Life is quite a bit different with a baby in the house.
I promise. I will never refer to Fletch as my “fur baby,” although I will totally send you texts and sign his name. There’s no denying he’s a baby, though. Eleven weeks is little, y’all.
We haven’t quite figured each other out yet, and are working on the distinction between “inside” and “outside.” He’s a smart little thing, though. And he’s sweet and unbelievably laid back. There’s a lot of this going on:
and a lot of this, too.
He sleeps a lot, then stretches, chases his tail, attacks his stuffed monkey, and sleeps some more. Things only get apocalyptic if I lie down on the floor, and then it’s an avalanche of wet willies and hair entanglement. It’s what I always imagined an attack by a rabid bat would feel like. He has no idea what hair is or that it’s attached to me. It just makes him a tasmanian devil. It’s pretty adorable.
He sleeps a lot, except at 4 a.m. We have some work to do on that. You have to watch him every second, unless he’s asleep with his monkey, but that’s okay. I haven’t gotten a single thing done since Wednesday. I’ve pretty quickly become adjusted to the fact that I’ll be staying in quite a bit for the next few weeks, and also that I may never complete a single task again as long as I