The Case of the FLS

I mean it, as tired as I am, I'm gonna force myself to try to do some of the things I normally do (specifically, write in this blog) just to regain a smidgen of the pattern my life once had. You know, I used to be predictable. I was organized, predictable, and one to-do list short of boring. I used to wave the flag of sameness, chanting the old adage, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Different = Bad, that's all there was to it.

But, now there's Rain. Rain is all about making each day different and (*cringe*) new. So, as expected, I'm having trouble adjusting.

...

OK, so I'm having a huff n' puff because I'm sleep-deprived. I know this feeling will pass. I just get bitter about my old printed schedules with lists that I used to check off as I completed tasks (seriously)--where, oh where, have they gone? Check the diaper pail, right?

BUT, I'm gonna make my little blog entry today, even if my eyes twitch and go pink. Now, who's ready for fun, darn it?

(silence)

I know, I'm frightening you all away. Sorry, I had a pity party and had everyone come. *Deep breath* Re-focus. Remember, Self: I am not the enemy. My baby is not the enemy. My husband is not the enemy. The enemy is ...

Nature.

The Case of the Four-Legged Stranger

Our apartment has been mosquito-free for one week. I had a couple of ants try to start a hotel in my bathroom, but I quickly showed them the dangers of a porcelain swimming pool. Flush! Anyway, so the other day I was folding laundry on the couch. I accidentally dropped some items behind the couch, but I decided I'd pick them up later when I was finished folding. Of course, I fell asleep shortly after and had to be led to bed by Tim (lately, this has become routine).

The next day, I brought the laundry I had left folded on the couch into our bedroom. I laid them on the bed to sort where they should all go. I put away the stacks while I chatted with Rain about the virtues of a well-folded T-shirt. Rain was lying on our bed, and as has been the case for a week, shoving her toys--and everything else--into her mouth. Just then, I remembered the items I had dropped behind the couch. So, I went to the living room, scooped up the last of the laundry I had left behind, and tossed the missing items onto the pile.

I dumped it on our bed. The second I dropped the pile, Rain grabbed the items from the floor to shove into her mouth. Out shot a lizard.

For the love of all that's good!" I grabbed Rain, shrieked, and jumped (not in that order). I ran to the living room, sat Rain in her baby chair, and grabbed the largest vase I had. I raced back to the bed. I slammed the upside down vase onto the stack of socks I had seen the lizard run under. Ha!

With great care, I slid each sock from under the vase, hoping to have a better look at my prey. Three socks later, I still had no visual. I removed all the socks until I only had one left. How big would the lizard be? How was I going to get it out of the house once I had it locked in the vase alone? I pulled out the last sock.

Nothing. He must've high-tailed it (no pun intended) to a different hiding spot when I had left the room (didn't I tell you different = bad??). He was probably already under the bed by now. I picked up the pile of clothes to be sure he wasn't in there.

He sprang out, of course. He scurried to the edge of the bed and fell off. I--with unusual precision--jumped to the side and trapped him under the vase. Woo-hoo! "We don't allow mosquitoes in this apartment, and we don't take lizards, either (even if you do resemble the GEICO guy)!"

I proudly told Rain of Mommy's conquest. I even told her, for good sportsmanship, I'd release the little guy back into the wild (well, my front porch, anyway).

I was true to my word. I took my little MVP (Most Vased Possession) outside and gently warned him that another infraction, namely breaking and entering, would cost him his life. A good deal, all in all.

That night, I told Tim about my newest run-in with Nature. Tim likes to photograph anything that we find in our apartment, so I'm sure he was sorrowful I hadn't kept him for a few extra hours (though more than a few bugs have died while Tim took his time snapping photos).

A few minutes later, guess who I spotted crawling on the wall by the front door?

"I can't believe it!" I said. "I warned him already!" I told Tim to hurry and get him before he got away. If I had the time, I'd go into the fiasco that happened afterwards, but let me just sum it up this way: at one point, I let out a deep sigh as Tim, holding an empty vase, said, "Well, maybe he'll eat the mosquitoes."

As we speak, I'm sure the lizard is sitting on the couch with Tim, watching CSI. Maybe I can train him to find the remote ...

M.I.A.

Ever feel like you've been M.I.A. from your own life? My sleep cycle has been totally hijacked by Rain's nightly teething wake-ups (no, I'm not blaming her--it's not her fault she's growing teeth, right?), and I'm behind on everything. Everything. Last night I fell asleep (didn't know this was possible) pumping milk. Today, however, I'm taking back what bits of me are left. More on that in a minute.

Surviving

We are nearing the end of week 2 of Rain's teething bout. Notice Rain isn't done teething, this is just the 2nd week of her night wailing about it. She's been waking up at 2, 3, and 5 in the morning crying over her sore gums, and last night, well, last night was hard.

Rain started crying at 12:30. She cried until 1:30. She got up at again at 2:30. I carried her, sat with her in the rocking chair, and finally had to put her in her swing so she would fall asleep. She slept until 4:30 and started crying again. She went to sleep and was up at 5:30 looking for a meal. Same thing at 7:30.

Worse? Rain reached a milestone last night. She can flip on to her tummy. Problem: she hates being on her tummy. So once she figured out how to do something last night, she kept doing it, then crying once it was done. I could hear her muffled screams all night. With dry eyes, I'd stumble out of bed mumbling, "No SIDS ... no SIDS ..."

It was the kind of night that makes me think one kid is all two people should be legally able to have.

It'll Pass

On and off for a month, Rain has been teething. This week, she's cried about it every day. When she cries over her teeth, it's different from her other cries. She shoves her fingers in her mouth, muffling her screams. Tears fall and she grabs her foot to squeeze for comfort.

You might think because Rain cries all the time that I would be able to dismiss her teething cries like I do her other cries (ex: "I know you're mad and crying right now, Missy, but believe me, you don't want me to leave this stuff in your diaper.") But there's something about her pain cry ... She moans like, "It hurts, it hurts ..." She has pain, but she doesn't know why. Tim's mother told him the other day that all of his teeth came in about the same time, and from Rain's swollen gums, I think that may be the case with her.

So there she is, drooling and whimpering, and I'm spreading Baby Orajel over her gums, ignoring the "consult your doctor if infant is less than 4 months old" label. Don't shudder; when you're a parent, you'll learn to ignore most things & do what you think is best.

When the Orajel fades, if she's still crying, I do what I suppose all moms do when their kids gets teased at school, when they break bones on the playground despite the mile-high pile of woodchips, and when their hearts get broken: I hold her, rock side-to-side, and tell her, "It'll pass."

Pictured: Rain after a teething bout, comforted by Mr. Froggy, her pacifier, and her favorite blanket.

Could It Be?

I've been on the outs lately because of the whole working out thing. After I hurt my toe, I was, admittedly, a bit discouraged. I tried to run on it last week, but the minute my foot started swelling up in my shoe (as happens when I run), my toes squashed together. It wasn't long before I was hobbling, so I had to stop. I've started cycling to get my cardio in, but, well ... well ... fine, here it is! Only the lil' old ladies at the gym are on the cycles! It's not like riding a real bike or something cool like dirt biking. The stationary cycle is kind of lame, and labeling my hum-drum cycling "Alpine Pass" and "Random Hills" isn't helping. Don't get me wrong, with the right settings, the stationary bike is tough. BUT. The bikes are right in front of the indoor track (in the middle, in fact). When runners go by, I feel like whimpering, "Wait for me! If I could only catch up. Darn these hamster wheels!"

Anyway, like I said, I've been on the outs. Instead of cardio, I've been focusing on weights. It's the first time I've ever had a real weightlifting program to follow, so that's cool. Anyway, every so often I tell Tim stuff like, "Someday I'm going to have an ab; wait and see!" or "Look! If you stare real hard right here--no, not there, here--and if I turn at this angle, you can almost see a muscle growing when I flex!" When I feel bold I say, "Do you think I should buy a safe? You know, for when I get my GUNS!" But, alas, my words have been mere words.

Until today. I was about to tease myself about my arms again after this morning's workout, when I spotted it. Without flexing, I have an indent in my arm! A muscle, a real muscle, is starting to grow in the middle of my arm. Sure she's scrawny and in the wrong lighting you can't see her, but she's mine! Come to me, My Precious!

The Trash

I'm not the kind of gal to peruse someone else's medicine cabinet or trash bin. I'm not hating on those of you who do (come on, 'fess up), I'm just saying I don't. When I'm using someone else's bathroom, I'm thinking things like, "Hope the toilet seat's clean" and "I wonder if the hand soap smells like apples ..." It never occurs to me to scan the medicine cabinet to assure myself I haven't befriended a psychopath.

Well, yesterday I decided to kill two birds with one stone. I planned to take Rain for a walk (she was teething and grumpy) and get rid of the foul kitchen trash bag Tim had forgotten to take out that morning (no Good Husband Award for you, Honey!). I put Rain in her carrier and heaved the bag to the door. The stench trailed through the apartment, and I was reminded on my way out to take the bathroom trash as well. So, with one large trash bag and one small trash bag in one hand, my keys in the other, and Rain hanging from my chest, we set off.

A minute later, we arrived at the apartment garbage collector. I flung my stuff inside. That's weird, I thought. The small trash bag felt so light when I tossed it. I checked the ground, but I hadn't spilled anything. Well, whatever, so I headed on to the apartment office to get our mail.

Rain and I enjoyed are walk, and she didn't cry once. I headed home with a happy baby and the mail in my hand. When I reached the pathway leading to our apartment, I saw it. A heap of trash sat in the middle of the sidewalk. Was I mad I had made a mess? Nope. I was embarrassed. I stared at the trash for a moment and thought, "What have I become?!?"

There was absolutely nothing strange, fashionable, or even questionable in my trash. There was floss, breast pads, Q-tips, and a wet diaper, for crying out loud! Where were my People magazines I used to casually read? Where were the containers of used lipstick that had to be discarded to make room for my new shade? Where were the empty bottles of high-end hair conditioners? Shouldn't there be a skin-care catalog in here somewhere?

There was something distressing about what was missing from my trash and what had been added. I promptly knelt down and grabbed as much of it as I could. As I was doing my best to gather it with one hand (had my keys in the other), a college-aged kid came bounding down the stairs in front of me. Her hair was dyed three different colors, she had a ring in her nose, army pants--the whole bit. She passed me without a word but an expression like "Ew, trash." I just gave a sheepish smile and scooped up the last breast pad.

Oh well. I told Rain, "Mommy's just realizing again she's a mommy. No big deal; just being silly. Now let's go throw away this trash ... in the trash ... again."

Part 3: The Rainbow

I read a truism the other day about parenting: there's no learning curve. Just when you've mastered one skill and are eager to do a happy dance, your baby's moved on to another stage. And the next kid will probably be so different from the first, many of the techniques you've mastered now won't amount to, as they say, a "hill of beans."

So, there I was on our road trip, practically juggling bananas to keep Rain from having a meltdown. I'm singing to her from the driver's seat, promising her a 100 times, "We're almost there." The first night I was in town, I had a friend stay over my hotel room. Another night, I shared a large room with my brother's family in a different hotel (we stayed in a room by ourselves the last 2 nights). Each time I did whatever it took for Rain to stay quiet. I pulled out all my tricks--singing, making funny faces/weird noises, short walks, constant feedings (a bad habit to start, by the way)--to keep her happy.

Eventually, none of them worked. The truth was, Rain probably wanted to go back to routine at night: bath time with daddy, cuddles with daddy or mommy, down a bottle, and into the crib. She's all about consistency, but Life can be unpredictable, and that's where the trouble is. I guess what I'm saying is, there were points on the trip, at the height of frustration, where I felt like telling Rain, "Why can't you be like other babies? Try taking long naps, being somewhat amused in your crib, and ignoring a dirty diaper every once in a while!" She's just so not ... flexible. Uncomfortably like me, I suppose.

And then, as is often the case in my short tenure as a parent, when all seemed dark and hopeless, there a rainbow appeared. We decided to visit an aquarium on a whim. As we passed tank after tank of sea life that were--as Grandma put it--painted with God's brush, Rain was captivated. She stared with her trademark furrowed brow, and if she'd had a notebook, might've taken notes as well. She was happy. Her buzzing brain finally had something new to hum about. I made sure to stay longest at the tanks she seemed most interested in, and together we toured the whole place. We were doing something together. It wasn't me doing something to entertain her or busying her with one hand while I got errands done with the other; we were doing something together. I talked to her about the eels, seahorses, and turtles see was seeing for the first time (and the sting ray--debarbed, of course--I touched for the first time), and she just looked on with eyes wide.

My baby may not be easy, but she's mine.

Rain respected my epiphany and kindly withheld dirty diapers until the end of the tour.

Part 2: The Rowdy

I've been pretty blunt 'bout my baby's personality. She looks like my husband (serious face and all), but she acts like me (*sigh*). Most parents tell me I should be thankful that Rain isn't mobile yet; once she starts crawling, they say, I'll wish she was still a cute lump lying in her crib. Maybe. I've often wished Rain could crawl, so she can finally entertain herself. She's never been the kind of baby that can be left in the crib for fifteen minutes while I finished up dishes. She always, always wants to be doing something, or more accurately, she wants to be a part of whatever I'm doing.

I completely understand her frustration, because I can't stand to sit still either. I like to do 2 or 3 things at a time, or 1 thing for 15 minutes. The idea of sitting around waiting for someone to pick me up to go anywhere I want to--bleh. This is why I sympathize with her, and I try to give her plenty to see when she's awake. We have fun playing together, and even when she's fighting sleep and screeching in protest, I don't mind so much. She trusts me, and we've just gotten used to each other. We accept each other's cranky moments for what they are: fleeting. That's why I don't cringe like I used to when she cries, because I know it's only temporary. It hardly bothers me at all ... until.

Until, that is, I'm around someone who has never (or not recently) spent a great deal of time around an infant. Parents out there, go ahead and nod: haven't you ever felt embarrassed by the sudden reminder that your child's screaming, for instance, is actually jarring? Sure, you've gotten used to it and hardly notice, but others? When I'm with my husband, it's no big deal if Rain cries for fifteen minutes while she tries to figure out how to fall asleep. Tim will walk to Rain's crib, give her a pacifier, rub her tummy, walk out, and continue working at his computer--all while Rain hollers. In a few minutes, she's asleep. But if someone was visiting us at the time? Now it's an issue. The focus becomes, "How can we get her to quiet down the fastest without bothering anybody?" That's when stress kicks in. I wish I could just say, "Hey, the kid's crying, and that's all there is to it. We promise she will stop ... eventually."

So on our road trip, I decided to visit my cousin who works at a large art museum. Can't you just see how this went awry? Anyway, Rain was very much cranky from having to sit in her car seat while I drove to the airport to pick up Tim (he had flown directly from California). Worse, we got lost downtown at the height of traffic. We arrived at the museum late (it would close in half an hour) with Rain hungry & cranky. I try to schedule outings after her feedings, but alas, getting lost tossed aside my chance to feed her.

Ten minutes into the museum tour guided by my cousin, Rain began to cry. I immediately took her to the bathroom to change her, and we continued on our tour. Five minutes later, Rain is crying. She's hungry. I try to offer her a pacifier, which she promptly rejected. My cousin is single, and I hoped Rain's fussiness wouldn't prohibit him from ever having children.

Rain cried louder. The museum was empty. EMPTY. They were preparing for a special event, so the museum was empty. Rain's cries reverberated off of every stark white wall, painting, and African mask. The sound is ten times louder to the parent of the screaming child, let me tell you.

What else could I do but stop and feed her? I felt awful. Being late and arriving with an angry baby? Yeah, I've had better dates. But, that's the thing. There's not much a new parent can do. My job is to meet my baby's demands for food and clean diapers the second she wants them. If I don't, uglier things will follow. I actually had an elderly woman say to me while Rain was crying for a clean diaper pronto, "Well, she's probably spoiled." Yeah, I thought, if only I had taught Rain to behave better when she was younger. Please!

So, to the childless: please have mercy on those with crying infants; they are probably just as exasperated as you. Now, if the child is 3 years old and throwing cereal boxes around at the grocery store? Feel free to click your tongue and roll your eyes.

Insult to Injury, and Vice Versa

I'll recount more of our road trip shortly, but this has to be said: me & the mosquitoes are about to have a throw-down in my home. The gloves are off, no mercy will be shown, and I'm tossing out our green, nature-friendly pesticides--where are the toxins?

Last night, I came home half an hour after Tim & Rain. I didn't have my keys (had left them in the diaper bag). I waited a few minutes for Tim to open the door (he was trying to soothe Rain), which was long enough for the bloodsuckers to pinpoint me. I hadn't seen one in a week or two, so I'm ashamed to say, I let my guard down. As I walked through the doorway, one strolled in next to me with a DVD he had rented (they're practically moving in!).

I tried to swat him down, but nay, 'twas a lost cause. For five minutes, I searched for him in the living room but eventually had to stop to feed Rain. So, I sat in bed with my fly swatter (again) and flashlight (again), and I nursed Rain. As the minutes passed, I tried to stay awake. I put my head on a pillow and covered us with a blanket to our waists. Rain continued to nurse, completely unaware of the military patrol I was conducting. The silence overcame me, and I must've closed my eyes for a minute.

I awoke two minutes later with an itch.

The mosquito had bitten me ... on my breast.

Did you feel the earth trembling? Did you see the sea churning? I was MAD. I checked the room again, shut the door, and assured Rain that the bug was as good as dead.

I didn't hear or see it all night. After I got back from the gym this morning, I asked my lieutenant if he had seen the mosquito while I was gone.

"Um," Tim said. "I killed a bug that was flying in front of me on my way to the bathroom. I think it was a fly ... It could've been a mosquito. I'm not sure. I didn't have my glasses on."

Not good enough, Soldier, not good enough.

Part 1: The Ride

We (my parents, my brother's family, and my family) had planned a short road trip to visit family and friends a few hours away. We planned it months ago. I should've known the plan was doomed when (a) my mom's company unexpectedly put a moratorium on all vacation time for the next two months, (2) my dad injured his foot weeks before and dashed all chances of taking vacation days, and (3) Tim had to take a trip to California the same week for work. I had wanted to see two good friends and most of my family in the area, but I chopped my plan in half when I realized I'd have to drive by myself, with Rain, of course. We decided my brother, his family (including their 4-month-old daughter), and my grandma would drive in one car, and Rain & me would follow in the other.

Let me go ahead and break it down for those of you who have never travelled with an infant under 4 months of age:
1. Don't.
2. If you must, realize that you will end up packing approximately two tons of kid gear, and at some point in the trip, you'll still say, "How could I forget her ___? Of course she'll need her ____! Dummy, dummy, dummy!" Memo to me: How many times will I forget to pack dishwashing soap? Bottles don't get cleaned on their own, honey. Was this not the second time I've had to rummage the hallways at 3 a.m. hoping the poor desk clerk will let me in the kitchen for some soap? Ay!
3. If you still insist on traveling, do NOT go it alone. On a normally 4-hour trip, our caravan stopped every 30-45 minutes. Rain ran through her bottles quick-like and insisted that I change her diaper every hour (why this surprised me when she does the exact same thing at home, I don't know). She cried from boredom, teething, gas, and the lack of kites in the air--just about everything, it seemed. My sister-in-law was kind enough to ride in the back with Rain for a while to keep her entertained (notice: she had to leave her own peaceful 4-month-old to do this). If I had to drive all by myself, who knows how many more times I would've had to pull over?

Once we got into the city, traffic was hideous. We hit it at rush hour (again, this was not part of the plan), and by then my brother had veered off on another road to stay the night with his in-laws. Rain & I inched along the highway--exactly 2o minutes from our hotel--while she wailed over the infliction of another dirty diaper. Tim asked me a few weeks ago, "How long do you think Rain would cry non-stop over a dirty diaper?"

Answer: 20 minutes.

The second I turned the ignition off in the hotel parking lot, Rain fell silent. I gripped the steering wheel, bowed my head, and said a catchphrase Tim & I began a while back:

"That's messed up, Rain."


PS- As much as it pains me to admit it, I can't blame Rain for whining. Who wants to sit in a car seat (sweat included) seeing the same scenery for 5-6 hours? Yeah, me neither.

Road Tripping

Sunday evening we got back from our first road trip with Rain. The experience will now be related in three parts: The Ride, The Rowdy, & The Rainbow.

You Are So Beautiful to (Only?) Me

Before I was pregnant, I had a Simon Cowell-type reaction to most babies:

"No, darling, you're much too chubby. Bulging thighs? Won't do."

"Elf ears--seriously? Does Santa know you've escaped the workshop?"

"You're simply too skinny. I just can't see you on a Gerber jar."

"Pink is not the new tan. Please, please do away with the strawberry complexion."

You get the idea. I found most babies just as cute as their normal-sized counterparts. Some were cute, some weren't. I never was a I-Just-Love-Babies-Can-I-Hold-Yours sort of girl. I concluded that if I had a baby, I would (a) think he/she was adorable, because I was biased, or (b) know that my child was not a looker and feel terrible for knowing it. Really, what kind of mom says, "Wow, if I'd known she'd look like this, I'd have left her inside"? All moms are supposed to think their children are beautiful. I decided early on that my own habit of self-criticism would most likely affect the view of my children. I would be unable to find them cute because I tend to be harsh towards myself. If my kids had sweet faces, would I even know? More important, could I fake it if they didn't?

These thoughts I filed under "More Reasons I Shouldn't Have Kids." In my mind, motherhood requires a mix of Mother Goose, Maria (a la Sound of Music), and Mother Teresa--with a pinch of Mary Poppins. You can't be critical about appearances and be a mama, I thought.

Then, Rain was born. Babies are all scary looking when they are born, that's all there is to it. If you think differently, you haven't witnessed a delivery. Trust me, all newborns look like they're not quite "done" yet, if you know what I mean.

Days went by. Weeks and now months have followed. The other day, I was nursing Rain while reading a story on the Web. I became distracted and lost track of time. I assumed Rain had fallen asleep, because I no longer felt her nursing. When I looked down at her, her brown eyes were large and bright. She was smiling, waiting for me to notice.

Then I figured it out. She was beautiful. Really, really, beautiful. And, I didn't even care if anyone but me & Tim thought so.

Rose-tinted glasses must come with the New Parent Kit. That's fine by me.

PS-No, I did NOT buy a very pink bow for my daughter to wear! Said bow was purchased by her grandma, who can't find anything pink and princess enough for any of her granddaughters. But I love you, Ma!

Raise the Roof

Today's piece partly pertains to paraphrased, painful prose pronounced from the preacher's pulpit (sorry, couldn't--wouldn't--help myself):

"God hears His Children's prayers, just like all parents can hear their children. As a preacher, I've heard many babies cry during services. I've never really found it distracting. The only time I've ever been distracted by babies crying is when my own two children were babies. I could hear them cry wherever they were in the building, because they were my children. Actually ... the only other baby who has ever been able to distract me like that is Rain. When she cries, she can hit a pitch--well, she must have inherited that from Tim."

(*Congregation laughs*)

Yep, my baby (and me, too!) was called out in church. Yes, the preacher was joking, but only in part, ya know? Who can blame him, though? My baby, as I've tried to explain before, can raise the roof when she's mad. She has serious throat power, and if you don't believe me, you might ask the local police department (*ahem*):

When Rain was only a month old, I had to go to a doctor's appointment. Thankfully, my sister was in town and offered to watch Rain while I went to my appointment. I promised I'd be back within the hour. I changed Rain's diaper, and with that, I was gone. When I returned, there Rain was in my sister's arms, quietly sleeping. I thought everything had gone well, until my sister said, "Yeah, so the cops came."

"What?" I said, and followed with all the other w's. "Who?? Why? When?" Turns out, after I left, Rain began to cry. My sister assumed she was tired and tried to rock her to sleep. Rain continued to cry, so my sister tried everything she could think of to comfort her. Rain's cry escalated, but still, my sister couldn't figure out what was wrong. Eventually, Rain raised the roof with her screaming. My sister finally realized that, alas, her diaper was dirty (though I had just changed it), and now she was peeved that service had been delayed.

Someone banged on the front door. My sister chose to ignore it until Rain had a new diaper on (good call). When she did answer the door, it was the police. Someone had heard Rain's screams and called the police. Ay! They said that the caller noticed that neither Tim's car or mine was in the parking lot (I had no idea our apartment neighbors kept an eye on that sort of thing), and wanted to find out if the baby was home alone--egad! What must they think of us?

Anyway, my sister had to explain that (a) the baby was fine, (b) Tim & I were not dead, and (c) that in spite of the hair-raising screams, Rain only had a dirty diaper (though she can make it sound as though you've beaten her with a pipe). The officers took a look around the apartment ("No dead bodies in the kitchen? Check."), and left after a few minutes.

As for me? I had to grab one of my parenting books and review the chapter on, "Just because your baby cries, that doesn't mean you're a bad parent." I remind myself of that daily. Now you know why I got giddy over Rain's first laugh.

Must go now. The baby monitor lights are, of course, flashing.