Baby is really a lovely baby in the mornings. He wakes up and kind of hangs out quietly for a while in his crib or his napper until he begins to work up to hunger and then we feed him. When we first bend down over him, he offers us the sloppy, gummy smile of someone who has, over the course of the night, forgotten we existed and is delighted -and probably relieved- to remember that we're around now that the sun is up.
This is, in fact, exactly what he's done. When we're out of the room, we're nowhere to be found in that tiny baby brain. The cat is still winning the cognition contest, paws down: Updates to follow.
So we feed him and he smiles and we change him and he smiles and then he makes small conversational noises at us for a while and then he lies quietly wherever we stash him before drifting into a salutary morning nap.
In the evening he becomes a very small Kim Jong-un, fussy to uncertain purpose, so it's nice that he uses the mornings to broker detente.
And I needed the baby loveliness this morning after being kept up between the hours of 3:30 AM and 5:30 AM, which is when my husband decided it was time to bake a cake.
That's right, people, a cake. For his office Christmas party. At 3:30 in the morning. With a newborn in the house. WHO DOES THAT?!
He eventually explained: Pre-baby, he loved to bake for people. Post-baby, with everything in life turned upside down, it became important to him to prove to himself that even though he could no longer shave or shower or speak in complete sentences, he could still bake a damn cake.
I get that. I really do.
But I also didn't get any cake.