Well, it’s Monday, dear friends. And here I am at work. Lyla is with my mom, taking leisurely stroller naps and NOT MISSING ME AT ALL. Why is that, I wonder? I miss her. It’s odd to think that I alone fed and carried her for 9 months, and then spent the next 4 ½ months changing, feeding, comforting, and playing with her, and now she is doing just fine with out me. What the hell? She lights up when Curt walks in the door, instantly morphing into Lyla, the Miraculous 13 Pound Jumping Bean, eager to show him all the new tricks she learned while he was away. When I walk in the door, she just looks behind me to see if I let the dogs in for her to play with. Am I really so insignificant? Oh well. At least I can admire her little Yoda ears from all angles while she is trying to look at anything but me.

We’ve started the “quarantine countdown” with the understanding that her surgery will be sometime in the next month. When we realized that last night was our last night out, we immediately looked at each other with panic in our eyes. “What will we do while stuck at home all night? Who will entertain us?” Lyla laid all our fears to rest like the good baby she is, letting out the loudest, most ladylike fart you’ve ever heard. “Well done, daughter” I said with pride. It then occurred to me that she had probably blown out yet another diaper, thus ruining yet another outfit. This girl can POOP. I think she stores it up, letting it loose at only the most opportune moments. Like when I had just finished painting my nails for the first time in, um, forever. Or when I had just finished drying her off and combing her hair into a cute little Mohawk. My favorite was when I had just showered for the first time in days, and was promptly sprayed with a fine mist of digested, compacted formula. An amazing elixir for the skin!