It was a long day w/ the baby today. Nothing major, nothing eventful, just a lot of baby -- up at 5:45 and doing this thrilling new thing where she only naps for like 30-45 minutes, tops. I think it's her way of making sure I don't examine the hidden corners of my soul (and thanks for reading the blog, honey), but it's also pretty annoying. By the time baby bedtime came around, I was sick of the whole thing -- sick of the spitup on my sweater, my shirt, and my sweatshirt, sick of singing and reading books and playing with the weird Lamaze toy which features a fairly pubic-looking triangle of brown fur, and which we have, therefore, nicknamed Daphne Merkin. I was just done, I was bored of my precious darling, bored of the walls of this house, bored and ready to be doing anything else. The much-heralded ambition of 2 weeks ago had almost returned and I was ready to finally get cracking on some stuff after she went to sleep.
But here I am. Computer turned on, ready to start working away. . . and I miss her. I just miss her. I want to pick her up from her crib, where she is nestled in her sleep sack and snuggle. I want to hear her cooing and giggling and tucking her chin into her chest with what can only be read as modesty or coquettishness, even though those are preposterous emotions for a baby. I'm sitting here on the couch with the dog and thinking, where did that kid go? Why couldn't I be this into her when she was right in front of me?
Admittedly, this is a question that has plagued more relationships than mine.
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