So where are we at so far? I speak of sleep the same way that immigrants speak of their Motherlands. I'm not quite ready for diaper-changing Olympics, but I show promise. I'm beginning to recognize free moments as precious, and will throw in some laundry when relatives visit. Disappear to the computer when a friend's over (Thanks Michelle!). Wash a few dishes while waiting for the kettle to whistle. And when I'm running errands, I'll think of a little face that's only known air for a few days, and smile to myself.
Remember the Simpson's episode when Homer takes all of Maggie's pictures to arrange on a sign in his office to make it read: “Do It For Her”? I get it
A development that I didn't see coming is a dish-washing station in the upstairs bathroom, close to the nursery where we use the breast-pump that has to be cleaned about 8x a day.
Every now and then, Andrea & I will look at each other and say “Look what we made!” This has really brought the best in her; she's simply glowing! This is great, because if she wasn't in good spirits, I wouldn't be able to do anything to make her laugh. I mean, I'm quite capable of tickling her funny bone, but she has stitches that pull dangerously when she laughs.
This has proved to be problematic with diaper contents. There have been instances that have brought the best (?) in my juvenile humor. Like yesterday, after an unsettling lack of poop for almost 24 hours, my little girl exploded. Or rather, a ½ cup of fudge brownie batter with way too much egg spattered into Callie's Pampers. And she wasn't done! As I was on damage control, her little sphincter kept weeping pudding.
Then there was today; we got the chocolate mustard, with traces of stringy pumpkin innards. Yes, our delicate angel is leaking toxicity.
On a slightly cleaner note, I've taken on the role of the resident entertainment director. I do much of the singing to Callie, and it's probably good that she doesn't know Language yet. She does, however, respond well to Rage Against The Machine. It makes sense: she's been a persons middle for 37 weeks, so what's going to be more familiar; the sweet chimes of “lullaby-y-y-y, and goodni-i-i-ite...” or my growly percussive selections? I think we know what sounds more like abdominal contents. Your Honors, I rest my case.