I was a single mother on Saturday. And the reasons for this are entirely unfair.
I love backpacking. I grew up backpacking. I introduced Dave to backpacking, and he loved it. We introduced Toaster and RockNoodle to backpacking, and they loved it. And guess who all went backpacking this weekend, leaving me home with the baby?
I made some plans with a friend in the city on Saturday, to Dave's relief. "Oh, good," he said. "I don't want to come home to a cranky lonely wife."
I stared at him. "Please. You are going to come home to cranky lonely wife. Go on and make your peace with that now. I'm going to be all 'hey, honey, are you tired? Sore? Too bad, take the baby.' Got it?"
As it turns out, I did not quite do that. In fact, even as I write this, they've been home for two hours and Dave still hasn't held the baby. He was too gross and potentially tick-ridden. I wouldn't let him. Which isn't to say I won't hand her off the moment he gets out of the shower.
Actually, we had a lovely day yesterday. It was warm enough that I dressed her in a dress, which was just the best thing ever. I mean, really:
I loved it, she loved it, everybody who saw her loved it. She was stunning, and she knew it.
And she was such a trooper at lunch. She sat on my lap and chatted away with us, and smiled and jumped and just had a grand old time. And it was a long lunch. I strollered us over to Central Park, and she napped and I read, and when she woke up we rolled around on the blanket, and while this was by no means the first time we've played on a blanket in a park, we were both of us just so happy and energetic and laughy and smiley. It was perfect.
Neither of us are quite so energetic today. Somebody woke up a lot last night. Really a lot. I've been up since 3:30. Dave claims he got even less sleep than me because the frogs were a-ribbiting, but I don't care. Take the baby.