If I've learned anything about parenting, it can be summarized into three words: Don't Get Cocky.
Anytime that you find yourself thinking, "I can do this," or "Life is getting back to normal," then buckle your seatbelts, for a piping hot serving of fresh Hell is on the horizon. Case in point:
The keyboard was still warm from yesterday, when I was smugly writing about how Joel is a better sleeper than Owen, due to my experienced parenting skills, when he woke up from a 45 minute nap, and did not sleep again (except for a 20 minute captap) until bedtime. Naturally, we were at my mother-in-law's house, so I wasn't able to use the baby hypnotizer of the swing, and since they live on ten acres in rural Virginia, a soothing stroller ride was out of the question. The "put him in the crib and walk away" option Was. Not. Happening.
So. Let's just say it was a long day, and on the way home, Paul and I discussed not traveling to Charlotte for Thanksgiving (a six hour drive). The idea of not seeing the extended family for Thanksgiving breaks my heart.
Joel is the cutest little thing, and when he coos and smiles, my innards turn to jelly (my belly is in this state permanently). However, babies can be damn inconvenient.
In other news, the boys are I were enjoying lunch at Panera, when Owen decided to hide under a chair----the standard posture when he's about to do a deuce. I scurried him to the potty and he went poo-poo in the noisy potty at Panera. Just like Diego, Dora, Boots, Swiper the Fox, and all the Backyardigans, my little man is going poo-poo in the potty. Finally.
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