I find it's the 4th hour of constant nursing in the middle of the night that gets me.  The first three hours of constant nursing, no problem.  I can practically sleep right through it.  It's the fourth hour that cripples me.  The fourth hour of "I-really-just-want-to-have-the-nipple-in-my-mouth-in-case-I-MAYBE-want-to-eat-but-I-probably-won't-but-don't-you-
dare-take-it-out-or-I'll-scream-bloody-murder."

Uncle Mike said that having your second isn't like doubling the work.  According to him, it grows exponentially.  I didn't want to tell Uncle Mike that 1 quared is 1. 

So after my virtually sleepless night, I "woke up" at 5:45 a.m. to Derek putting The Boy in bed with me and The Baby.  No problem.  Until 7 a.m. when The Boy, who was practically naked, was squirming around bed so much that I opened an eye.  Not both, because that would have been too much work.  Oh, no.  He just got one eyeball. 

I opened my eye to see The Boy lifting his diaper away from his body.  I closed my eye, hoping that I was having a very bad dream.  I opened it again.  And there it was....

A puddle of pee on the bed.  Through the sheets, to the mattress pad.  He moved off the puddle and there it was.  The wet spot on the comforter.  The Calvin Klein bamboo comforter that represented the frivolity of my youth.  The comforter that I purchased when I was a DINK.  When I had a job.  When money was flowing free and it seemed perfectly reasonable to purchase a comforter for $175 when anyone with half a brain would have just spent $40 at Target and then had $135 to waste elsewhere.  Like at Starbucks.  I could have wasted that on 30 venti caramel macchiatos.  30 days of being awake. 

Thank God Mom was here to throw it in the wash.  It'll be my turn tomorrow.