Rachel asked me earlier today if I would take Emily Grace's 12:00 midnight feeding (which is not always right at 12:00, of course). I said, "Sure, no problem."
It began at 10:32 PM. Rachel brought her to me. I check for wet and messy, all clear. I get her bottle ready, she eats two ounces, and out of the clear blue comes the loudest explosion of gas I have ever heard a small mammal create. I immediately thought of calling 911 because surely my sweet and innocent butterfly didn't make that kind of noise. I mean, the sound was akin to the wood breaking on my door frame upon forced entry.
I then realized she erupted a massive gas pocket much like BP's ill-fated Deep Horizon oil well. Was she ok? Did she have a butt left? Was it a matter of national security to have so much power packaged in a small body?
I checked the diaper again, and the 2 ounces of white formula had somehow morphed into baby poopies. I will never look at guacamole the same way again.
Anyway, I change her, and she makes not a peep (this is unusual for her). I get her dressed, and she then decides to wake up. I don't mean just open her eyes, I mean she is UP. She is kicking in a way that would make a 1985 aerobicized Jane Fonda proud. She squirms, grunts, coos, and jazzercizes for nearly an hour. Then she gets cranky, and I fix a new bottle. She goes to sleep, and then I wake her up transporting her to her crib.
1 more ounce later, with the help of the glider rocker, she is asleep.
It is now 12:15.
Thank You Lord for making me a night owl.
And thank You for Emily Grace.
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