Things I've Thrown at Preston

Right now, I'm sitting in my living room, on my big brown couch, watching Preston rock Charlie. They both look like they're sleeping but I'm quite certain that neither of them are actually asleep. When I am the one sitting in the rocker, holding my baby and patiently waiting for him to close his eyes and drift off into nap land, Preston is usually sprawled out on this big brown couch, sometimes underneath an old, ugly-but-feels-like-a-cuddle quilt given to me by my high school boyfriend's mom. Sometimes, his head has landed on the pillow that we use to prop our feet on, or that our dog uses as a prop for one of his disgusting chew toys. You know, the pillow that we should throw away but haven't yet.

Usually, the moment that I notice how comfortable Preston looks on this couch is the same moment that I need him to do something for me, like bring me a pacifier, or a soft blinkie, or a wet rag, or my phone or a glass of water or a snack. I could go on. Some of these things are not really necessary, but more often than not, what I need is for a blanket to be laid out on the guest bed in a swaddle style so I can wrap Charlie up and lay him down for a nap.

I can't just say "Hey Pres, go lay me out a swaddle!" because of the precious sleeping baby in my arms. And surprisingly, Preston doesn't wake to the sound of me whispering his name repeatedly, no matter how many times I try it and will it to work.

So I throw things at him.

Not big, hurtful things, but soft things, or small things. Like a balled up blanket, or our Winnie the Pooh toy/blanket thingie, or a throw pillow, or this teething ring, or a pacifier. I aim for the couch area around him, or his arm, and it usually wakes him enough so that when I whisper yell his name, he opens his eyes. I don't think he ever realizes that I've just thrown an arsenal of baby items at him.

Poor guy.