I couldn’t let the day go by without putting out my Valentine to the world:

Because, OMG, she is the personification of love. Sweeter than any box o’ chocolates (which, if anyone is taking notes: I wouldn’t say no to chocolate) and munchier than any chocolate chip cookie (of which I have eaten 12 today. Which explains why Mommy’s clothes don’t fit. But they help with the bad head cold. Really.)

Also, Valentine’s Day marks two important anniversaries in our household. For one, it is the anniversary of the Husband proposing marriage (yes, so romantic. There were roses and everything. But then the cat tried to run off with the ring and it almost ended there. Thankfully he wasn’t a very fast cat. Smart, but not fast. Sam, requisciat in pace.) And without the marriage, there wouldn’t be Baby. Yes, I know that families come in all forms and that’s SUPER but I had no plans to breed outside the institution of marriage. I’ll have a cat out of wedlock but not a child. That said, however, we didn’t get married for the purposes of breeding. It was all for LUH-VE.

The breeding came later, which brings me to anniversary #2 – the conception of the moststupendouslycuteandwonderfullittlebabygirlEVER. Which, yes, means that, like zillions of other people around the world, we HAD THE SEX on Valentine’s Day. And we know that it was conception day NOT because that was only day that we had the sex (gah!), but because I was doing the whole fertility-monitoring thing and using an ovulation predictor kit which told us that THAT WAS THE DAY for what the fertility-monitoring types call “baby-dancing” (which is, can I say, a totally unnecessary Orwellian euphemism for a perfectly ordinary activity. And creepy in a sort of low-rent Wiccan fertility ritual kind of way: ‘hey baby, let’s sprinkle ourselves with patchouli and cavort naked in the woods tonight.” Eww. It’s sex, people. Call it that.) So, yes, we had the sex. And from the sex came Baby. And someday this story is really going to creep her out. But for now I can celebrate openly.

My apologies if that was too much information, but hell, this is a babyblog and sometimes it gets dirty, folks. Deal.

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Further to the super-adorable picture above:

Yes, I cut the feet off of those now-too-small jammies just so I could put her in them and take a funny picture. Bad mother. Told you. At least I didn’t paint her green and call her IncredibleHulkBaby. Or cut off the sleeves too and call her Hillbilly Baby.

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Mucus update: for those of you keeping track, I am still sick. Why am I upright and blogging while Baby naps instead of, oh, napping myself? Because Baby’s Law dictates that if Mommy puts her head down on a pillow, Baby will wake up. I don’t know how she knows. She just does.

If someone has the manual for that particular baby attachment – the mommy’s-trying-to-nap radar – I’d be much grateful if you could forward it. I need to find the off button.

Originally posted at Her Bad Mother, 2006. Copyright Catherine Connors 2006 – 2009.