Party Life

When Wendy saw the size of the bed in the room at the Raddison (roughly the size of her room at home), she shot me this "Hell yeah!" look, and immediately called dibs. Here, she is pictured with my cell phone in one hand and the remote in the other. She is having trouble ordering room service because she does not wish to take the binky out of her mouth.

Her sleep number is 60.

Here, she can be seen on the arm of her escort. She approves of his clean-shaven good looks, and recomended that I take him for a whirl just as soon as I had the chance.

She wonders why I have taken this long to put her in a pretty dress and take her to a formal dinner, an activity which she was obviously born for. She wonders why Daddy doesn't wear suits more often, cause he looks so nice in them. She wonders why we don't go to parties and have fancy chicken served to us and dance under disco balls every f-ing day of our lives.

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.