Thursday, March 31, 2005
But first, let me just note that today has been a pretty good Celeste afternoon (and by writing that I'm surely dooming us to a bad Celeste night or at least a week of Daddy-Daughter Disaster Days). Also, note, this is not the "Feeding Celeste" entry of the poll.
I've been sleeping terribly this past week or two because of work and putting in long days at the office (yesterday was at least 14.5 hours), so it's no surprise that I jumped at the idea of a nap at Celeste's first sign of tiredness. She actually fell asleep while taking a bottle, but woke up as soon as I shifted her to the crib. For about 15 or 20 minutes she was happy babbling and playing by herself — when I went up to check on her, it looked like she'd been struck by a toynado; one blanket tossed here, another there, a bear on the opposite side of the crib from where it had been, and poor Lamba was soaked with drool.
Since she was up, and I was ready to go down myself, I took her to the big bed and suggested we be nap buddies. On Sunday, this strategy had worked, but this time she was still in play mode, although she was happy to just play there next to me. I did some fake snoring to try to encourage her to sleep; it just encouraged her to pull my beard and nose. Eventually, I woke up and found her there asleep next to me. I think we ended up falling asleep about the same time (she was on her way), but she probably had enough time to steal my credit card and buy a few things from Babies “Я” Us if only she could walk/crawl/move by herself.
After her nap, Celeste was pretty hungry: I signed EAT to her and she responded by grabbing my hand and biting. I didn't bother with any jokes about biting the hand that feeds.
So, getting to the title of this thing before moving on to “My Giant Bruise,” I'd read that babies will start to refuse food when they're full. Apparently Celeste either won't, has different clues, or is a bottomless pit. She ate two cubes of sweet potato, two cubes of peas, one cube of pear mixed with oatmeal and a little breastmilk to thin, some yoghurt, and another half-cube of straight pear. And she washed it all down with more than a few sips of diluted apple juice. And now, about an hour-and-a-half later, she's having her before-bed breastmilk. I don't know where she puts it all...
So, without further ado ...
My Giant BruiseIt probably doesn't portent great things when I have to start off this entry (part deux) by noting that I was not drunk. I'm pretty sure I hadn't had so much as a glass of wine or even some orange juice that had turned.
Ours is a finished basement, a remodeling project that seems to have been done in the early 1980s or so, complete with some fairly thick carpet in a sea-foam green hue. Said carpet extends up the stairs to the kitchen. Said stairs are on the steep side to begin with, and the thick carpeting has made the steps even narrower.
It's pretty obvious where this is going, innit?
So, Saturday night, Evelin was watching the remake of Little House of the Prairie and I headed downstairs for something — maybe it was to changeover the laundry or to get a bottle of fizzy water, I don't remember (and not because I hit my head) — when, not quite half-way down the stairs, I launch into the air.
Evelin says she heard three distinct bumps/bounces followed by me muttering a lot. Rushing to the basement (and navigating the stairs with much grace), she finds me pacing and holding my left haunch. I, with way more grump than is called for, wave her back upstairs as I continue my wounded beast impersonation. Nothing's broken, but I'm definitely sore and know there's going to be a bruise.
That night, I find it painful to lie on my left side. Evelin is impressed by how much heat the wounded area is throwing off and there is a bit of a carpet burn on the afflicted area. I am glad that I didn't have my keys in that pocket.
By Sunday morning the bruise is beginning to make itself known; it is a fairly large, purple mass, roughly oval-shaped and covering a good 28 square inches of skin. I consider naming it "Wally." By Sunday evening, it's continuing to darken and is still tender to the touch.
Tonight is Thursday, four full days since the incident, and it is still warm and painfully tender (while playing with Celeste on the floor this afternoon, I rolled the bruise over a fairly soft toy and let out a little yelp that startled Celeste ...), but things are starting to breakup. You can see the purple fading in some places and spreading in others; I imagine it will be around for a while yet. No, I will not post pictures.
And my dad fell once, and I fell once, I think.
But Carter has done this THREE times, yet still wonders why I cringe when he takes Celeste to the basement ...
© 2003–2010 T. Carter Ross