Like Sirloin When You're Used to Prime Rib

That's how Ben described Goodstart compared to breastmilk. So, I'm prime rib? That, my friends, is how you compliment your wife of three years, let me tell you. Girls like to be likened to things that come in slabs. Remember that.

Jack manned up (babied up?) last night and drank some formula from a bottle while Ben and I were out celebrating our anniversary by eating at a restaurant with cloth tablecloths and glass glasses. Jamie said he spent 40 minutes drinking, but he only sipped 2 ounces, and he nursed like it was his job (and, really, it is) as soon as we walked in the door.

And if we look drunk in this picture, we're not. Unless you count getting buzzed off of a glass of pinot as drunk. So buzzed that you don't even open the bottle of Veuve Clicquot yu have chilling in your fridge because you don't want a hangover. Oh-- I am talking only about myself here. Ben was not buzzed (as most normal adults would not be). He even came home and polished off a bottle of Pink Truck (and by polished off, I mean had the last half-glass. Also, what's a more celebratory drink than some old $7 blush wine? NOTHING. Except maybe strawberry Boone's that you've been hiding under your dorm room bed.)

It's actually good that we did not imbibe. Jack woke up every 90 or so minutes throughout the night-- not wanting to eat, just desiring a quick latch so he could get back to sleep. Harry woke up at 1, and Ben found him, all his blankets, and the fifty-five odd toys he sleeps with standing in the corner of his room, a little upset and very confused. Ben was confused, too, thinking it was 6. He took Harry downstairs, and when he realized his mistake, they were both too awake to go back to bed, so they had a slumber party on Harry's floor.

So this morning, we both feel hungover without needing to get drunk first. Think of all the calories I saved.