Prams and Labradors

Yesterday I felt evil sitting in church. We went to bed around midnight after a lovely evening of DVD-watching and homemade pizza eating, but then we woke with a shock (and a headache, for me) to the little angel making noise at 6 a.m. Some people survive well with fewer than seven hours of sleep. For me, eight is a really great number. Nine is even better. The hardest part about the whole parenthood thing for me (besides the torture of leaving the little angel at Oz) has been the sleep deprivation.

For some reason, yesterday was so hard. By the time we got home from church, I was insane with fatigue. I dragged myself up to the sheetless bed (oh, and we also do about ten loads of laundry a week, too, since the little angel has a geyseresque digestive system) and passed out cold for about an hour. When I woke up, though, the sun was shining and the birdies were singing and all was right again.

We decided to go take a walk and get me some biking gloves (bicycling, not Harley). After that, we decided to get some ice cream down the street. My beloved never takes walks with me, though I constantly beg, so this was a rare treat. As we meandered down the trail, chatting with passersby and admiring Tudors, I felt so distinctly Free to Be, You and Me. This pastoral scene was exactly how I had always hoped parenthood would be, minus the Labrador. My beloved, the little angel snoozing contentedly in her stroller, a 75 degree summer's day and waffle cones. Ah, coo. It was truly disgusting how cute we were. Really.