My Turn

Joe here.
Despite my early intentions to co-write this blog with my lovely genius of a wife, I have not. And although I am a cheerful co-star to the documented Fun the Fairbanks have, this is the first post I'll have written in a long time. And why have I returned from relaxing obscurity to meddle in my wife's affairs? Because this story is mine, and I need to be the one to tell it.

Now, part of the wondrous wonderfulness Emily does is to get up with the baby when he cries at night. Some of this is merely practical---I don't hear him unless he's already dialed his Mom-Meter up to 11 and has been sobbing for a while (I'm a heavy sleeper, and I slumber with my good ear down). But even Emily gets sick of it sometimes, and when that happens, it's my turn. I know when it's my turn, because my dreams are interrupted by a jab in the ribs and some cold feet pushing me out of the bed. My story begins with one such early morning, when it was My Turn.

It was way too early to be awake, which I told AJ, but he just kept crying. I guess when some kids really get going, they just won't listen to reason. So I hoisted him out of his crib and tottered down our creaky staircase to the kitchen to make him a bottle. We're not too different, AJ and I, in the morning. We both try to stay as close to sleep as possible, so we can get started again when we get back to bed. AJ usually takes his early-morning bottle with his eyes shut, and goes right back to sleep. I stumbled down the stairs that morning with one eye still glued shut, the other squinting blearily.

I remembered Emily showing me the new can of formula she bought---it was a new brand (to us), and I noticed the can was shorter than the one we were used to. So I approached the kitchen shelves and saw this:

The tall can was the empty can of old formula. I grabbed the can on the left, mixed a bottle, and fed AJ. He ate a healthy 5 ounces, burped, and went right to sleep when I took him back to his crib. Still bleary, I crawled back into bed.

"Everything okay?" Emily asked when I slipped in.
"Snflkg," I replied, my brain already sinking.
"Was he just hungry?"
"Hisfine." I paused for a beat, then as I turned over to go back to sleep, told her, "But that new formula you got is crap. It doesn't dissolve very well at all."

Later that morning, at a far more reasonable hour, Emily trotted downstairs for some breakfast. This is what she found:

Meanwhile, upstairs, I was trying to sneak in another few minutes of snooze when I heard an explosive squeal of laughter. Immediately I suspected Emily was trying to lure me out of bed, so I turned over. Yes, I'm very sharp. So Emily came up the stairs and showed me the can of "formula" I fed the baby. "Is this what you fed AJ?" she asked. I nodded. Of course. The can that's shorter than the old one.

Then she turned it around.

Five ounces of pancake batter. That's the equivalent of six Ebelkiver pancakes. Sitting in my baby's tummy as a lump of floury concrete. Oh, he was fine. A little constipated for a day or two, but fine. But ever since then, Emily put the pancake mix on a different shelf---and when it's my turn to feed the baby, I actually turn on a light.