Noah's arc

If this was a real job, I'd call baby and say,

"Hey, baby, how are you? How was your night? Are you still rolling over a gazillion times and waking up crying, freaking out?... Oh, ok... Well, mommy, can't come to work today. She is sick and very tired. As a matter of fact, she is worried she may sneeze on you and get you sick. Why dont you feed yourself, bathe yourself, and play with your toys in your crib all day? Momma is calling in sick today."

Except this is not a real job, so as I lay on the floor and baby sits by my head and slaps my face for the fun of it while screaming happy screams, I wish someone would just shoot me. On the face.

I put on a Brazilian children's record (that's now a cd), called "Noah's Arc" and sing quietly to the songs of my childhood, going to my mental happy place, where the rivers are made of chocolate.

Baby thinks that the duck quacking from the duck song is the most hilarious thing and giggles at the stereo, as if it's a person singing to him.

The music gets calmer, though, and he slowly settles on the pillow next to mine and together we just look at the ceiling, enjoying the song.

I've never seen baby this calm and I conclude that Noah's arc is the solution to all my problems. That is, until the cats get in the arc. Those damn cats.

Atchoo.