Sabrina's getting stronger and more active every day, able to hold her head up for long periods of time and even to crawl a little bit. I laid her on her belly yesterday and she struggled and strove for a a couple of minutes, kicking and clawing until she had moved a whole two inches. It reminded me of those nature shows where the larval kangaroo crawls up the mommy's belly to the pouch. Beautiful but kind of heartbreaking.
She's also gotten pretty good at sneaking bodily fluids past the borders of her diaper, which invariably soak through her outfit and blanket, and whatever my wife is wearing. I don't get as much baby contact as she does, but also I think Sabrina has made a decision not to soil me if at all possible. What a little sweetheart.
Not that it would bother me terribly. Everyone told me that while any other child's excretions are crimes against decency and happiness, your own child's diaper contents are somehow magically inoffensive. They were right.
One Uncle Mikey reader, Dicky Bird from Denver, has expressed his opinion that this blog is fast becoming an unreadable embarrassment of sappy emotionalism. That is true. I am singularly unashamed of my feelings for Sabrina, and expect to be ridiculed for it. Do your worst, my daughter just smiled at me. I'm bulletproof.
And now it's doubly ridiculous, because I turn into a mushball around Christmas anyways. I have never stopped loving Christmas like I did when I was a little kid. I can't wait for Sabrina to have her first, and second, and 20th. It's going to be frickin' awesome.
Did I mention Dicky Bird is a dirty shim?
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1 comment:
Hey, I could have called you a lot worse and been accurate. Count your blessings, poopweiner.
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