Criminal

Lyla's fine. The nurse line said that based on her symptoms she was no longer contagious and could therefore return to school tomorrow. Meanwhile, I feel like I'm coming down with something. Maybe it's a housework allergy.

We dragged Lyla to the mall this evening so Julie could exchange two of the three items I bought her yesterday. I only mention the mall again because of the accidental shoplifting that transpired. As we exited through Macy's, Julie pulled from the stroller this hideous stuffed mutant pit bull from, of all places, Gymboree.

"Did Lyla steal this?" I asked incredulously.

"Um, let's just go home," Julie replied like the devil on your shoulder that argues with the angel on your other shoulder.

"Oh hell no," I said angelically.

I pulled Lyla out of the stroller and marched her butt down to Gymboree. The girl working there was helping a customer. When Lyla and I entered and no alarms sounded and no mall rent-a-cops handcuffed us, I deemed it prudent to set the mutant dog on the counter and walk out purposefully but not suspiciously.

Back at the Macy's exit, Julie decided it was now appropriate to mention that Lyla was not to blame. In fact, what may have happened, Julie was just now remembering, was that she herself might have given Lyla the dog to play with and then absentmindedly left the store without putting it back.

"So Lyla's not a criminal?"

"Nope."

"But you're a criminal."

"Yup."

"Mama's a criminal, Lyla."

Magnet

We're hanging in there. My prediction is whatever this rash is, the doctor will say to keep Lyla home until it goes away. So maybe by next week I'll be teaching live via satellite.

Lyla still seems to be feeling fine, though she was not an all-star napper today. Julie looked a little defeated when I walked in the door, so I offered to take Lyla to the mall and out of her hands. She happily sent me with a list of necessities: a specific black skirt and a belt that you might use to put not around your waist like a normal person, but around your torso in that space between breasts and belly. It pulls your various shirts in, and it's fashionable, I guess. Women are weirdos.


But I share this because I discovered a great way to get a lot of attention from the ladies at the mall--not that you or I would ever want such attention, but just in case, you know? As a guy, take your baby daughter to the mall, and let the sales staff help you buy clothes for your wife. Engage them in conversations about things like belt circumference and patterned tights. You'll be a total babe magnet, and then you can go home and brag to your wife about it as you hand her the sack of clothes you bought for her.


And if you're a guy with no wife or baby, then you might be able to meet the girl of your dreams this way. You'd have to rent a baby, of course, and then have some other excuse to buy women's clothing and start conversations about it. Tricky indeed. Good luck with all that.

Rash

Lyla got sent home from daycare today with a rash, like little pimples on part of her torso. Yummy!

Julie and I learned a lot about baby rashes today. A quick internet search will tell you that babies can get rashes from just about anything. New laundry detergent? Rash. Too hot in the crib? Rash. Toy stolen by a bully? Rash.

Rash? Rash.

But the doctor thinks Lyla's might be viral, which means we have to keep her home for a few days. One possibility is that it's chicken pox, a revelation that at first sent my heart into my throat. The doctor didn't seem worried, though, and said babies sometimes get a weaker strain before their 15-month inoculations.

It'll be a few days before we even know. Meanwhile, it's amazing how quickly Julie and I can clear our schedules when we need to. We can sit around on a Sunday night and chat about how important and busy our weeks will be, but the second a small rash appears on our kid, canceling stuff becomes easy and painless.

And speaking of painless, I guess the bright side so far is that this is not a child who's feeling bad.


Let's hope it stays that way. Worrying too much at this point would be, well, rash.

Hatred

Lyla hates her sippy cup.



HATES it.

Bulldozer

Let's all pause for a moment and give thanks that babies don't drive cars. I do think that with leg extenders and about four telephone books, a baby could learn to make it go vroom. Staying on roads, however, is another matter entirely. When traveling from Point A to Point B, babies are like birds: they fly straight.

If Lyla was behind the wheel of, say, my trash-pile Corolla, and she had her mind set on a Dilly Bar, she would see a row of houses blocking the way to Dairy Queen and think, "I'm pretty sure I could drive over those." That's how she crawls, anyway, completely unaware that there's a concept called "around." For some reason, she is only aware of "over" and "through."

For instance, study this photograph:


Eight seconds earlier, Lyla decided she wanted whatever was in that box. So she crawled over the humidifier to get there. It was the most socially awkward thing I've ever seen. When she rides the bus to school for the first time, we'll have to coach her in advance: "Don't climb over all the kids to get to an empty seat, honey. Walk down the aisle."

Slop

Lyla doesn't have any teeth yet, and we're half thinking she'll be toothless well into adulthood. Still, we're attempting to feed her things commonly eaten by productive members of society. We're not quitting the jar o' slop dinners, just supplementing them with foods that are less revolting.

Tonight Lyla had bits of bread, cheese, and turkey. She would fist a piece off the tray, cram it in her mouth, and blurble it onto her bib. Every couple minutes, Julie shook the blurbled bits off the bib and onto the tray again. The process repeated. And repeated.

Soon, the bits of food no longer resembled food. They had suffered greatly. But Lyla kept going, and soon she began to actually swallow them.

It's like she was the mother bird and the baby bird all at the same time.

Hissy

If Julie comes home late, stressed out, tired, and hungry all at the same time, and she finds the house a teeny bit messy, then you better watch the hell out. Anything can set her off, and she will become a raving banshee lunatic, a dervish of rage. Picture Bruce Banner with no muscles but with frenetic gestures, a large vocabulary, and the ability to have a conniption without breathing.

I suppose I should mention that at 7:30 while I was out getting us food, she was wrist-deep in a dirty diaper and discovered that we had no wipes remaining. And the highchair was crusty. And the house was a mess. And we were down to our last six diapers. And I still hadn't moved the bug poison from the floor of the front closet. There's probably more, but you can ask her yourself if you're curious. Just be careful. Wear a helmet.

You should also know, though, that I have since fed her a cheeseburger and some cookies, and now she is calmly sipping tea. The diaper and wipe supply has been replenished. The messes...remain, but they're not as bad. She's at the computer watching the YouTube video of the baby dancing to Beyonce's "Single Ladies." She just giggled. This is promising.

Better bring her more cookies just in case.

Knows

It's still very exciting that Lyla is so big.

But she knows other things, too. For instance, she knows that an owl says "Hmmm! Hmmm!" You think an owl says "Who," but you have a history of being wrong. Lyla says that an owl says "Hmmm!" and she's never wrong. Also, she knows that a sheep says "Bah. Bah." Lyla understands that owls (Hmmm!) are enthusiastic, while sheep (Bah) are nonchalant.

Lyla also knows that a car makes exactly the same noise as a mouth buzzing. She doesn't know what a car is, per se, but ask her what one says, and she'll tell you.

And that's about it for now. But we're approaching a tipping point, I can feel it. Pretty soon, any day now, probably tomorrow, she'll see me and say "Dada."

Police

Yesterday Lyla's teacher greeted me with, "We took off Lyla's pants."

"I see," I replied as Lyla grunt-crawled pantslessly toward me.

They were pink corduroys that Julie thinks are fabulous. I sort of like/hate them because they're cute but tough to yank on and off during diaper changes. Lyla's teachers clearly value utility over fashion, so in the future we will need to err on the side of pants a granny would wear. Bonus points if they can be pulled up to her armpits comfortably.

Julie was indignant when I relayed to her the pants debacle. "Oh my gosh, they're not that bad," she said.

"You're totally right," I lied.

"So we got in trouble with the pants police?"

"I'd call it a verbal warning."

In the end, we retired the pink cords and the shoehorn used to stuff Lyla into them.

Wolverine

This photo aptly sums up the day.

Our house is sick with a cold, and Lyla is teething like a wolverine. I don't technically know how wolverines teethe, but I'm guessing they do it ferociously.

Last night we were up with Lyla three, maybe four times. I was in a NyQuil haze, so she could've said her first words ("Daddy, do princesses have snotty noses?") and I wouldn't have known.

I told my two morning classes that when deciding on a career, they should consider things like whether they want to be in front of people all day communicating effectively, or whether they'd be better in a dusty basement research lab in their sweatpants. And then I told them that today, I should've chosen the second option. They seemed amused, but kids are always a little sycophantic the first few weeks.

Mental note to teach them the word "sycophantic."

Hopefully Lyla will sleep longer tonight. Multiple sources today told us to go with Motrin for teething instead of Tylenol. It lasts longer, and it was developed by wolverines.

Costumes

Lyla is ten months old today. She celebrated by standing unassisted for three seconds and drinking unassisted for two seconds. Our gift to her was a squirt of baby Tylenol because, as her doctor told Julie the other day, those teeth are coming in soon.

The young lady was not happy this evening. Julie and I are afraid we might have a long night ahead of us because clearly there are gum issues. It's mainly the top ones, too, which is exciting given that Halloween is fast approaching. I have a feeling Lyla's mouth will resemble a jack-o-lantern by then. And if she gets mad from the soreness, she'll sound like a werewolf. Hey, maybe the fangs will come in first and we'll call her Lylacula.

What do you dress up a baby as for Halloween, anyway? Julie has an idea that I am not allowed to mention here, and it's cute. But really, the first Halloween costume is an opportunity to transcend cute. We could dress her up as anything. Princess Leia in the titanium bikini would be hilarious, yet creepy. How about a bowling pin? She'll be walking by then and would definitely fall over sometimes. Hey, do they have Joe Biden costumes for babies? That would make people scratch their heads.

The first Halloween Julie and I ever spent together was our junior year of college. I dressed up as a spider, and she went as a web. I apologize if that made you throw up in your mouth. Of course, now you need to decide whether to get up and spit it out somewhere, or just swallow it. If you swallow it, then help yourself to a mint.

That year was also Julie's very first time trick-or-treating. She never got to go as a kid because most of the time she was in juvie. No, it was because...I don't really know. But that was significant, trick-or-treating as 20-year-olds with complementing arachnid-themed costumes. We were so cool. Then two years later, I proposed to her at a Halloween party. If you're in the mood to vurp again, read about it here. All of this is to say that when Lyla experiences her first Halloween, it will need to be monumental.

If her only teeth are the two front ones on top, then we'll have to go with a bunny outfit, won't we? Or is that cruel? Oh well: it's no more cruel than her daddy stealing all her candy.

Ditch

After watching the excellent (500) Days of Summer (better date movie than Inglourious Basterds), we went to a restaurant we remembered as cool from before we were parents.

And...it wasn't cool. There was a baby two tables from us, and it didn't seem out of place. We realized we could've brought Lyla, which contradicted our date night goal of baby-inappropriateness. Plus, our waitress was unable to tell us anything about the wine special beyond it being white and a "greeeat deeeal."

So we ditched. Julie staged an imaginary cell conversation with Auntie Lori, who was babysitting, and I gestured apologetically to the host as we walked out.

A nice walk later, we found ourselves at a tiny wine bar down the street, dark with old wood everywhere and lit with candles. I'd wager there's never been a baby in there ever. It was perfect.

Antithesis

Tomorrow Auntie Lori is coming over to hang out with Lyla while Julie and I go to the movie theater for like the first time in Lyla's entire life. Actually, I remember seeing Marley and Me when Lyla was tiny and slept anywhere. Julie liked it, but Lyla and I thought it was boring.

In fact, now that I think about it, movie theaters suck. You have obnoxious people all around you, low definition picture, and the inability to hit pause and go make a sandwich. Plus, we always eat way too much $10 popcorn with high fructose corn syrup butter product. "Just a little," we tell the guy, which to him means 24 squirts instead of 25.

Thing is, the fact that we can't go to the movie theater anymore with Lyla makes it an oddly alluring date option. And as far as movie selection, it feels like we're wasting the date if we see anything even slightly appropriate for a baby's eyes. Since it's a rare night out away from Lyla, we need to see something that we would never, ever let her see. So Inglourious Basterds, here we come--because what's the absolute antithesis of baby-appropriate subject matter? Brad Pitt scalping Nazis.

Sugar

This is my 300th day in a row of posting on this blog. I'm sort of awesome.

Julie took Lyla in for her nine month appointment today. Lyla's stats are all in the 80s and 90s, percentile-wise. Everything's cool. She didn't even cry.

Okay, seriously. She got a flu shot and her finger pricked, and she did not cry. I think she might have that condition where your nerve endings don't detect pain. She'll grow up and deliberately slam into things because it doesn't hurt. Maybe we can get Extreme Makeover: Home Edition to build us a house with pillows for walls. I wonder if Ty would make my video-game room his special project.

What was I saying? Oh yes: Julie found the secret to keeping a baby relatively happy during a shot. I don't know if it would work with all babies, but it worked with ours. Julie dipped Lyla's binky in sugar water and gave it to her a moment before the shot. Lyla was suck-slurping away, and when the pin pricked, she said "Hmm." See, her brain was swirling in endorphins from the sugar water. They did a study on it. It's legit.

It is worth noting that Julie also got a flu shot today. She did not suck on a sugar binky and has been whining about the soreness ever since.

Hang

Lyla woke up at 5:45 this morning for no obvious reason. Well, the obvious reason might be that I wrote yesterday about how the days are starting to look the same, and Lyla read it and said, "No no, girlfriend," and snapped her fingers above her head and decided to throw us a morning curve ball.

We played with stuff while Julie showered. Then I put her in the highchair and fed her puffs while I made coffee and sandwiches.

Fast-forward to after school. Lyla was in the backseat fussing, and Julie called. I answered because I am one of those people who talks on the cellphone while driving. I'm a better driver than you are, so it's okay. But anyway, sometime during our conversation, Lyla stopped making noise. In the driveway at home, I discovered she was sweaty and fast asleep. I sat in the back with her as she slept, chatting with Julie as she drove home. When Julie pulled into the driveway, we peeled the young lady from her slumber.

So Lyla's sleep schedule is a bit off. Hopefully she'll wake up early again tomorrow so we can hang out before school.

Cheerio

Just like all school days, I didn't see Lyla until I picked her up. I walked into her classroom to find her and two other tiny people standing around a table covered with Cheerios. Since none of them had the dexterity to grab Cheerios quickly, it was a free-for-all in slow motion. It almost looked like they were politely sharing.

Lyla saw me and said, "Mmm! Mmm!" She had Cheerio bits stuck to her face, shirt, and hands, but you can't really demand that she clean herself off; you just have to come to terms with getting half-chewed Cheerios smeared on various parts of you.

I knelt, and Lyla army-crawled over and climb-hugged me. I pulled a Cheerio off her chest and another off the bottom of her foot. I asked her how big she was, but she didn't feel like answering.

In the car, she fussed until I changed the radio from MPR to a music station. I heard her shake the interlocking ring toys I had given her in the carseat. I switched over to an 80s mix CD, and she started fussing again during Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al." I couldn't really blame her.

At home, after some playing, Mama coming home, some dinner, and some more playing, Lyla went to bed at 7:00 without a squawk or a whimper.

Tomorrow will probably be a lot like today. It feels cyclical, like the progression of life right now isn't a straight line, but a circle. And that's fine with me. It's a comfortable circle. It's a Cheerio.

Faker

Lyla doesn't seem to be able to feed herself a bottle yet, but I wonder if she's fooling us. I mean, if someone gently held your bottle to your lips whenever you were thirsty and patted your back when you were done, you'd ride that out as long as possible, right?

See, look at her:


Do you notice a glint of triumph in her eyes? No? You think I'm reading too much into this? I'm telling you, Lyla realizes that if she demonstrates bottle drinking proficiency, the party's over. Here's what happens when we let go of it:


She's just gnawing on the thing, and it's not nearly tipped enough for her to get milk out. Plus, there's that expression on her face. Lyla's trying to make us think that the instant Mama's hand left the bottle, it ceased to be a container of food. "What is this toy, Mama? I think I'll chew on the nipple. La la la. What? You want me to drink? Drink what?"

Oh, and then:


Seriously, Lyla? We're so onto you.

Clapping

We're back after a spectacular weekend in Salt Lake City. Rather than write a paragraph of vacation minutiae for you to skim or skip, let's just jump to what Lyla did while we were gone.

She clapped her hands. Well, sort of. Does clapping require sound, or is the motion what matters? If a baby claps and nobody hears it, does the tree in the forest still...I forgot where I was going with that. Auntie Jodie, who is preggers with Lyla's first cousin, stayed at our house along with Grandma Jackie. Somehow, a game of patty-cake ensued. And Lyla participated.

That's big. Every time I've tried to encourage Lyla's hands to jubilantly make contact with one another, she has resisted and given me her "What the hell?" look. And now she silent-claps without provocation. By next Tuesday she'll be giving standing ovations.

Lyla also shakes her head no when someone tells her no and shakes their head. For instance, when Lyla grabbed the remote control off the table and crammed it in her mouth, Grandma Jackie said "Nooooo" and shook her head. And Lyla shook hers, too. Nice. This will be a polite, obedient child who does not eat electronics.

The day a fun trip ends is usually depressing, but not so much this time.

Hitchhike

I'm writing this on the night before we leave for Salt Lake City (and scheduling it to be posted Saturday), so I'm trying to predict whether being in Utah when Lyla's in Minnesota will be a big deal.

Julie might freak out. She might try to hitchhike north.

It's definitely different for me, now in school while Lyla's at school, seeing her for a couple hours a day. I have to be honest that it's a little less stressful so far, for if Lyla refuses to go down for a nap or detonates her diaper, it's not always my job to deal with it.

And I feel like such a dick writing that. It goes without saying that I'd rather have Lyla with me than somewhere else. But this last week there were moments when I was at my desk or speaking to a room of 30 kids as they dutifully wrote down what I told them to, and it felt very right. Dick dick dick.

Maybe I'll be the one who freaks out and tries to hitchhike north.

*Update*

Here's a picture taken by Auntie Jodie:

However

We leave for the airport in a couple hours. My students have a substitute today, which is not an ideal scenario during the first week of school. I have a sneaky feeling they'll behave themselves, though. They're always a bit more timid week one.

I wonder what Lyla will be like in school. I hope her personality happens to align with the way a school day unfolds. Some kids can't stand the desk time, the bells, the institutional feel of it, and some kids don't care. I hope Lyla doesn't care. It'll be easier for all of us.

I also hope she'll be a bit of a trouble maker. Not gross insubordination or any major infractions, but occasionally too talkative, occasionally goofy and unfocused. At parent-teacher conferences, I don't want to hear "If she would only speak up more in class..." I'd prefer the teacher to smile, shake his head, and say he's never quite sure what Lyla will say next.

That all sounds fine, but it's not the truth, not really. The truth is that I'll take her however she turns out.

Crazy

Whoops: forgot to take an awake picture today, but here she is fast asleep.

Julie's mom is staying with Lyla this weekend while Julie and I go to Salt Lake City for our friend's wedding. Saturday will be Julie's first day, sunrise to sunset, when she won't see Lyla. I will be available for emotional support.

Grandma Jackie has her work cut out for her, but she's up for it. Grandmas are crazy. We had a whole basket full of Lyla's clean clothes that we hadn't gotten around to folding. "Oh, I'll fold these," she said without a hint of eye roll or resentment.

"Are you insane?" I inquired politely.

"I like to fold baby clothes," she replied, effectively answering my question.

I also mentioned that since we're flying out tomorrow and it's a Friday, she could take Lyla to daycare and have some time for herself before being hardcore caretaker on Saturday and Sunday.

"Oh hell no." And that was that. Craaaaazy. Thank God.

Vie

This lady is on a mission. Any guesses as to what she sees? Must be good. The following photos illustrate the relationship between Lyla and Daisy as they vie for the role of household alpha. Actually, as you'll see, it's no contest.






Don't worry: I took the bone away. You see, I am the actual household alpha. At least for now. (Don't tell Julie.)

Wants

Sometimes Lyla tells us in a roundabout way that she wants a bath and bed. Sometimes we don't immediately catch her drift, so she communicates more directly:


I had an awesome first day of school, by the way. Lyla's day was decent: good sleeping but bad eating. We think she's teething again based on ear tugging (we're pretty sure it's not an ear infection) and general fussiness. Plus there's that occasional cough left over from her cold. And she's still a snot factory. Let us know if you need baby snot for any reason, and we'll totally hook you up.

Also, as you saw, she managed to smear food on the entire orb of her head, which pleased her not at all. Admittedly, our amusement may have exacerbated her rage.

We are learning that there are certain situations where Lyla wants Mama, not Dada. This evening, that was fine by me.

Surface

We finally fashioned a protective surface for the fireplace. It's not fancy like the one at Anja's house, which was built all professional-like by her daddy using tools and lumber and manliness. Ours is makeshift and pitiful, but hopefully it'll be effective when Lyla decides to plonk her head on it.

Months ago, we bought an exercise mat at a sporting goods store with the wild hope that Lyla would roll from one end of it to the other. It ended up discarded in the guest bedroom until we discovered the other day that it was slightly longer than our fireplace. Now it's stuck to the brick with Gorilla Tape, which is a tape as strong as a gorilla. And over the mat is a fleece blanket, attached with clamps and, yes, more Gorilla Tape.

Needless to say, we won't be building any fires this winter until after Lyla's bedtime.

Hack

A couple nights ago, Julie and I were sitting downstairs when suddenly we heard from the baby monitor the next phase of Lyla's cold, the two-pack-a-day cough. Julie ran upstairs to comfort her, and I compiled a list from the internet of all the medicines you can give an infant with a cough. On that list: nothing. Oh yes, and also nothing.

For my own discomforts, I'm not a fan of home remedies. Chamomile tea? A warm washcloth on the face? Just shut up and give me some pills. But for our little Marlboro baby, website after website said that cough medicines without a prescription are not just a small no-no, but a big no-no.

So Julie turned the shower on hot and sat in the bathroom with Lyla while I set up a humidifier in the nursery. And, well, the home remedies worked. Lyla slept.

Her cough is getting better, but she did have quite the episode at Anja's first birthday party, hacking and coughing and then gagging and then spewing six ounces of formula down the front of my shirt. It was hot.

Door

We did not put Lyla in this cage. Put down your phone.

To Lyla, Daisy's cage is the ideal toy. It's a fort, it has a swinging door, and you can easily pull yourself to a standing position in it. What else do you want? A button that activates a binky dispenser would be nice, I suppose.

How do you explain to a nine-month-old that it's socially unacceptable to crawl into a dog cage? "Lyla, the image of you in the dog cage sends the message that we as parents condone the caging of children; to a casual observer it would appear that we see you as an animal, not a little girl."

And meanwhile, Lyla's thinking, "Door goes open, door goes shut. Door goes open, door goes shut. Door goes open, door goes shut."

Humor

It's hard to get Lyla to sit still for a picture. That might change if she ever learns she's cute.

Her sense of humor is evolving. Earlier in her life, when Julie or I would do something gut-bustingly hilarious, Lyla would stare blankly and rather snobbishly at us. You know, like when you make a joke and the person you're with says "That's funny" without cracking a smile. Lyla was like that. Babies can be real jerks.

But the latest joke she has come around to is the chase-and-hide joke. She crawls toward something interesting/dangerous, and I crawl behind her and make stupid noises. Then when she turns around, I immediately hide behind the toy tub or whatever is handy. She crawls toward me to see if I've really disappeared forever, and I pop my head out and greet her enthusiastically.

Lyla has finally admitted to herself that it's a funny trick. We're talking healthy, fat-vibrating giggles. I think it might be time for knock-knock jokes.

Grass

I have tomorrow off, but Lyla still gets to go to school. For one, our lawn is so far gone that it's like Honey I Shrunk the Kids out there. Plus, the dogs have a grooming appointment. And I have a grooming appointment. And I'm having lunch with my mom.

The various grooming appointments remind me of when we were on the pink blanket at the Renaissance Festival. Lyla spent some time picking grass out of the ground and cramming it in her mouth. Then I lifted her up and put her on my shoulders, and Julie observed that she was trying to pick the hair off my head just like the grass. So Lyla thinks grass and Daddy's hair are the same thing. Awesome.

I'm sort of glad she can't talk yet: "Daddy, why is your grass thinner and graying?"

Tough

Julie stayed home sick today, so I dropped off Lyla at school before heading to school myself. It was my first time dropping her off since Julie and I did it together on the first Tuesday of August. And...it kind of sucked.

There's that moment when you actually turn around and leave. It's not like you put her on a train and wait for the train to chug away and pretend-chase it for 50 yards while she's waving a hankie at you from her open window. Then the decision to separate belongs more to the train. Here it belongs to the parent; you have to decide, okay, this is the moment when I'll break eye contact with the little bugger, turn, and walk away without looking back.

But there were no tears. Lyla and I are tough, tough people.

Keg

Last night when Lyla should have been fast asleep, she chugged two six-ounce bottles within two hours. Do they sell baby formula in kegs?

I don't think her teachers realize what a thirsty baby she is. On the sheet where they document the three topics parents care most about (eating, pooping, and sleeping), I saw that yesterday Lyla didn't have nearly as much milk as she gets at home. So that's going to have to change, especially with her cold making her fussier about solid foods.

I'm at school right now--not Lyla's, but the one I teach at. In 35 minutes, the parents of my homeroom kids will file in for the start of open house. I left this morning before Lyla woke up, and I won't get home until after she's in bed.

I guess part of me hopes that she'll be a thirsty monster again tonight. Then at least I'll see her awake. If not, then hopefully Julie takes a picture.

*Update*

It's 10:09, and I'm home. Lyla is fast asleep. Oh well. At least there's this:


*Update*

I got to spend some time with Lyla at 1:00 AM. It was bittersweet--well, let's just go with sweet.