The Battle of Fort Harper

This morning, as usual, I was up several hours before I needed to be. I took the opportunity to do some boxing and a few of the exercises that they recommended for me. By "they" I mean my automated trainer on the Wii, with whom I have an intimate friendship based on mutual respect and his inability to tell anyone how terribly I'm doing...

Just before I began the program, I heard the tell-tale sounds of stirring baby in the next room. I went in to find my baby girl laying on her back, staring happily at the ceiling. When she spotted me, a grin spread across her face to melt the heart of Cheney himself.

I still wanted to work out, so I brought her out to the living room and set her in a seat on the floor where she could watch, play with her toys and pass judgement on my attempts to physically improve myself.

Near the end of the session, she began to indicate to me, in the calmest of tones, of course, that she desired to be fed. In the frantic struggle to keep her from having a full blown aneurysm, I grabbed the first bib I could find, slapped it on her and gave her her bottle.


A quick aside here: my mother-in-law and I appear the be locked in an ongoing and unspoken clothing battle. She insists on purchasing clothes that give the impression, falsely, I might add, that Harper is enamored with her grandmother above all else. I, on the other hand, knowing this is simply not the case and aware of my daughters undying and unparalleled love for her doting father, choose to garb her clothing that indicates such. I tell you this because there appears to be a mole in my home. A traitor, if you will, working at cross-purposes to myself in this epic clothing struggle.

I suspect the cats.

Upon returning to the chair so that she could eat, I discover, to my horror, that I have grabbed a bib that relates the banner of my nemesis. Below my daughter's angelic visage lies the word "My (image of heart) Belongs To Grandma!" Curses! I narrowed my eyes and considered getting a different bib. Instead, I hatched a different scheme. I decided to be unnecessarily messy with the feeding and use this flag of rebellion to mop up the spittle, vomit, droll, and errant drops of milk from Harper's beatific face.

HAH! Take that! Your slogan is covered in baby puke!

..is what I thought. I was pretty pleased with myself and returned my daughter to the floor to play, allowing her to continue to soil the bib that so strongly proclaimed falsehoods of her affections.

After my shower and breakfast, I took Harper into her room to change her for her day at day care. I had a lovely cardigan picked out along with a nice pair of jeans. I put her in her crib and tore the hated banner of mine enemy from around her neck, discarding it like so much refuse. Under this, she had her sleeping outfit, which closed with snaps running from her neck down to both of her legs. As is my wont, I get close to her face, ask if she's ready to be changed, put two fingers in between the snaps and tear them open. This always gets a giggle from the object of my undying devotion.

This morning, I follow the same routine, sticking my fingers in between the snaps, prepping my angel and tearing them open. This morning, however, when the garment is ripped asunder, what sight greets my eyes?



SON OF A ...!!!

No giggle this morning. Just a sly grin...



Those cats are gonna get it...




*Author's Note*
I love and adore my mother-in-law and bear her no ill feelings, but from now on, I will be putting Harper in that onesie only when we are out of diapers.


P.S. You may have noticed a few changes with the blog. I've been experimenting with a few things to see how I like them. I am also looking for a new name for the blog and would love to hear suggestions. I appreciate all feedback, provided it doesn't come from, or in the spirit of, Bob Viegas.