Lyla took almost a three-hour nap yesterday in the Pack 'n Play, which we've named the Big Girl Crib. Then she slept all night in it. We might not get thrown out of our hotel room tomorrow night after all.
This morning after I made Julie her egg sandwich, she sent me to the gas station for orange juice. After chugging said juice, she vomited everything into the bathroom sink. (The toilet was eight inches away, but I know when to keep my mouth shut.) It was one of the worst days of her pregnancy. Here she is:
So she's going to lay low at home tomorrow while I take Lyla to Duluth. It's cool. I can handle it.
Shiiit.
Riding in our car: Lyla, my brother Scott, my cousin Patrick, and me. Two men in their 20s and one in his, ahem, early 30s. And a baby. If we escort Lyla into the McDonald's Playland and nobody calls the cops, I'll be amazed.
No comments:
Post a Comment