Dear Jeff Vogel,
As much as I enjoy your wonderful book, I have spent the better part of the last two months questioning exactly how you managed to write it. And I came to the conclusion that either a) you had a very understanding wife who said, "Oh, yes, by all means, spend two hours every night behind the locked door of your office and pay no attention to your screaming child; I'll take care of her," or 2) You gave Cordelia a very effective sedative every night. If a) then your wife should get the credit for writing Poo Bomb, and if 2) can I please have some?
(There is an option D, which is that you are simply quicker, better and wittier than I am, but I would rather not acknowledge that as a possibility.)
-
As most of you have no doubt noticed, this blog went to shit at the end of May, when I returned to work. In stark contrast with all reasonable sensibility, one does not, in fact, get more hours in the day when one procreates. There are still only 24 or them, which must now be spread even thinner than they already were. This either means less time for sleeping, less time for the child, or less time for enjoyable freetime writering-things. As I quite enjoy sleeping, and as I sort of feel that letting Leah cry while I lock myself in a closet with my laptop for an hour would be bad form, my freetime has suffered considerably.
Fortunately, now five months old, Leah has what can probably be called a semi-regular, mostly consistent bedtime routine that has her asleep by 8:00 each night, which means I may have earned some of that freetime back, if I'm not too ungodly exhausted to do anything but go to sleep myself.
Rather than backtrack, I'm simply going to pick up the ball from this point, because it's likely that trying to rehash everything that's happened since May would be a complete shitshow.
Instead, you should all know this: I have the best baby ever.
There. I said it. I have a GOOD BABY, and I would really like to tattoo it on my forehead or get a T-shirt for every day of the week proclaiming just how incredibly awesome my child is*.
When I returned to work, Leah started day care. When Leah started day care, she became a social butterfly. She has no fewer than three little boyfriends, all of whom are adorable and - as I've told her many times - all of whom have cooties. She has found her voice and progressed to uncontrollable inflection, and if you want an opinion on just about anything, she will give it to you (and then grunt at you when you say things like, "Oh really?" or, "Is that so?")
I can only conclude that my returning to work brought her out of her shell as she was exposed to the idea that she is not, in fact, the only baby in the universe, and there might just be someone out there who understands the language she speaks.
She is well-behaved in public unless she's hungry or needs to have her diaper changed, which I can totally understand, because I'm an absolute bitch if I haven't eaten and, hey. Who among us doesn't like to have a nice clean behind? The bottom line is, with a few noted exceptions, we don't have to fear taking her out in public or leaving her home with a baby-sitter.
Stay tuned for the latter six months of her first year, when I promise to try to update at least monthly.
"Try." Nice word, isn't it?
*This opinion is one part Proud Mama Syndrome and two parts I've Been Told I'm a Lucky Bitch By The Whole World.
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