Rhetoric

For the past few evenings, Lyla has shed her calm baby facade and become a snarling, hissing, nostril-flaring beast. It's like she's that cute little dinosaur from Jurassic Park, and I'm Newman from Seinfeld just before he gets poisonous ink shot in his face.

That was a bad analogy. The girl wants milk, can't get enough of it. Watch out for her. If you lactate, you are not safe.

So anyway, during Obama's state of the union address, I fed Lyla a bottle. She had so much to drink that the new stuff caught up with the old stuff in her digestive tract and she massively, massively pooped her pants. It was just after Obama's point about parents being responsible for their child's education, and a long standing ovation followed. I swear to you, she was encouraged by it; she thought they were clapping for her.

If you watched the speech, you know that it was full of standing ovations. Well, Lyla kept going, pooping in time with each of the President's big talking points and pausing for the applause. The girl understands rhetoric.

It must be the growth spurt common in three-month-olds. I hear her crying upstairs now, so I better go assist. I don't want Julie to suffer the wrath of the Lyla-saurus alone.