ote to self: w_e_ _o_r good woode_ spoo_ is alread_ i_ t_e dis_was_er, a_d all _o_ _ave is t_e too s_ort woode_ spoo_, pa_ atte_tio_ w_ile stirri_g boili_g sa_ce, or _o_ _ig_t __st boil _o_r i_dex fi_ger.

It's a Christmas miracle. Looks like I get first class to Salt Lake City. I'm pretty sure it's a puddle jumper from there to Burbank.

I have the house TO MYSELF. This is a Christmas miracle. Mom is off visiting a friend, DH is taking K-Bug to her bf's and then he and CJ are shopping.

Me, I have one more prezzie to wrap, then into the shower before my hair appointment. I am CHOPPING it....

I'm happily set up on the plane.

ETA: Kristin will probably kill me when she finds out I got this and she is stuck on Southwest.

It's a Christmas miracle. Hec and Emmett left almost an hour ago to scour the city for Christmas trees, leaving me with a sweet and drowsy Matilda, planning to pop popcorn and wrap Emmett's (and possibly Hec's) present. Two minutes after they left, Matilda made "feed me" noises, and then when put to the breast started screaming as if the breast was a razor-edged icepick. Things that didn't help included: changing breasts, changing her diaper, walking her in the hall of magic lights, and bouncing, rocking, or singing to her. Going outside helped, so I took the boppy across the street and breastfed her in the stands at Kezar Stadium.

She's now semi-calm and nursing. She looks shattered and traumatized, but she's nursing. It's a miracle. Somebody pour me a Scotch.

I also get grumpier about flying as I get older and the more I have to do it. I find myself paying for upgrades and such when I can get them and really thinking it is money very well spent.

Direct flights are something else I try to do whenever possible.

ND is me. And Jilli. Which is quite an achievement, actually.

Dear dog, JZ. Matilda has only been here a few weeks, but she's already pretty "I Am Baby, Hear Me Roar," isn't she?

She's just... she seemed totally sincerely wounded or terrified or otherwise hideously stressed, not power-struggling. Even now, post-feed, she's wearing her Concern Face, like something awful is looming and she can't do anything to stop it.

Of course, it isn't helping that I'm still haunted by a wretched dream I had last night in which I dropped her on her head three times, leaving awful welts that looked like buttonholes and that I kept trying to hide with artful combovers of her scant hair lest CPS snatch her away.

And I should add that the giant baby meltdowns are actually less frequent than with other infants I've known, and that her baseline state is actually entrancingly contemplative, with occasional bursts of open-mouthed bliss and merrily conspiratorial grins.

(((JZ)))

(((((((Matilda)))))) <-- extra tight

I need to meet that little girl!