There's a party in my pants and you're invited.

Actually, the party is in my basement and it's 4:50am PST; if you're awake, come on down. Drinks are on the house. Or Merritt's buying. Or whatever sounds cool in this instant.

We've been at it for over an hour now. Pre-partied twice: midnight and two.

Last night Merritt slept through the night for the first time since January. We "ferberized" him in that we let him cry it out for 47 minutes (or maybe it was just 4.7 minutes, but perception is reality) before I couldn't take it any more and scooped him up and went all motherly love on him. Dr. Ferber would probably argue that this isn't his method at all, instead, just a case of really poor parenting. I would argue that it wore our child out. And was awful. And that Dr. Ferb's argument is correct.

But he slept!

Karmic justice was served when I, too, slept almost through the night, waking a mere two hours before Merritt stirred ... WITH A STIFF NECK.

That's a whole new ball game with baby. I had no idea how often I whipped my head around to see what cord he's chewing on or which book of matches he's playing with now. I also didn't realize that I hold him with every muscle in my neck.

I thought that was enough karma for the crying he suffered, but here we sit carouse! I just felt the earthquake that accompanies Merritt filling his diaper. In my middle-of-the-night-party-stupor, I reached my hand down his back to make sure he wasn't experiencing a blow-out. There is now applesauce poo under my fingernails and on the keyboard.

I guess it's not a party until someone blows-out their diaper, and not an awesome party until someone sticks their hand in it.