I stumbled downstairs this morning, my head full of ache and my arms full of disproportionately cheerful baby. The headache was probably a result of last night’s chocolate-chip cookie extravaganza. Yes, I made cookies. From scratch. And they were good! (I’m always mildly surprised to find that I’m a decent cook.) I did slice my finger open while trying to open the chips, but a little bloodshed in the kitchen is a small price to pay for fresh-baked cookies, am I right?
When I got downstairs I was surprised and pleased to find that Not So had rearranged the living room while we were asleep. It seems so big now! And free of clutter! Happy Fun Baby gave it his seal of approval by actually consenting to play in his play yard, which apparently is not a horrible baby torture device when located in the middle of the room. Although currently he is sitting in it saying “Nin, nin, nin,” which I’m pretty sure is Ellison for “No,” over and over in a mournful voice, so perhaps he has tired of the new location. Or maybe he’s just mad that there’s no dancing on the TV. My kid, he loves the musical interludes.
I’m convinced he’s going to be in a boy band. Not So and I the other day were discussing which role Happy Fun Baby would play in said boy band (i.e. The Cute One, The Tough One, The One With The Hair) and we both decided he would be The Tough One on account of his extreme boy-being. Although we are talking boy bands, so it should probably be “Tuff” instead of “Tough.” Me: “Nick Lachey!” Not So: “Donny Wahlburg!” Which just goes to show that I am hip to the lingo, yo, while Not So is clearly stuck in the late 80s. Or possibly that I need to wash my brain out with soap. One or the other.
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