Feet

Part of the folder the hospital sent home with us was a kit to capture Lyla's footprints. This kit didn't require Lyla to get her feet inky; you were just supposed to press them on the pad, sending an impression of her footprint to the paper behind.

Well, we never did it. Whoops.

Does it matter? I don't remember why we got on the subject of Lyla's feet, but somebody told me that the hospital is supposed to do the footprints for identification purposes. Like if all the babies somehow spilled onto the floor together in a confusing baby-heap, they'd simply match each one to his or her footprint. It's a hell of a lot cuter than a DNA test.

Maybe the hospital did do it. A nurse at one point took Lyla out of the room to give her a shot or something, and perhaps she snuck in a footprinting too. In retrospect I should've gone with her in case she turned out to be a baby-cannibal asylum patient impersonating a nurse.

Anyway, maybe we'll use our footprint kit this weekend. Then when Lyla's older, we can mess with her head by telling her the footprints are actually from the day she was born. "They were gigantic freak feet, honey. We almost sold you to the circus."

I wonder if Lyla will be mad at us later for never capturing her teeny feet. Hey, someone I work with just had a baby girl. Maybe she'd let me borrow her daughter's feet for a couple minutes.