Monastic

We introduced carrots into Iris' repertoire of foods, thereby doubling the number of things she eats, if you don't count her fingers in that list. She seemed...bemused. Definitely made a face like she was eating earwax, but every time I went for a new spoonful she dove at the thing like she'd never tasted anything so exquisite in her life. So I'm counting the experience in the plus column. I took a bunch of pictures of the carrot adventure, but I didn't post them. You'll have to trust me when I tell you that the following picture was the best of the bunch, which you'll see shortly is not saying much.

Put the camera down and make with the carrots, woman.

For the past, oh I don't know, like two or three nights in a row, we've agreed to do something as a family in the evening, then helplessly watched as Iris passed out well before dark. She's sort of reverted back to her 6:00-6:30 bedtime, only to wake up every 15-60 minutes (really) to be bounced back to sleep. I've tried to just go with it and consider her officially awake, but she always falls back into a pretty solid sleep within minutes of waking up. Just wanted to know we were still there or something, I guess. Tonight we were supposed to go out to dinner with friends, so I decided to get Iris all cleaned up and in her jammies so that we could just eat, come home, and toss the baby in bed. Nobody at Ruby Tuesday is going to complain about anyone showing up to dinner in their PJ's, especially if that person is 5 months old. Everything happened as planned as long as you leave out the eating and coming home bits, because she didn't make it more than 15 minutes past bath time before totally sacking out. So yet again, I sent Kyle on without me, instructed him not to return without something containing bacon and cheese, and went back to my trashy vampire romance novel (no, not Twilight. Way worse. Embarrassingly worse. But soooo good). Don't judge.

As I wrapped Iris up in her post-bath ducky towel tonight, I remembered being a little kid, no telling how old, and my Dad giving me a bath. I always wanted two towels, because getting out of the tub is so cold, and you need one around your body and over your head if you're doing it right. Every night as the towel went over my head, I'd be all grumped out that I had to get out of the tub and that bed time was inevitable, and probably sometime during the bath, soap had been within 50 yards of my face so clearly it got in my eyes (rolls eyes dramatically). Then Dad would say, "It's Sister Mary Megan!" You can't really argue with the fact that habits look like fancy polyester towels, and neither could my four-year-old self, so I'd always grudgingly laugh in spite of myself. If I'd been articulate in any way, I would have explained to him that he's not allowed to be funny when I'm trying so hard to stay pissed off, but he'd had a good point.

It's Sister Mary Iris, of the order of the yellow duckies.