So the only thing preventing me from begging someone to come and help us is the fact that, knowing our child, he'll be a perfect angel the instant someone who is not his parent walks through the door. And then that someone will believe us to be certifiably insane for ever thinking that such a delightful child could ever conceivably do anything even remotely inconvenient to another living soul.
Since Thursday, I've been deathly sick. Comin' out both ends (if you know what I mean and I think you do). Thursday afternoon, Jon hauled my barfin' persona to the doctor, and she promptly diagnosed me with the stomach flu, told me to take drugs that I already had in the medicine cabinet, and go back by Monday if I wasn't feeling better. Huge help, she is.
Yesterday was better - no irregular emissions, anyway - but today has just stunk to high heaven. Jon pulled his back muscle yesterday doing some stupid grunt work for his boss, and so he's been walking around all hunched over, moaning and groaning. I'd almost rather have what he's got than what I've got. Very grumbly in the tumbly, I is.
So we got Ian to take a nice long nap this afternoon, and we were wondering if he'd be sleepy at his regular bedtime of 8 pm. Silly mommy and daddy! Whether he is sleepy or not is the least of our worries, I'm afraid. Around 8, I was feeding him his last bottle, and he downed about 5 oz. Suddenly he started hurking and spewed the 5 oz back up all over me. Joyous.
Off we went to bathe the baby, who is apparently learning how to kick - I think he's going to be a Rockette when he grows up. Seriously, the more active this baby gets, the more we realize just how old we really are.
Now it's 8:35 and Daddy is consoling the baby, who's bathed and dressed in a fresh outfit, while Mommy makes him some more food, in between bouts of running to the bathroom herself.
'Tis a glorious day, for sure.
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