Oh, my poor, neglected blog. I have about ten blog posts a day running through my head, but no time to sit and write them. Who knew having a baby would be so time-consuming? Add to the fact that I have been losing my battle with mastitis, a breast infection with the power to turn you into a zombie. Blogging be damned.
On a brighter note, if pacifier spitting was an Olympic sport, my son would be a gold medalist. Once, I woke to find he had spit his pacifier out and it landed perfectly between my breasts. 10.0.
I was one of those to-be parents that SWORE I would never expose my infant to television, but, as with countless other things I have SWORN, that sentiment has gone out the window. As my punishment, I now have to listen to Elmo squeal about his crayons and his goldfish every day and the most appreciated music that gets played around here during the daylight hours is performed solely by kazoo. There is something about Elmo's glass-shatteringly high pitched voice that puts Collin in a trance. It stops him mid-cry. It keeps him captivated for twenty minutes at a time. Now, that fuzzy little red puppet has taken control of our lives, the first of many children's characters to do so, I'm sure. There have been many moments where my husband and I will be having a conversation, and the baby will stir, and suddenly we're speaking in an Elmo voice. I miss my dignity.