Toby used to laugh and (rarely) cry in his sleep. Now he babbles. Scares the crap out of me when he shouts out of nowhere through the monitor.
Last night at 2:30 he cried in my sleep.
In other words, I just turned off the monitor like a snooze-alarm, notified the authorities that I planned to neglect him and went back to dreaming I was in Marshalls finding all sorts of shoes.
We've decided he shouldn't be up then, anyway. Physiologically he's a butterball, and could live for a week off his left cheek fat alone. He wasn't in on the decision-making and is apparently unconvinced. Sleeptard.
I still woke up feeling like I've already screwed up today, though he was happy enough. We jumped into the minivan (one more day without our car... shudder!!!! I will not go gently, Chrysler) and as I was strapping him in my heel poked a hole in the floor. Just like it did a few days ago in an entirely different part of the interior. What kind of vehicle has floors that craptastic? I may be roughly twice the woman Nicole Richie is, but still, I have my pride.
I know what you're thinking, and these weren't even my transvestite dominatrix stilettos, they were classy- as classy as I get anyway, see:
And yes, fall just got rolling and I'm already that pasty. Tragically lacking any meaningful pigmentation, I've been pasty since the seventies, people. Give it up.