sleep

When going through our most recent photos, I couldn't help noticing a theme.





We're all really tired, apparently.

I busted out some of the six month toys he received in the baby showers or shortly after he was born. He's completely surrounded in colorful plastic. He's adding more playfulness to his all-I-want-is-for-it-to-fit-in-my-mouth phase, so things are going to keep getting more fun.

He's reached every milestone there seems to be for a five-month-old. I read that six-month-old milestones include sleeping less -- taking a few naps in a day, totaling three or four hours of sleep.

Our morning routine has been off this week and I can't help panicking that it isn't going to work anymore. If he isn't going to sleep in the morning when I leave for work, then he's going to have to scream to get the attention he wants, as he did today. And Andy is not going to sleep.

It isn't Fletcher's fault or anyone else's that we need to work. I have to remind myself of that in the morning when I turn away from his smiling, eager face and leave him.

Recent videos:

Things could be worse. I could be Lloyd Christmas.

To the fates who get their jollies by conspiring against me:

Are we having fun now? Is this what you wanted?

You cracked my windshield at a cost of almost $300. Because, you know, it's glass. It's not like you can just make glass from sand. It's not like auto insurance should pay for auto damage. Er.

You apparently rotted my (and my husband's) teeth at a forthcoming cost of almost $300. Because, you know, by having perfect teeth for 28 years I was just begging for you to intervene.

You sent Fletcher to a specialty doctor – whose super helpful advice brought the red, bumpy lesions back to his skin tenfold – at a cost of almost $400. Because, you know, why would we want to continue our original method, which was working? No, let's get yet another prescription, watch Fletcher turn into a lobster boy, and then pay out the nose for it. When are doctors going to be like everyone else – NOT getting paid hundreds of dollars when their 10-minute diagnosis doesn't work? Where's the refund policy?

Plus, it's not like insurance should be covering this. I mean, it's not like it's a health problem. Fletcher's probably just messing with us.

Fates, I can see how this is hilarious from your lofty distance. I can also see how this post could be construed as a request for even more ridiculously expensive surprises. I am tempted to dare you. But I'll probably just shake my fist at the sky and walk away slump-shouldered and empty-pocketed.

Screw it. I TRIPLE DOG DARE YOU, FATES. Because, you know, eventually you're going to get bored with me. And think how exciting life will be in the meantime. Maybe tomorrow I'll be robbed by a sweet old lady on a motorized cart. I didn't even see it coming...

I don't pull my hand out of the alligator's mouth until I get bit.

I'm scared of the Internet.

There's been a big twitter/blogosphere explosion today, in the circle I follow anyway, regarding online plagiarism. I won't attempt to recap. This story won't be the last of its kind and, as links to links to more links show, it isn't the first.

I got sucked in and disappeared into the mists of the linky web, lost in the horror stories about stolen words, stolen heartache, stolen photos, stolen lives.

From the first moment I used my name, my husband's name, and worst of all my baby's name in this little corner of the Internet, I've been terrified of everything I've willingly offered up to whoever wants it. All of my family's private photos and personal information is gathered here in one accessible, searchable place.

I'm not worried about being plagiarized. But I'm terrified of identity theft. So why am I doing this? It isn't because I'm naive. I'm not brave. I'm not even rebellious.

I drive as fast as I can get away with. I procrastinate until I can't anymore. I have a nasty habit of assuming bad things on the news won't happen to me.

I don't pull my hand out of the alligator's mouth until I get bit. Then I'm careful, cautious, smart until the statute of limitations on my memory is reached.

But I can't delude myself on this one. My baby's safety is potentially on the line, and I continue to balance on the edge of action. Do I stop everything? Change everything, though information is forever available to someone with enough time and energy?

YouTube. Facebook. Twitter. Blogger. The office website. Old school websites. Bylines and news clips. CCAP. Our lives, up for the taking.