Since Monday, Annika's been out of her normally pleasant sorts due to the unexpected necessity of switching her to cow's milk without warning or a gradual switcheroo. I am, too. Given the fact that she spent half of last night spurning any of my attempts to comfort her, our joint sullenness makes perfect sense.
She's teething, too.
To laud John....
At 4 a.m., just before I hopped the fence separating sanity from I'm-sleep-starved-and-I'll-do-anything-to-get-some, he came out and snatched Annika from me. Within 30 minutes, he'd comforted her to sleep, bless 'is soul.
Annika's chewing on a tin of Octopus in Hot Sauce--Goya's pulpo salsa picante--a gift John intended to give to a sardine lover. (Whoever wanted to improve on the smelly sardine concept with tentacles soaked in hot sauce is a lunatic.) Millie's snoring, and I want to de-clutterfy the house while listening to Joanna Newsom (who grew on me faster than a cornstalk in Mr. McBroom's field). If Annika permits, Chris Ware's Quimby the Mouse awaits me. It promises great things with its fantastical, gold-shot cover alone. John brought other comic books home from the library, too, but I haven't delved into the canvas bag to see the offerings.
This one he left lying about, so this one I shall read first.
Pictures will appear whenever John leaves the camera home.
(Because you're all living lives of quiet desperation without current snapshots of the girls....)
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