Baby Crowded

“My training session got canceled, so I won’t be going to Yellowstone this week,” he said, trying to be heard. Our baby was increasingly trying to get our attention by using the upper ranges of her vocal cords. She wasn’t crying exactly, more like squeaking.

“Going where?” I asked in confusion.

“Dulles Hub,” he said, indicating his employer’s D.C. office.

“Ah,” I said. By now I had picked up our baby, and she was feeling significantly more content and therefore significantly more quiet. “That makes a lot more sense than ‘Yellowstone.’ I couldn’t hear you very well; my ears were baby crowded.”

I’d never used the term before, but it seemed to fit. Baby crowded. Full of baby. More to the point, too full of baby for much of anything else. Occasionally other parts of me are baby crowded. My nose when a poopy diaper makes it impossible to smell the delicious brownies cooking in the other room. My arms when both of my daughters are sitting in my lap reading/eating a book. My eyes sometimes when Brice comes home. I love to watch my daughters brighten, smile, and giggle just because he’s there. They adore him, and their adoration is mesmerizing.

This picture makes me feel a bit baby crowded too; I find it nearly impossible to look away. Brice calls her a modern-day siren. I guess it’s a good thing we don’t live on a boat.