Lest you all thought that parenting was all loop-de-loops and circus treats and Smarties and tall cold glasses of milk: this weekend Lydia suffered a perfect storm of teething, vomiting, and diarrhea (or what we in the biz call "the flu"), and she responded angrily, with a boycott of napping and eating and drinking from a bottle. While we are all sure that it was harder on her than it was us, I won't lie folks, I couldn't even feign strength or composure. I was a whiny and whimpering ball of stress, with deep heavy eyes and quivering lip, a walking sack of raw nerve-endings.
That said, things seem much better now, after everybody in the house (cats included) collapsed into a long (and long-overdue) afternoon nap. I dreamed of ponies and sundaes and quietly sleeping puppies, and of huge cocktails of blueberries and anabolic steroids. Upon waking, I documented the cheery post-napness of the household. It looked like this (note the glowing baby):
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