So, Tucker doesn’t so much…sleep at night?
I keep having to remind myself that he’s only five days old. I think even “experienced” parents must block out the first weeks of any baby’s life. It’s good for the survival of the species, right?
So, I know this too shall pass.
Dear Lord, could it be sooner rather than later? Amen.
This morning Lee finally got Tucker to sleep in the swing around 5am, and our two other gremlins popped out of bed at 5:30.
On the bright side, they did not cover their room in baby powder. My expectations are at an all time low, y’all.
When I plopped Lee’s coffee cup on the desk this morning he said:
What’s your plan for today? Survival?
He knows me well.
Yes, I am blogging from my hospital bed. Tucker is having his bilirubin levels checked, Lee is at home with the big kids, and there is nothing on TV. And who can really sleep in a hospital bed anyway?
Plus, I wanted to share some better [and not sideways camera phone] pictures of New Baby, whom we now call Tucker.
This might be my new favorite picture of all time.
Bucky and Bo came up late last night to meet the baby. We debated whether or not a trip to the hospital at 8 o’clock was smart, but we were so glad they came. Buck was the happiest big sister ever.
Bo ripped off Tucker’s hat, ran all over the room, tried to feed the baby animal crackers, touched everything remotely medical and beeping, and then capped off the show by running face first into the door and falling flat on his back.
You know, the usual. At least he didn’t break anymore teeth.
Thank you for all of your sweet messages! We can’t wait to introduce you all to the latest member of our circus.
Mary Bullock picked out her dress and accessories today.
Well don’t you look special! I say, when I find her in her closet covered in jewels.
Just wanted to wear a little fashion today, she says.
I look down at my too small maternity shirt, capris, and boat shoes. Lee called my outfit special this morning, too, but I don’t think he meant the same thing.
I’m not going to lie– the thought of three children in our tiny house makes me kind of panic sometimes.
The thought of three children plus an eighty pound dog makes me downright claustrophobic.
The thought of three children plus an eighty pound dog plus the ten pounds of hair he leaves on my rugs weekly is enough to make me contemplate calling a rescue organization.
Fortunately for Ingle [newly dubbed GaGa], there is at least one person in our household who does not mind dog hair, or the dirty doggy scent of cornchips, or the fact that his favorite lounging spot is smack in the middle of the kitchen floor.
I must also admit that Ingle and I have had a love-hate relationship for most of the last four years. And by that I mean, it’s been heavy on the hate and light on the love.
He has never been a fan of small children, even when he was a puppy. So when he sits still and lets Bo climb on his back, I know he is making an enormous sacrifice of patience. It’s admirable, really. I wish I had that much patience most days.
So here we will all be. Two adults, three children, eighty pound GaGa, and his ten pounds of dog hair.
Snug as bugs in a rug.
As long as those bugs are not fleas.