Friday, June 29, 2007
It makes harmless phrases like, "Ok, I have to go to work now" sound exactly like "Gee, I know you were up seven times last night, and I'd really like to stay and help out, I would. I'd love nothing more than to stay at home all day and play baby games and spoon out mashed sweet potatos, or even just watch her for a few hours while you get some rest. Heck, if it were possible, I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat! But gosh, darlin, that just isn't the way the world works. So, sadly, I have to go to work now, and leave you to all the fun."
Sleep deprivation also leads to really lame, really housewifey revenge for these imagined condescentions, like slipping jalepenos in the lime chicken, making curries and hot italian sausage and nachos full of peppers and so on until he begins suddenly disappearing for lengthy spans of time, only to reappear in the doorway completely naked, sweating, and disturbed. It's the "shock and awe" portion of our meal. It comes about ten hours after desert. Don't look so bewildered. You know what you did.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
By the end of the evening, I wonder these things as well. Because all of these things were not the trainwreck disaster that I was bracing for. Because all of these things were actually a lot (a lot!) of fun. AND because that night, her Royal Wendyness slept for 7 hours in a row. SEVEN! IN A ROW!!
My sleep number is 55.
She hasn't done it since, but my god, those seven hours were so beautiful.
Almost as beautiful as her fuzzy little head.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
It's been two weeks since the wedding that officially took Steph off the market. That's right, our little girl, once full of the blushing innocence of maidenhood, is now a woman of the world.
She was forked over to the domestic sphere by her friends and family before the great sweeping staircase of the Civil War Museum in Harrisburg. (She was supposed to be trussed up and placed on the sacrificial domestic alter at the scenic overlook there, but it rained.) No, they did not appear in period Civil War wedding costumes.
The ceremony was sweet, the dresses were pretty, the hors d'oeurves were memorable. It was a great wedding. Despite the rain, despite the MOB theatrics, everything went smoothly. The bride brushed aside every minor obstacle in her headlong march down the aisle with grace befitting her tiara. We two Maids of Dishonor (and the one Punkass of Honor) behaved ourselves well enough. I only made helpful suggestions, like "nobody fart" as we stood waiting in formation for Steph to complete said march. We were all respectable grown-ups about it. The best man and I both made awkward speeches before dinner and everything. Then we listened to Frank Sinatra and other smooth oldies as we ravenously consumed our chicken (or pork) and delicious, delicious cake. The guy next to me didn't eat all of his cake, and man, did I want to finish it off for him. I didn't cause that would be wierd, and also because I wasn't sure if he was really done with it or just saving it for later.
If I had my speech to do over again, there are a lot of things I would say, like "remember, Steph: kitten in the kitchen, tiger in the bedroom."
And I might have also thrown in my uncomfortable commentary on when and how they should start giving us grandchildren. You know, like everyone else seemed to want to talk about. But I didn't. Because I'm a good friend. And because Ryan was sweating enough that day.