Parents of the year.

I don't know if they have such an award. But if they do I don't think Paul and I will be winning. At least not this year.

Take Wednesday morning for instance. I awake to the happy sounds of Isabelle babbling in her crib. I go in, scoop her up, hug and kiss her, change her and start to head down stairs to get her breakfast. Of course, I round the corner around her door to fast and CRACK - her head bashes into the door jam. Now, you all know Isabelle doesn't cry much. So the sobs she howls out particularly make me feel like a horrible mother. But soon enough, after bouncing and holding her, she is happy again. She has her bottle and is now happily crawling around and kicking at her mirror when CRASH - the mirror falls on her. And she is crying again. And again, with a hug and some funny faces made at her she is happy. Not five minutes later I hear THUNK. She has tipped over while on the hardwood floors and you guessed it, bashed her poor little mellon. More crying, more comforting. Isabelle cried three times by 9 a.m., when I left for work...I will not be winning Mother of the Year.

Neither will Paul be winning any awards. Yesterday he was doing laundry and letting Isabelle explore around in the baby-gate-protected upstairs. He didn't hear her for a minute or so and went to find her. She had crawled into my bathroom, pulled herself up on the side of the tub and among the 858 bottles of bubblebath that I have to choose from, she had, instead, chosen to grab my razor...Thankfully she just cut her thumb, and not too badly at that, but it (and the blood all around) gave Paul a good fright. Time to reconsider on how we need to "baby proof" the house from our ever more mobile baby.

PS: sorry about no new pictures in this post. I cannot find the recharger for my camera. I know in one of his OCD cleaning frenzies Paul put it somewhere...which remains a mystery for now.