Sleep, Baby, Sleep

I began typing this long ago, between moments trying to update my online hybrid class syllabus. I can't seem to locate the class online, which is no good thing. At the time, Madeline was sitting in her bouncy chair smiling and cooing at me.



Have I mentioned she's the cutest baby in the world? I have? Good.

In any case, that was long ago, before the happiness ended. We've been walking, crying, changing diapers, and trying to make her happy for many an hour since. She's now finally asleep in her swing, from which I am terrified of moving her for fear she'll awaken again. But of course, now that she's asleep she's become infinitely angelic once more, her natural defense against being sold to the gypsies on nights like this.

I spent a chunk of time in Costco today, monument to American capitalistic excess (no, I'm not going to launch into a diatribe on American capitalistic excess--calm down). There's something a little creepy about being surrounded by towering structures stuffed with crates of food that come in gargantuan, mastadon-sized portions, especially if you've just been listening to an NPR report on starvation in the Sudan or a homeless man with no teeth is panhandling on the street outside.

I always feel a bit disgusted at our own voraciousness; disoriented by the blaring electronics displays and a muddle of a million too-loud conversations in the cavernous hanger, and the dizzying churn of endlessly circling elderly shoppers with elephantine carts; and guilty over my own good fortune and blessings. But still, I am there shopping, as much a part of the problem as anyone else. Story of my life, really. And it's not like we don't burn through two gallons of milk every three days, or a five-pound mortar of cheese each month, but still... I used to get the same feeling when Garrett and I would go slumming at Home Town Buffet in Spokane (average customer weight: 348 lbs. Including children). It's not so much that we're wasteful; it's that we think nothing of--indeed, relish--wallowing in indulging our every possible appetite and consider ourselves deprived if somehow we can't do so at will.

I was there to pick up supplies for the boy's fourth birthday party Saturday (their actual birthday was yesterday), which I consider a legitimate excuse. Boy, nothing says "fun" like "24 count institution sliced hot dog buns," complete with prison cafeteria generic packaging. On the other end, the chicken dinos (this is another symptom of what I was referring to earlier--what human needs chicken shaped into dinosaurs?) have bright, colorful orange packaging with multi-colored dinosaurs having fun on the box--it even says "Yummy" in a bright red circle, in case you were worried you were buying the vomitous kind by accident. In this case, though, nothing says "fun" like "seasoned and fully cooked nugget-shaped chicken breast patty fritters" (no, really).

And nothing says "funny" like the same joke repeated ad nauseam on a blog, eh?

My only entertainment during this trip was one of those children who has a cry like one of Godzilla's monstrous foes. I don't know what causes this strange ability--did they have their windpipes crushed in delivery? But you've probably heard them; instead of a normal cry or whining, they somehow manage drawn-out screeches that begin and end with jarring suddenness, a little pocket-sized Gaos their parents can use to scare the neighbors. Frightening but distracting, which was a good way to end a Costco trip, actually.

Thankfully my baby doesn't have a cry like that.