Today, we were waiting around for the repairman. Paul thought that our fourteen-year-old heat pump had croaked, and he assumed that by the end of the day, our savings account would be at least four thousand dollars lighter.
Thankfully, we only had to pay two hundred and forty five dollars; the man replaced a part and graced our presence for almost ten minutes. I really went into the wrong profession.
We've started giving Joel formula every other night. We're testing a theory that the thicker formula will keep him fuller, thus asleep longer. So far, our results are completely inconclusive. On one formula night, he woke up at eleven, than again at four thirty. On another formula night, he slept soundly until five. Last night, (again, a formula night), he woke up three times. On boobie nights, he's usually up at least two times.
"Let him cry it out!" you cry. By the time Owen was this age, we did exactly that. This is because Owen screwed around when I attempted to feed him at night. He would drink, smile, and mock me. "Look what I got you to do, you fool!" I was Owen's milk bitch. I put a quick stop to that, and after two nights of on and off wailing, he slept through the night.
Joel, though, isn't screwing around at all. He's all business and he is hungry. Having survived cry-it-out, I know that a few tears will not warp the little darling. (Perhaps, though, this explains a lot about Owen...)
Yet, Joel just isn't giving me a clear signal. I haven't hit that decisive point where I just know that he's ready for uninterrupted, snack-free sleep.
I'm looking forward to that moment of decisiveness, because Momma Likes Her Sleep.
Fiona Grace is coming home from the hospital today. God is good. Pray for continued healing, as she is re-learning how to walk, and she will have lots of physical, speech, and occupational therapies in her future.
A house is being built up the hill. Every morning, bulldozers, dump trucks, and cement mixers lumber past our window. Owen, of course, is in ecstasies.
I'll ask, "Do you want to do up and watch the cool trucks?"
He'll think about it, and say, "No. Too noisy."
Sometimes, cool trucks feel safer when you can put them in your pocket. It's like one of those Impressionist paintings---beautiful from a distance, but when you get too close, it's an overwhelming mess of colors and splotches. It's just too much truck for my boy.
A man was unloading beer yesterday while we were walking into a store.
Owen says, "What's that man doing?"
I say, "Unloading beer."
Owen says, "For Grandpa?"
Yes, Owen. It's all for Grandpa. The entire truckload. What can I say? The man likes his Miller High Life.
Marshmallow Peeps are the shit. A year ago, I had this to say about them: " I believe that it is only acceptable to eat Peeps during the Easter season, despite JustBorn's attempts to sell Halloween and Christmas Peeps. Blasphemy, I say! Peeps must be shaped like chickens, be yellow, and ideally be taken from an Easter Basket. Insider tip: they are best when you open them up and leave them in a cupboard, so that they get a bit stale."
Yes, I have emails in my inbox from last Easter.