In the past six days, I have: given a banana bread to my boss, taken a dozen chocolate chip muffins to my neighbour whose dad died, and baked a stuffed shell pasta dish for my friend who had her baby at 32 weeks last weekend. In a lot of ways, cooking this stuff for others satisfies my inner desire to bake sweet things I would never make for myself and whip up foods that Ash simply doesn’t eat. (Granted, he’d eat stuffed shells but I usually just make spaghetti). In the process, I feel like I am doing good deeds and it also reminds me that there’s more to my life than just Elliot, which I sometimes need. It’s very easy to let a little baby take over your every thought but if you do, you may well go insane. I thought I was moments ago.

Elliot was awake most of yesterday. He cat-napped during football: 20 minutes here, almost an hour there. But all in all, he didn’t go down for bed until midnight. He woke every 3.5 hours for feeding, which is good and getting better. But today, he’s ridiculously inconsolable. That is, however, until I broke out the Swaddle Me. We tried it weeks ago and it was too big and too annoying to him (as if it were made out of razor blades and hot pokers) so it was stored away in the cabinet, collecting dust and slowly becoming too small for a growing boy. But now look:

That’s right, peacefully asleep and thank the Lord above because my ears couldn’t take another piercing scream, his face becoming beet red and the dogs whining out of displeasure. Thank you, Elliot, for sleeping.