When the girl cries, I can't think. About anything. The girl cries a lot. I've never had a baby before, so I don't know how much babies are supposed to cry, but this girl definately knows how to use her lungs. This situation leaves me braindead much of the time. I go to Target, list prepapred, Lauren in tow, ready to conquer the store, yet I fumble around like a madwoman, talking to myself all the while, trying desperately to first find my list, then remember where things are located in the store, and then trying to remember what I've already shopped for so I can mark them off the list. I'm a disaster.

I've come to the conclusion that it is a pretty good thing that I get to stay home with the girl. I don't think I'd have the mental capacity to do anything else that was remotely meaningful. I'd crack. I contemplated subbing a few days a week just to make some extra cash, but I really don't think I could do it. The first teenage jackass that opened his mouth would feel the wrath of an overtired mother who hears screaming in her head, even when the girl is sleeping.