If you look at the first picture in my last post, you will notice a doll. This is David's baby, given to him last fall to help prepare him for Mary's birth. (It seemed like such a good idea. But it wasn't. All it did was convince him that all babies in the family belong to him and he should be the one to carry them around.) David clearly prefers trucks and trains to dolls, but he does show occasional interest in his baby.
Like Friday night, when out of nowhere he decided that he had to bring his baby to the Celtic Festival. It had been months since he so much as looked at that doll. He also had to bring her juice, milk, and bed. He tried to bring her stroller too, but that's where we drew the line. (Greg and I were traumatized in Egypt by an English couple whose toddler's comfort object was a doll stroller. They had to drag that stroller everywhere, and the image of that father negotiating the airport with suitcases, stroller, diaper bag, and a doll stroller has haunted us ever since. As a result, we have a strict policy forbidding the doll stroller from leaving the house, and I think it's the only family rule Greg and I have managed to enforce 100%). I wasn't able to talk David into leaving his baby in the car during the festival. But after some negotiation, he agreed to leave the bed and juice, but not the milk. So the doll, and her milk, joined us for date night.
But here is the purpose of this post: Trying to play along Friday night with the whole baby thing, I asked David, "What's your baby's name?" He looked at me like I was the dumbest person in the world and matter-of-factly stated, "My baby." Duh. He already knows he's smarter than me. What I wonder is how many more times I'm going to get that look . . .
