Seems like all I have these days. Little scraps of twenty minutes, one handed, half my attention… far less than half my brain cells. I read somewhere that carrying a major sleep deficit works on your brain exactly like being drunk 24/7.
I totally believe it. And I will not hesitate to use the excuse should I ever be confronted about my Facebook-induced rages, closet sailor-speak, quick-change mood artist abilities, and occasional amnesia (this last one isn’t entirely bad, since I tend to forget things I said I would do/meant do to/probably should have done. Bathe the baby? Ha. There have only been a few times it’s backfired on us—like the night we administered a dose of baby ibuprofen and promptly lost the dropper. Carl says he never had it. I know I never took it out of the room, but we’ve searched the entire house and God only knows where it went).
On the bright side, at least we know what kind of drunk I would be. I’m apparently the Glenn-Close-marathoning, take-my-frosting-neat kind. (Is that a kind? Should be).
And I meant to post about Iris’s baby book.
Whatever. Her cuteness has been established. I’m off to make another batch of buttercream.