This weekend, we resigned ourselves to wakeful mornings and packed BB into her Baby Bjorn for a devastatingly early Sunday waltz up the street.
Destination: Brunch.
Discovery: The Baby Underworld.
I am not exaggerating when I say that every person we passed was pushing a stroller. We went to the hot brunch spot on Clark street, thinking "wow, we're actually going to get a seat." And it was true, at 8:00 a.m., there were tables available for the taking. Except for one thing-- they were out of high chairs.
Luckily, by 8:30 a.m., a mass exodus of parents fled the building. Turns out it was naptime. Those other parents had their schedule down pat. We on the other hand had a baby who whined and fussed and twisted and turned, and fell asleep 30 minutes later once she was safely back in her Baby Bjorn, and we were out of the restaurant-- heartburn in place from wolfing our eggs.
Luckily, by 8:30 a.m., a mass exodus of parents fled the building. Turns out it was naptime. Those other parents had their schedule down pat. We on the other hand had a baby who whined and fussed and twisted and turned, and fell asleep 30 minutes later once she was safely back in her Baby Bjorn, and we were out of the restaurant-- heartburn in place from wolfing our eggs.
Ah, the Baby Underworld. Where all the other parents know so much more than you do.
