My daughter Ava is now seven weeks old. As I am writing this, she has finally settled to sleep peacefully on my chest after a two-hour crying spell. Feeding, diaper changes, a bath, bouncing, walking, swinging, singing -- none of these had worked. And to think it all started when she woke up from her nap!? I now publicly apologize to all those mothers I silently ridiculed for grocery shopping in 1980s-inspired jog suits. I am sorry. I bow to your fortitude as I, decked in sweatpants and unwashed hair, leave the house with my child. When I do venture out, Ava is buckled in a car seat in the backseat of my SUV, exactly where I usually have a house hunting couple sitting. She is not like these other babies I hear about. You know, the kind who like cars. If Ava so much as smells that ...
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