At some point on Saturday, a mouse ran across the room. At some point on Sunday, this became an intolerable situation, and Damn Wifus and I spent the evening plugging holes in the ceiling and floor, washing surfaces, vacuuming floors, boiling some plastic toys and dropping the others in sheep dip. We got to bed early Monday morning, and came home to the news Monday night that Bug had cut her first tooth: right up front on the bottom. You can ping it with a spoon.
So we were all plenty exhausted but it was a good night when I was tieing up a pile of books to sell and Damn Wifus looked at the kid in her exersaucer and asked if she was ready to go to bed because dammit, mommy and daddy fucking were.
"Da da," said the kid.
I all but elbowed Wife out of the way and plopped Indian-style in front of her and told her to say it again. She just gave a look like she'd just laid down four of a kind and knew she didn't have to say ish.
"If you say that again you can stay up all night and eat Ben & Jerry's."
"Say da da."
She laughs and screams.
"Say da da."
She doesn't, and Damn Wifus wipes away a tear and carries her off screaming toward the nursery. She puts the kid down, turns off the light. Bug continues to lay on her side and run a tight circle and sing whoopwhoopwhoop Curly-style.
"Do you have the monitor on?" Damn Wifus asks as she emerges from the nursery to find me on the couch. I give her a spousal look because the folks out on the street can hear every half-gobbled word Bug sends bouncing across the crooked walls of our apartment. Unless we're in deep sleep, a monitor is redundant. Wife blows past me and turns on the monitor in the bedroom.
"Yes, by all means, less get this in stereo," I say to my book.
The book has no answer, but the baby lies in her crib and says, "Aaaaaaaah dah. Dah. Da da da da da da da da da da." Coming from Bug's mouth to the left of the couch and the piped in speaker on the right. Da da da da da da da.