Jared, making waffles.

My fiance is a disaster in the kitchen. I accept this. Usually, I think it is funny. So tonight, when he came home from a study group and announced that he was going to make waffles and bacon for dinner, I said sure.

Jared making dinner means one of two things:
1. Jared will attempt to make dinner, get in over his head halfway through and yell for me to help. And by help, I mean finish whatever he is doing.
2. Jared attempts to make dinner, gets in over his head halfway through and refuses to ask for help. Food comes out not resembling food. We order pizza or have sandwiches.

Either way, I have to be on hand to field any variety of questions. Tonight, with the waffles, I expected difficulties. But, honestly, I thought he could do it. You mix the mix, pour it in the iron, wait for the light and DONE! But I've been wrong before.

Jared: Can I over mix this batter? It doesn't look right. Its lumpy.
Me: Yes. You can over mix. Its supposed to be lumpy.
Jared, 5 minutes later: Are you sure this looks right?
Me: Yes. IT IS FINE AND STOP MIXING IT YOU HAVE KILLED IT. IT IS DEAD. RIP, WAFFLE BATTER.

How do I get the bacon grease out of the pan?

How do I clean off the waffle iron? Do I have to get off these dried on bits?

Do I have to use a paper towel? What if I just used a rag? Where is a rag? Do we have any?

How do I know when the bacon is done? THIS DOESN"T LOOK LIKE BACON!

I walk into the kitchen, and it is hazy with smoke. "Do you have the flame on full power?" Yes. "Oh... You might not want to. Your bacon fat is burning." What? Why not?! (This is a man thing, I think. To use optimum  highest possible heat AT ALL TIMES.) It is a good thing our smoke alarm broke last weekend.

He asked how to do the bacon, and I told him to cut it in half with the poultry shears so it will fit in the pan better. I came out, and yes, he had cut it in half... But he was only doign two half pieces at a time. AKA, one whole strip of bacon. Good thing he cut it in half. Don't want to crowd the pan.

Five minutes later, after I told him he can add more, I came back into the kitchen at his frantic cries for help to find that he has, indeed, added more bacon to the pan. Except for some reason he felt like he had to cut it into approx 1 in. pieces. It was literally like frying up bacon bits.

Then, as soon as I walked out of the kitchen I hear him exclaim, "How do you do this all the time!?!!"

And at that point I realized I should just have him watch Doobie and try to save wahts left of dinner.

The Fall of the Swaddle Empire.

Swaddling? It's my best friend. It makes Doobie sleep like a baby. Or, actually, like a rock. Like a baby rock, maybe.

But as all good things do, it is coming to an end and I am losing my mind. We've had to stop swaddling him because he rolls over onto his tummy in his crib and can't flip back over. I wouldn't worry about him being on his stomach, except that since his arms are tucked in he can't use them to roll over again if he needs a breath of fresh air. You know, all that Back to Sleep mumbo jumbo about rebreathing, etc. (More info here if you don't know what I'm talking about.)

The only solution I can see is to stop swaddling him, and that is turning out to be horrifying. He doesn't sleep well, and he is constantly waking himself up. He is crabbier during the day. A few times I've woken up to find his little arms stuck through the crib slats and his face mashed up against the bars. For a couple of hours this morning he had two bar shaped red marks on his forehead as a little reminder of all the baby vs. crib action that went down last night. It sounded so rough over the monitor that I bet it would sell on Pay Per View.

And I will confess: I can deal with poop. I can deal with being bitten and scratched. I can even handle a good amount of crying but so help me Lord if I do not get enough sleep. Things get ugly. I get stupid.

I put a box of macaroni in the oven, once. Frequently I look away from Oliver for a moment and find that I am shoving a pacifier into his eye, or holding him semi upside down, putting his pants on backwards and inside out. I have gotten up to prepare a bottle for him a few times before I've realized that I usually breastfeed him. I've gotten the mail with no pants on.

There is a direct correlation between hours of sleep and my intelligence.

Something had better change quick because this bear market is killing my economy.