Praise be to Women Everywhere.

Jen has been looking forward to tonight for a very long time. Ever since "Cheese tasting" became a course of continuing education. So, she's off with some of her best friends "taking a class" from the community college tonight. I guess that's another story. Tonight I am home with the boys, and now I can see why Jen likes to blog. It seems to be a form of validation after several hours of hard work. So I come to you, oh wide internets, for validation.

Let's see. I gave blood tonight, did a quick hand-off, and I was in and Jen was out. Parting words: "Blake will need something to eat before bed, give him some oats with breastmilk."

Piece of cake.

First, to satisfy the baby, I warm some butternut squash frozen cubes. Mmmmm. Then Ian and I pop a few taters in the microwave, I throw out the jug of salsa that has a film of fuzzies on top, go to the basement for one of the jars I canned which Jen lovingly labelled "HAZMAT" due to the heat of the adobo peppers I added. While the potatoes are cooking, I feed Blake the squash which he LOVES. Who can blame him? That gourd is delightful.

So the baked potatoes are done, Ian and I lather up with butter, sour cream, cheese, and HAZMAT, and go to town. We also finish off 1 1/2 tomatoes that have been (over) ripening in the window sill.

After I finish, Ian wants another potato, so I stick it in the nuker. I feel determined to fulfill Jen's request of giving Blake oats with breastmilk, so I mix up a small batch. Blake has never really given me a good face when he has the first bite of that concoction: it's always an ick, what IS this stuff? (Probably thinking, "more butternut, please!")

He has a couple of bites, then does the tongue block maneuver which indicates that "No matter how hard you try Dad, I'm going to end up wearing more than you can get me to swallow." Fair enough. I give in.

Meanwhile, Ian's second potato is finished cooking, I butter it, cheese it, sour cream it, and Ian liberally HAZMATs it himself. I told him to stop. I really did. He just wanted to keep scooping. A few bites, and he says, "Dad, this is hot!" I remind him he has a cup of water nearby, and that I need to get Blake a bath so the oats don't dry and glue his chin to his chest.

Blake loves the bath. He's so comfortable there, he often gets so relaxed he just lets his fountain flow. I'm proud of myself for feeding him, so I dry him off, dress him in cozy feetie pajamas, then sing him a few songs. Meanwhile, Ian is finishing off his HAZMAT potato downstairs, and he comes upstairs with his excited voice and says, "I finished my potato, Dad! I get dessert! We should have APPLESAUCE for Dessert!" (He more than deserves it, of course.)

A few songs later, I put Blake in his crib, make sure he's facing the video monitor, and retreat so Ian and I can have a nice bowl of applesauce together. It was lovely.

He seems to start like this (^), and end like this (v).



Blake starts to do this scoot thing which I remember Ian doing all to clearly. Invariably it leads to a foot in the rails. Or a baby on his tummy or something else that make's Jen worry.


After 60 seconds, Blake is getting wound up, feeling like he needs a boob to nuzzle before going to sleep, so I go try to offer him whatever I've got. More songs? A blanket? A rocking chair? Not a boob. I get him quieted down and lay him down again. Nothing doing. More songs.

Meanwhile, I think to myself, "Self, we've got about 8 cubes of breastmilk in the freezer, I could simulate his evening nuzzle." I go to the basement, get a bottle, warm 3 ounces of mama's milk and talk to myself all the while. "Here goes nothing." Upstairs in the rocker, he tongues the bottle nipple. He swishes it around, pushes it out. "You have no idea what this is, do you?" Then he gets a squirt down the gullet. GASP! Hack, cough cough. "What'd you think of that? Did it taste familiar?" He closes his lips around the nipple and INHALES the three ounces. "That's all you're getting from me, Pal."

Seemingly content at the pseudo-nuzzle, his eyes turn to slits, threatening to shut for good, and I put Blake in his crib and watch him fall asleep from the video monitor. Gotta love that device.

Meanwhile, I return to Ian and finish our applesauce. Mmmm. Ian and I read four books together, then scriptures and prayers, then take a bath since I don't remember when he last had one. That means it's time, for sure. Brush teeth? Ohhh, we forgot to brush teeth. We'll have to do it twice tomorrow. (Does that count?)

So I'm tucking in Ian into his bed, giving him a kiss, "I'll see you in the morning, Love you!" and I hear a gurgle gurgle splash. Blake is throwing up. I go to his crib, and he's got more. The fountain overfloweth. It keeps coming and coming. There's the milk. There's the oats. There's the butternut. And yet, Blake still wants to sleep. His eyes say, "What is this stuff Dad? Why can't I just go back to sleep?"

I fill the bathtub again. A half-asleep baby eeks out a smile when he slips into the warm water. He's calm and still. I pull him out dry him off, and put him on the changing table. I diaper him. Gurgle gurgle, splash. Where is this stuff coming from? I turn him on his side so he doesn't aspirate any of the gunk. Immediately he falls asleep. Doesn't he care that he just threw up? Okay, so he's asleep. On the changing table.

I take the opportunity to change the sheets and mattress pad on the crib before cleaning up Blake again and putting on clean PJs. Poor kid. He was so tired. And probably hungry. I have a feeling we'll be hearing form him around 2 am.

So on clean sheets, I lay out a towel, lay the cleaned up baby in clean pajamas on his side, he looks at me, I say "You've had a rough night, I'm so sorry Blake." He closes his eyes and goes back to sleep. Not a wimper, cry, or squawk through the whole thing.

He's asleep. The house is quiet. And Jen just drove up. I'm sure she'll love this story.