Betsy keeps reminding me that we have a blog and, as my name appears on our marriage certificate beside hers, I have as much obligation to maintain said blog as does she. So here. Read this.
Last night Betsy and I got about an hour of sleep apiece, for various reasons ranging from recently purchasing a crying baby at a flea market to having a guard dog who climbs into bed with us at the first sign of a thunderstorm and trembles so violently that, in a dreamlike state, I kept trying to put quarters in him (that was a vibrating bed joke).
So right now I am running on a few minutes of nap I snatched while Jack was watching Peter Pan. My auxiliary power is being fueled by KFC, Laffy Taffy, and a ginormous Coke I bought at a gas station. The Cherry Coke was out of order. I was pretty pissed.
As I sit here, very much aware of my diminished faculties (some would attempt to correct me and suggest that the word I intended to use was "facilities," but I would remind those people that I am not an interstate highway rest stop and, therefore, have no facilities), I can't help but wonder if...
My brain just made a noise similar to a drawer full of rusty flatware being forced into a garbage disposal. In other words, I forgot what I was going to say. Probably something mature about poop.
Anyway, Macy is a month old and she still looks like an old man. Everyone who sees her squeals and gushes about how absolutely gorgeous she is, which makes me think that all of our friends are amazing liars.
I know, I know. I should be saying things like, "she's the most perfect thing I've ever seen," and, um, other things. But, honestly, she still looks like she's got too much skin.
In another month, if I don't think she's gotten any cuter, I'll welcome the hate mail with open... mailbox, I guess.
Seriously, though, she's pretty stinkin' adorable.
Okay. I'm writing a lot of things while under the influence of sugar that I would otherwise have the good sense not to say out loud, so I'm going to stop here.
Matt
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