You cried on and off from 5pm to 11pm, with a break from 9:30-10:15 so we could wrap up dinner and enjoy the climax and conclusion of Captain Phillips (awesome timing.) You took in an ounce and a half at 8 and then proceeded to spit pretty much all of that back up in fits and spurts. Your mom and I had to pass you back and forth several times, because every time you got comfortable, you spent the next (few) moments getting uncomfortable all over again. Thank god we have four hands between us.
I also had a cough. Everyone said it was fine to be around you so I rocked a mask. From the moment I enter the house until the moment I leave, I’ve got a mask on. And you toughed it out. I’m not even sure you’ll recognize me without the mask anymore.
After finally convincing your mom to try and go to bed (after about 24 hours of caring for you straight without much sleep), I fed you at 11:30. You took down your 3 ounces with conviction, and then you went limp in my hands (let me tell you, one of my favorite feelings is knowing you are fully fed and comfortable, looking completely drunk like you do in the picture to the left, and therefore almost fully malleable in my hands) and were ready for a nap.
So we napped. I tried to put you down, and you wouldn’t have it. So you slept on my chest from 11:30 – 3:45 in the morning. We watched Jay Leno’s last show (his real last show, kind of like watching MJ’s last game, as a Wizard.) We watched an episode of Chopped. We caught some of A Few Good Men. And then we watched an episode of Shameless (don’t tell Mommy.) A little shaking and stirring on your end, enough for sugar and tea but not quite enough for a pisco sour.
I’d spend every night from 11:30-3:45 in that exact position for the rest of my life. Doing so would leave me over the moon … overjoyed.