I’m here! I’m queer! I’m…well, I’m not queer. But I am here. And I am spiteful.
The thing is, I’ve been making a LOT of stuff since I’ve been in Colorado. There was the Israeli couscous with saffron-sherry vinaigrette and fresh farmer’s market veggies. It was so pretty and so vibrant, and very filling for a cold salad.
I made a baby.
This? Is Emmett. He was born on August 23rd, and he weighed 6 lbs and 13 oz. It took me 30 minutes to push his tiny, adamantium-reinforced body out my yahoo. We’re all about efficiency here at the Spiteful Chef headquarters.
We’re not about sleeping, though. As adorable and tiny and strong as the little dude is, he sleeps for shit at night. So we spend most nights taking shifts and getting about 5 hours of sleep apiece. He eats like a tank, with a combination of boob and bottle, and the one time I found a cat toenail in his mouth after he was having tummy time on his play mat.
They recalled his initial formula for containing insect parts, so he’s actually had a number of foreign animal bits in his tiny system. Poor guy.
So he’s my excuse. It’s not that I don’t have anything percolating in my head, waiting for me to write it down and cook it and take pictures of it. It’s just that I’m so tired that most of what I say comes out as complete drivel. I was too tired to care about food for a month or so, so I shrank right back into my pre-pregnancy clothes. That was good. But at a certain point, I was like, “why don’t I care about eating?? What’s wrong with me??” That part of the aftermath has passed, and we’re starting to reintroduce running and weight lifting and other pursuits. And I’ve cooked three days this week! Even took pictures of it once.
I’ll try to post tomorrow. Really I will. At worst, it should just be another couple weeks of cognitive decline, and then I’m told his tiny system will regulate a little better and we’ll get more sleep. Not much more, but enough to start having things to say to you.
Believe me, I miss you as much as you miss me. Providing you miss me a decent amount.
Shit. He’s yelling. Time to extract a titty.