Somehow, we found a rhythm.
By the time he was almost one, things were… okay.
He was bright, giggly, obsessed with dropping things off his high chair and making me pick them up. Classic baby chaos.
Then he started having trouble sleeping.
He’d bolt awake screaming, not his usual “I’m hungry” cry, but this panicked, from-the-guts scream.
I’d rush in, and he’d be standing in his crib, little fists white on the rail, staring at the same corner of the room every time.
During the day he was exhausted and fussy, yawning constantly, eye-rubbing, wanting to be held more than usual.
I took him to the pediatrician.
“Babies go through phases,” she said. “Night terrors, teething, dreams.
