Fuss

Lyla looks like Elvis in this picture. Or Dracula. Perhaps Lylacula.

One thing Julie and I are working through is that I'm pretty much worthless once I've hit the bed. I'm a much deeper sleeper than she is, so whenever Lyla shoves the binky (pacifier) from her mouth and begins to fuss, Julie's the one who notices. When this goes on for two hours, I don't earn any husband points.

When I do stir, I'm an idiot. We have a stuffed monkey in the bed, named Monkey, that Julie used during pregnancy to support whatever part of her needed supporting. The other night, according to Julie, when she stood up to feed Lyla, I said, "I have her right here."

The room was dark, so Julie immediately thought, "You have her in the bed?!" But it wasn't Lyla. It was Monkey.

My nighttime ramblings used to be a source of humor for us. In earlier days, Julie would return to bed after going to the bathroom or something, have a short conversation with me, laugh her head off, and fall back asleep.

But in the middle of last night, Julie asked me to change Lyla to prepare her for a feeding. "Sure!" I said, then promptly fell back asleep.

I did sort of come to my senses a moment later. I shuffled over to the changing table and said, "Here, I'll change her. You go back to bed. Go back to bed, homey, I mean honey." Of course, in my stupor I had forgotten that Julie wasn't just up to change her, but to feed her. Idiot!

This morning we had a discussion about ways that I might be more helpful at night.

I suggested to her, "You have to make me repeat whatever you want me to do."

"Or I could smack you in the face."

"Or you could smack me in the face."