This is my eleven-day-old cousin. Well, eleven yesterday.
She's the procreatee of two wonderful people:
Can you tell which is my blood relation?
Because I was up so far into the night (morning), thinking about my own long and winding path to parenthood, I woke up with a sick, underslept headache. It turned migrainous later in the day. I was good for much of nothing from that point on. No cooking. No thinking. No talking. Nothing but down comforter and hot water bottle (thanks again, Mirjam) and drugs and shades drawn.
I emerged from my underground cave hours later, and was met by these beauties cooling on the kitchen table:
The Baker Man had been hard at work. He had also filled my giant red Knit Night pot with chicken soup, but I didn't get a picture of that. Nice late supper. Nice Rob.
Talk about comfort food. I'm going back to bed now to dream of lovin' from the oven.