This has been one of those weeks. I feel like I need a sign to hang on our front door that reads “Welcome to Crazy Town,” just to give fair warning to anyone who drops […]
This has been one of those weeks. I feel like I need a sign to hang on our front door that reads “Welcome to Crazy Town,” just to give fair warning to anyone who drops by. (And maybe, if I were lucky, it’d scare away a solicitor or two.)
Part of the pandemonium is unrelated to Bea. We’re prepping for another long, multi-state holiday road trip, which means days of dragging out suitcases, dusting off Bea’s travel gear and sorting through loads of laundry. And in the midst of this compulsive race to get everything done, Andy and I decided to set up all of our Christmas decorations, so we could come home from Thanksgiving to a fully, festivized house.
Unfortunately, our pup Georgia had a little (unrelated) accident during all of the hustle and bustle. It’s a gross story that involves sticker burrs and lots of stitches, which I won’t share here, but the result was our girl having to wear the “cone of shame” for a few days. Sadly, this isn’t her first experience with the cone, and she’s learned how to use it as a battering ram to assault anything standing in her way—legs, floor lamps, Christmas trees—you name it, and it can be bowled over by our disgruntled pooch.
To add to the insanity, we’re all running on a little less sleep than usual. That’s in part because Bea is teething, and also because she’s gotten extra wiggly and enjoys bebopping around her crib all night long. It’s a party she loves inviting us to—over and over again—throughout the wee hours of the morning. Particularly on Saturdays and Sundays.
With emotions running high, half of our attic strewn about the living room in an explosion of glitter and gear, and Georgia wielding her cone as a weapon, Bea decided it was the perfect time to start crawling. (And, by the way, “crawling” is a very elegant word for the desperate, not-so-pretty form of locomotion she’s concocted, which is more of a worm/army crawl/face plant /scoot process.) I’m pretty sure she realized this place is one candy cane shy of a Rudolph-themed nut house and was plotting her escape. Or, more likely, she wanted to join in on the fun.
Unfortunately, the “fun” is happening in the most un-babyproofed places possible. Although we’re very thankful that Georgia didn’t take her cone-induced angst out on Bea (in fact, they were extra snuggly during her recovery), our hose is a war zone of ornament hooks, extension cords and luggage blockades.
So, we did what any self-respecting, responsibility-dodging parents would do, and we left. We dropped the Santa mugs and garland where we stood, left Georgia to a little peace and quiet, and decided to show Bea what a real zoo looked like.
Bea’s first trip to the zoo was a great way to celebrate her first tooth and first crawl—and our first time out of the house in a couple days. At least Andy and I thought so. I’m pretty sure Bea was more fascinated by the giraffes on her stroller blanket than the real one that was close enough to lick her ear, but she enjoyed cruising around in the sunshine regardless. It really was a perfect day to cap off a not-so-perfect week, and it gave us the break we needed to come home and tackle the tinsel (and babyproofing) with the dedication it deserved.
Now, Georgia is coneless and Bea has a clear path through the living room for her crawling enjoyment. Hopefully, they’ll use their newfound freedom to work off some energy before we’re crammed in the car for 12 hours. Although I have a feeling that will be more of a zoo than we bargained for!