Night

A couple of Julie's out-of-town college friends are in town, so they're having a girls' night. I am home alone with Lyla, dad and daughter, chillin' and playing board games. And I'm totally dominating her. She has no idea what she's doing. Jump, jump, jump, and king me. Who's your daddy? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Next we're going to eat pizza and read magazines.

This morning I removed the three pink leg bandages from yesterday's shots. The old adage that you should do unpleasant things quickly "like pulling off a Band-Aid" originated when someone had to pull one off an eight-week-old. The first two went without incident, but I lingered too long on the third. Lyla responded with a rage reminiscent of the shots themselves. I assured the shrieking lady that she had a bad, bad daddy and that he was sorry.

Later I discovered that tummy time is an excellent way to clear Lyla's sinuses. She has neither the muscle mass nor the limb awareness to really do anything, and this frustrates her greatly. So she grunts and snorts like a baby dragon trying to breathe fire, and out come the boogers. Aren't you glad to know that?

Pizza's done. Lyla needs a bottle and a diaper change. This is the Saturday night that soon-to-be fathers dread--and the one that actual fathers love.