Every day, if all goes according to schedule, the Boy is in charge of bedtime stories. I don't know when this became his exclusive responsibility - maybe it's because when we started our formal routine he was in classes 4 evenings a week and when he was home it was automatically his job. And although I sometimes assume that all parenting jobs are mine by right and his by luck, I can usually submerge the guilt for one hour a night. Maybe it's because I use this hour to beat back the constant chaos of family life. While the Boy sits and rocks and sings and reads to our baby, I'm moving ceaselessly like some kind of housekeeping shark.

Hmmm. I wonder who got the better end of the deal?

Oh well. I just have to remember not to do anything for which I expect thanks.

Blake's cold rages on. Today we bowed out of a trip to the Royal Winter Fair, mostly because I couldn't get out of bed until 11:30. For the record, Blake was only awake from 7:30 to 9:30; he spent the rest of the morning snoozing with one or both of us.

I can tell that the cold is picking up steam. Not just because the snot production seems, against all logic, to be increasing - but also because he doesn't want to be put down. Or really to stop breastfeeding for any reason. So I did the best I could to indulge him just a little bit more: all the meals were foods he loves, the only outing was an invigorating walk with the Baby Trekker to the 7-11, and I dressed him in a long-sleeved robot shirt and a pair of oversized blue furry overalls. He handled like a sad, sick little teddy bear. Poor boo.

sigh.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 11/10/2004 07:36:00 p.m.