away.

I've had so little sleep, I can't be held accountable for what I might do if you don't.

Consider yourself warned.

Lay off my kid's mouth, or I may just haul off and punch you in yours.

Sincerely,
A Mother Who Needs Her Happy Baby Back