The LA and I are still around. It's just that most of the time we're either caring for a baby, or taking a well-earned break from such duties. The baby is doing magnificently; she's up almost a pound from her birth weight, and well ahead of her developmental milestones. Things have been a little more difficult for the LA and me, though. The reason is a little personal, so it's going behind a link.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
I feel like I'm not doing my share...
I'm feeling like I'm not shouldering my full share of the burden, and so does the LA. We've been gently dropped into the deep end, and we're learning rapidly how to keep Munchkin happy at home (the answer so far: give her a swaddling she can fight her way out of, change her diaper often, and feed her far more than you ever imagined necessary) and how to stop worrying and love the gurgles. I'm still in the mild panic at every noise stage, but Munchkin is a noisy sleeper, so my brain will have to develop a filter to distinguish important noises from charming little baby snores.
We brought her home yesterday, and the cats are working on figuring her out. Sheba has gotten to smell her, and is probably well on her way to conspiring with her, while Graham is being a stereotypical nervous-father type. He panics at every noise, and is constantly hovering on the sidelines wishing he had the nerve to help.
We're both too shattered to cook anything worth eating. Fortunately, we have friends who know the score, and we can cope with other people cooking for a while. The sole exception is my morning porridge; what I make isn't a patch on my dad's porridge, but it beats the heck out of anyone else's. I think that's the case with anyone who likes porridge; theirs is the second-best, whoever introduced them makes the best, and anyone else is a distant third...
We brought her home yesterday, and the cats are working on figuring her out. Sheba has gotten to smell her, and is probably well on her way to conspiring with her, while Graham is being a stereotypical nervous-father type. He panics at every noise, and is constantly hovering on the sidelines wishing he had the nerve to help.
We're both too shattered to cook anything worth eating. Fortunately, we have friends who know the score, and we can cope with other people cooking for a while. The sole exception is my morning porridge; what I make isn't a patch on my dad's porridge, but it beats the heck out of anyone else's. I think that's the case with anyone who likes porridge; theirs is the second-best, whoever introduced them makes the best, and anyone else is a distant third...
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