Monday, February 1, 2010

The secret lives of babies

I found something very strange when I changed Dawson this morning.  A feather. A little, broken, yellow feather. It popped out of his PJs as I undressed him.  Let me make it clear that I was the one who bathed him last night, who got him into his PJs, and the only one who interacted with him all night. Big Bird was not in the picture at all.

What the hell?

These are new PJs that Dawson had only worn once before (the night before last, in fact) and I had washed them before that. They were no feathers in the wash, and it wasn't there when he wore them the night before. But suddenly this morning, there it was, in all it's feathery glory.

I can only come up with one explanation: Dawson is moonlighting as a Vegas-style show girl.

I should have known, he's been dancing a lot more lately. Leave the music channel on the TV and he'll be grooving with the best of them. Beyonce and the Black Eyed Peas are his current favourites, but he'll rock out at any opportunity, even to Michael Buble. You haven't lived until you've seen the baby bop done to the dulcet tones of everyone's favourite Canadian crooner.

He has also been walking more than crawling these days, which is completely understandable what with the increased agility and stamina dancing gives.  It all adds up. I blame myself. I sing show tunes to him all the time. How could he not yearn for the bright lights of the stage?

What I want to know is where are the tips?? If he's bringing in an income, dude can help pay for his formula. If I find a stash of wrinkled fives in his diaper bag you can bet The House is taking 20% off the top.

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