I decided to be ambitious and make bread this morning. The baby even cooperated and slept long enough for me to get the dough in the oven and clean my hands. Last time he spat his soother out every 10 seconds and proceeded to cry, and he ended up with flecks of flour all over his face from me putting it back in his mouth over and over. Honestly, I don't know how pioneer women coped. Did they just let their kids bawl away if they were elbow-deep in flour, or the wash basin, or the chicken coop? Now that Hunter has actually started to produce tears when he cries (they don't for the first few weeks), I can't bear to let him wail, it's too pitiful.
So we got said bread in the oven, and promptly set off the smoke alarm which dear hubby installed just last night. At this point baby was nursing in my arms as I sashayed around the kitchen waiting for the loaf to bake (have I mentioned I'm scatterbrained? I've learned not to leave baking things unattended and give myself the opportunity to forget about them). The dogs (Knuckle plus Jake, my parents golden retriever who was here for the day) were thrown into a howling frenzy, Knuckle particularly freaked out, having never heard a smoke alarm before, and I panicked. The only place nearby to safely put the baby was a pile of laundry on the floor in front of the washer.
I booted the dogs outside and fanned the smoke detector with a tea towel until it eventually silenced.
The bread turned out great...
...and it turns out, some babies are completely unfazed by smoke alarms. And dirty laundry.