The babe is now nearly old enough to grab her first book and get down on it. At almost six months, she has outgrown her first batch of clothes, so we boxed them off to our local
When we pulled up, the kid was asleep, so Damn Wifus waited in the car with her while I trundled thirty pounds of onesie over to the freight elevator. On the third floor, some bone-shouldered Trotskyite with an ill-look was getting on as I got off. Probably just got done putting another Tsarist in a box.
He lingered in my brain, so I looked out the window overlooking the parking lot. I couldn't make out our car under the awning and so I decided to just pack the boxes into our paid closet while the creepy bastard walked past my perfectly kidnappable family.
I padlocked our storage container, went back down the freight, and exited back into the parking lot where, to my relief, the Bug was still sleeping and the wife was reading the book I recommended to her.
This non-tragic evening inspired me to note the singular loveliness of my wife, who fed, changed and put to sleep an exceptional angry muffin tonight. She's got the same glow about her when she's taking care of the bug as when she's not being abducted by madmen. I should probably stop worrying about DW. I grew up sunning at the country club pool, and she grew up in Gravesend, Brooklyn. Who ya got?
