a title eludes me because I'd rather be asleep

Daniel is nearly three weeks old now, and we've been home for nearly two. Each day fades into the next with a predictability that has yet to become boring, because while each day repeats itself with veritable Groundhog Day monotony, Daniel changes with every minute.

In less than three weeks, my tiny baby boy has disappeared forever, leaving in his wake a little boy who no longer fits in the curve under my chin. Meanwhile, those three weeks have done jack dippity shit to my hormone levels, so that last sentence reduced me tears.

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And in the last few days I've had so little opportunity to put together more than two conherent sentences without Sir Squirmy needing something, even if it is just an audience as he performs yet one more remarkable feat of cuteness, that he is now three weeks and two days old. Also, as it's now 2.45 in the goddamn am and I'm tapping this entry out to the melodious tunes of I Want Something Non Specific And I'm Gonna Make You Pay Til You Specifically Guess What It Is emanating from my bedroom, a room which for now and it would seem until I guess what in fuck it is, shall be called HELL!!!, I want to know who stole my sweet tempered child and replaced it with this little arsehat.

What's that? No noise? Good god, the swaddling, is it working? Or is Daniel turning blue because, I dunno, some random piece of fluff feel dpwn his gaping maw to block his airways? Back soon to report....and before I even lift my butt off the seat, I can advise that he is not blue, is still screaming, so *beep* the answer is c) none of the above.

And this is after the little ingrate fed for like, an hour and then somehow peed through the cracks in his absorbent undergarments and all over me. Babies are so deliciously hedonistic and I can Gah-ruh-ntee that he wouldn't be as calm as I am now if wandered back in there to return the favor. I, on the other hand, wear the produce of his scrummy little self with pride and a good deal of nonchalance. That's French for If I Scrunch My Eyes Up Real Tight, I Can't See No [Pee/Puke/Dear God, What Is That?!] Stain.

So I just visited the squealy little shit in his swaddly little prison and lo! his left arm had escaped and was unceremoniously bashing him in the head. Have rectified the rogue arm, turned the clock radio to "Loud", selected the "Hissingly Not Quite On The Station that Oh God, Appears to be Country and Western Music" option and then tip toed out. The ensuing silence tells me that Mr Deebs either died of shock (or the aforementioned terminal fluff) or is asleep.

Will report back anon.

He's asleep.

God, how? With all that fuckawful noise?

Kids, man. They're weird.

Anyway, in case anyone thinks I'm complaining, which I am SO NOT because while Grumpy McGrumpypants may have me wide awake at 3africkinm, I cannot begin to tell you how much I love this little dude. In fact, I can't tell you because each time I try to ennunciate these overwhelming feelings, I collapse into a pile of gooey loved up emotional tears.

Apropos to nothing, hissy radio station is playing the Captain and Tennillle. Man, I haven't heard that in a bazillion years. Almost makes being awake at this hour worth it. Almost.

Here, have some cute. Then I'm going to bed.

dear son, be thankful it's just a picture of you wearing your dork hat on the internet, and not that one of your boybits flailing in the wind.

and he just woke up again.

God.

and I bet he's peed in my bed again too.

It's now 3.46 in the freakin am because those quick images I planned on posting, took a fuckload longer to post because my brain, she is high on prolactin. Or something. Also, photoshop crashed. Argh.