One more

Lil s spent the night sleeping peacefully between her two parents in bed, as the whole transition to flat surfaces thing didn't go well. It's safe to assume that her refusal to sleep on a flat surface has something to do with her rejection of the pre-Columbus flat world view. Thankfully s was sleeping peacefully because I spent the whole night in an abject fear that I was going to roll over on that tiny little person.

I'm not quite sure how people do co-sleeping successfully. It's just nearly impossible to fall into a truly deep sleep when you know that moving around in bed could possibly smash your little newborn.

Let's see what Robert Musil is on about:

"Only in the most unusual cases is it useful to determine whether a book is good or bad; for it is just as rare for it to be one or the other. It is usually both."

Did anyone ever watch that show Lost? Why was one of the characters named Lapidus? Who's brilliant idea was that?




Tonight we had our second dancing lesson with lil s. We've heard from other parents/books that it's a good idea to develop a ritual for putting your baby to bed. Thus, I've decided that our ritual will be dancing with her to hip hop songs until she spits up some breast milk. I'm sure to a lot of people that sounds crazy, but I'm just going to ask everyone in this ever more tolerant age to respect our family tradition of riling up and jostling our baby before we insist on her sleeping for seven hours. I don't think that's too much to ask. But seriously, tonight we got S to dance as well and lil s had a big grin on her face the whole time, which essentially proves that babies are really amused by slapstick types of comedy and crazy facial expressions. Lil s, Jay Sean.



I can't control what lil s likes to dance to. I can control whether I let her watch the back up dancers in the video. I've got better things planned for you s). Listen, I'd love it if it was a bevy of classical hits, but, like her father, classical music just makes her angry/puts her to sleep. It's hard to know which way she'll go when we put her in her swing. She tends to look angrily over her left shoulder at the piece of plastic that controls the music. I secretly suspect that when she finally discovers how to reach out and grab things that she's going to throttle that piece of plastic. I imagine she harbors some deep feelings of resentment against the thing, and perhaps blames it for her incarceration in the swing. s, it certainly isn't your loving parents.

I'm going to blame that piece of plastic for all sorts of things until she gets old enough to realize that her daddy is a bit of a fibber. I'll use words like fib instead of lie because I'm a dad.

Let's see what Robert Musil is up to:

…. by the time they have reached the middle of their life’s journey, few people remember how they have managed to arrive at themselves, at their amusements, their point of view, their wife, character, occupation and successes, but they cannot help feeling that not much is likely to change anymore. It might even be asserted that they have been cheated, for one can nowhere discover any sufficient reason for everything’s coming about as it has. It might just have well as turned out differently. The events of people’s lives have, after all, only to the last degree originated in them, having generally depended on all sorts of circumstances such as the moods, the life or death of quite different people, and have, as it were, only at the given point of time come hurrying towards them"

Oh, Robert. I'm going to go hold a baby.