Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-- Dylan Thomas, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Baby C had an eventful day. Her cousin, 7 month old Baby E, came to visit from Boston this week with her parents. The babies played Tag Team Nap and were rarely awake at the same time, which made getting out of the house challenging. Getting out of the house is somewhat overrated anyway, when car seats and nursing schedules and changing toxic diapers away from home are considered. Nonetheless, Greg and I felt like slacker hosts after four days of solid sofa time, so we crammed in a quick visit to the Air and Space Museum before their flight home.
Baby C's first Smithsonian visit consisted of sleeping through one exhibit and nursing for 45 minutes in a food court next to a table of older children who were throwing ketchup. New Mommy gazed down at her sweet baby and reflected that, as exhausting as parenting an infant can be, at least they lack the motor skills to throw condiments. Later, in the gift shop, a crowd of Japanese tourists circled Baby C's stroller and snapped pictures of the cooing American baby (with Greg's permission - I was contemplating the merits of freeze-dried ice cream and was mildly horrified to hear what transpired).
At home, however, Baby C's sweet mood gave way to rebellion. Her tiny fingers are still clenched into fists, but she is quiet at last after hours of swaddling, singing, feeding and bouncing. Our ears are still ringing. I'm beginning to think that flying ketchup might not be so bad.