December 05, 2005
Jason's brother and his wife came to visit this weekend, and they were my favorite kind of out-of-town guests: The Kind That Stay In A Hotel.
We went out to dinner at an infant-friendly pizza restaurant (translation: loud enough on its own to drown out any screaming) on Friday night. And we sat next to some...interesting people.
This picture fails to adequately capture the full horror of THE HAIR THAT ATE PIZZA or the magenta lycra-infused velvet outfit. And her -- no lie -- GREEN-TINTED GLASSES are obviously not pictured, because frankly, I was afraid she'd spot me snapping the picture and like, turn me into a leprechaun with them.
Noah started to fuss at one point so we gave him a bottle (of formula! stone me with crumpled up La Leche League pamphlets!) and Jason hoisted him up on his shoulder for a burp.
The woman immediately grabbed her purse off the chair closest to Jason and her husband jumped up to move his jacket.
When they saw that we'd noticed, she smiled and cheerfully said they were just "clearing a path for the little guy."
Now, I'll certainly testify that Noah is capable of some tremendous projectile spit-up, I have to say that the distance between our tables AND THE FACT THAT NOAH WAS FACING A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT DIRECTION would have required a trajectory of magic spit-up not seen since the Kennedy assassination.
My brother-in-law: Personally, I'm more afraid of a bird flying out of that thing on her head and taking a shit on me.
I married into the best family ever.
Madonna? WE GET IT. You do a lot of yoga. Now go put some pants on.
Saturday night we went out for a Big Night Out With Potty-Trained Adults, which meant Noah was left with a sitter.
Jason was sure to leave our cell phone numbers, our parents' phone numbers, and the DC Emergency Preparedness Guide tacked up prominently on the fridge.
He's such an adorable daddy I can hardly stand it. I mean, HE LEFT THE NUMBER FOR FEMA.
With the exception of a guilt-induced-oh-my-God-we-left-him-with-a-sitter co-sleeping regression on Saturday night, Noah continues to sleep through the night, every night.
He gets a bath, some boob and a book. He goes in his crib when he's still slightly awake, and with a few minutes of Winnie-the-Pooh mobile action, he's sound asleep and I'm left with no baby to entertain and thus, no purpose in life.
I'm sleeping just fine now, and am growing slightly more confident in the fact that Noah can sleep in a different room on a different floor and remain 100% alive. Sort of. I mean, I might still poke him occasionally, but the bathroom is right across the hall from his room and I had to pee anyway so I would be an irresponsible parent if I DIDN'T sneak in to check on his aliveness, right?
You know what though?
I don't think it will shock anyone to know that I really, really, REALLY love this baby. Or that I pretty much lost my mind with the love for him ages ago, back when he was just that little eraserhead tadpole blob thing.
But I'm finding that my love for him grows exponentially for every extra hour of sleep he lets me get at night, and I hope that doesn't make me shallow and awful, but this morning he woke up at 7 am with Jason, nursed and fell asleep again and spooned with me until 10 am, and then nursed and cooed and giggled at me for an hour, and then fell asleep AGAIN in time for The Price Is Right.
He woke up after the Showcase Showdown, and people, it's official. Noah is The World's Most Perfect and Insanely Lovable Baby, Not That I Am Bragging, Because He Did Puke On Me Twice Today and Is Kind Of Constipated.
But that doesn't matter, because the love withstands the puke.