This is a picture of the baby’s first birthday party.
But where is the baby?
Upstairs, asleep. He nodded off an hour before and missed the whole thing.
baby
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The Lonely Cupcake
Monday, August 10th, 2009Bitten
Thursday, July 30th, 2009The bites on my thighs are baby-height. The bites on my arms are all on the right side because that’s where I hold him. He whips his head around and chomps (I think he might growl even) and once his teeth are clamped, it’s over. And oh, the pain.
And while I’m getting constantly bitten by this voracious teether, I can’t help but recall a post by Mimbles not too long ago, which includes a photo of what happened when her leg got caught between a dog and a cat having a tiff.
I thought we could perhaps start a new theme: What Happens When Cute, Cuddly Creatures Attack You, Even Though They Really Don’t Mean It.
My thighs:
I have other pictures, too. My arms and stomach, for instance. But maybe I’ll save them; I’m still recovering from the fact that I think I’m about to post a picture of my thighs on the internet.
And Then I Pushed the Old Lady Into the Pool
Monday, July 27th, 2009As soon as I heard the elderly lady shout, I knew nothing good was about to happen.
“MISS! MISS! YOU, MISS!” she yelled. Oh, don’t be talking to me, don’t be talking to me. . . She wove her way across the wading pool area, through the toddlers and the toys to say, sharply, and with a whole lot of gesturing: “Move your baby! It’s too hot for him here! Move him into better shade!”
Huh? Are you kidding me? “He’s fine, thanks.”
“No, no, no, he isn’t. This is not cool enough. Take him over there! It’s too hot here! He will be sick!”
“Noooo….he’s fine.” Just go back to zooming cars with Chris and pretend this is not happening. Don’t flip out on a tiny old lady in front of your three year old. This is no big deal.
She goes back to her chair. She’s watching me; I am sure of that.
Now, the baby really is fine. I could describe just what type of shade it was, and how he was doing, and whether he was sweating, and what the temperature was like, and the breeze, and the time of day . . . but none of that is necessary. I am sitting there with my baby, I am taking very good care of him, and the baby is fine.
On her way out, though, again. And with more feeling this time. She veers away from the exit for one more go. “Get your baby into the OTHER shade! LOOK AT HIM! LOOK AT HIS FACE! He’s HOT! This is very BAD!”
“HE. IS. FINE,” and I ignored the rest of her rant while concentrating on my car-zooming. She tired of the tirade, I guess, and took off.