Babies are like luxury sports cars.
They go from zero to 60 mph in two seconds.
Here is Ruby, minding her own business.
In the time it takes to say her name, here is Ruby again, yelling her tiny head off.
We’re not sure what made her cry.
If you ask me, I think it was because we were breathing.
Doctors have a term for this kind of behavior. It’s called “Whothehellknowstitis.”
Ruby Ren Dokken.
February 19, 2008.
7 pounds 6 ounces.
18.5 inches.
All I can say is: Drugs rule  when they work  sleep is underrated, and breastfeeding hurts. But she does make the cutest sounds. (Jay’s got the Kodak moments on his flickr stream.)
Later.
With a silhouette like a Teletubby and still very much pregnant, thank you very much, I have many, and I mean many, strangers say even stranger things to me when I accidentally venture out of my home at this point in the pregnancy.
“Bless you,” says a woman, pointing to my belly.
“How are you? Besides being very pregnant?” asks cheery waitress.
“Take care of your baby!” offers another man, as he waves to me.
“If anything happens, I have a phone here,” prompts a salesgirl helping me into a changing room.
“Oh boy, you look like you’re about to have a baby.” (OH YOU DON’T SAY, GENIUS.)
I am officially sick of being pregnant.
Turning 34 only makes me realize I will be 34 years older than mini DJ, not 33.
So big.
So tired.
So grouchy.
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