Don't F*** with the Babysitter

Well, babysitting went OK. I hung out with the girlie for about an hour before putting her down; during that time we danced, hit one of the many buttons on the vast array of toys that she has that make noise and, adorably, sat together on the sofa while she flipped through the IKEA catalogue, pointed at things, and did that preverbal babbling thing while I tried my best to follow along.

Her Mom and Dad told me she'd start bobbing and weaving like a pint-sized drunk when she got tired and I scooped her up once I noticed the behavior and wrangled her into a fresh diaper, no easy task as she was jumping and wriggling and screaming on top of her changing table while I dug wildly for the baby wipes and ended up holding her around her middle with one arm while trying to yank but not yank in any sort of a hurtful way the diaper up between her legs and fasten it.

She screamed all the way upstairs as I tried in vain to comfort her and then, swear to God, the second I plopped her in her crib, she plunked the front part of her little self down, stuck her diapered butt in the air, and fell immediately to sleep. I checked on her a couple of times throughout the night and those blasted baby hormones kicked in and made me want to crawl in the crib and cuddle with her and sniff her wee head and then take her home and raise her as my own.