I just removed Diana's calculator from her desk (the umbilical chord is gone, I have no idea where she hid it, maybe in one of my socks). Let's see...Eli has been alive for 30 days. He eats every two hours, so that's roughly 360 times (or 720 boobs). Feeding him takes about 40 minutes. So...carry the 3...Diana has spent a billion and a half minutes feeding poor little Eli. And let me tell you, she's done it without once complaining. Middle of the night, middle of the day, middle of the mid morning. So let's hear it for mom. I'm not even going to get into the diapers.
I don't know if you could tell, but last week I was going on about 3 hours of sleep a night and spending 10 hours a day listening to idiots ask me way too personal questions. Really, does a creative director really need intimate details about my wife's breasts? My favorite question: "Did she poop on the delivery table?" Said person was very lucky I was too tired to throttle them. This, coupled with the fact that Elijah decided Friday was going to be the day he threw a 12 hour fit, had me running in the red most of the weekend. So, last night I felt that a great way to release all of this tension was to chuck Eli's empty bottle across the house. More of a Boone Logan curve ball than a Bobby Jenks fastball. But the minute it left my hand I realized I had made a giant mistake. Of which I have apologized profusely. Thankfully, Diana is a forgiving woman and all was forgotten when she saw the kick ass Mother's Day presents I had waiting for her this morning.
p.s. Eli took a shot at me this morning when Diana and I were giving him a bath. He missed me with his pee sniper fire by mere inches. Nice try, son.
p.s.s. My mother, former second grade teacher, called me last night to point out my spelling mistakes. Hopefully, they're fixed now.
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