(As I write this, Jane is sitting at my feet, where she has unzipped my boot and is fondling my ankle with firm, masterful squeezes.)
We all agree that this is the perfect baby bin.
Sadly, Target stopped selling them after I realized that I would like to have about fifteen of them. I finally found one on eBay and now we have three.
Even one is enough for Jane, though, whose idea of a really excellent time, and who can blame her, is to clamber inside
and persuade us to drag her back and forth across the floor in her square blue boat until our aged backs fall off. I need to find some sort of bin-pushing stick. Maybe a shuffleboard... shuffle?
Additional Jane endorsements of late:
- cramming herself into the tiny space behind the sewing machine
- being under an umbrella
- eating paper, oh god, this is more fantastic than you poor benighted fools can possibly understand
- video chat with other, littler babies
- crawling into her bed-crib-tent thing while your back is turned and gathering up all the binkies in the world into her tiny girly fists
Empathically not endorsed by the Jane Institute:
- someone else's going into the kitchen. ARE YOU IN THE KITCHEN? NO REALLY ARE YOU SERIOUSLY IN THE KITCHEN? WHY ARE YOU IN THE KITCHEN? WHY? WHY? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!
"But look, darling," I say. "I'm right here. And I'm getting you some lovely toast."
"BOO HOO BOO HOO," she disagrees.
"You just have to wait, just a minute, you see."
"How about this nice sock? You like chomping on a sock."
So here we sit, me typing at my computer and her kneading my executive stress ankle, and while we may eventually starve to death like this, I suppose there are worse ways to go.