The head cold that had been throbbing between my eyes for the past week moved down into my lungs overnight. Leif may be in store for his first illness. Up until now we have been blissfully basking in his night-long sleeping; two or three times he starts getting twitchy and I roll over and pop him on the boob, and we all snooze on. Last night, though, he started making snow angels in the sheets, and I opened my eyes at 4am to see a big gummy smile aimed at me in the moonlight. When I said "hi, there", my voice came out a wheeze and a croak, so Mike scooped him up to play in the livingroom for a bit. At this point I fell dead to the world, dreaming that I was a flying, time-traveling Buffy, kicking butt in leather pants in the future, when evidently all manner of chaos was erupting in the livingroom with a diaper blowout, cat running across the baby's head, and screaming that woke up Gavin. At 5:30 Mike deposited a sleeping infant beside me and staggered away to sleep with the kiddo. We snuggled down to snooze another hour, and the kitten curled up between our heads to join us. Sweet, right? Wrong. 5 minutes in, Sookie let off a cat fart so rank and thick that Leif started gagging and coughing and popped awake again. And so the day was begun.
Friday. Fridayfridayfriday.
Still trying to stuff self with holiday magic. Currently reading: The Stupidest Angel, a heartwarming tale of Christmas Terror, by Christopher Moore.
Also I am knitting a sweater for my tea pot.
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