Case in point:
Z: Oi! You took the pizza slice with two pieces of ham! I've only got one. Foul play! Foul.
N: munch munch munch I'm a breffeezing muzzer munch munch munch Sucker.
Z: I can't believe you nicked my rightful ham. Is that wifely?
N: Listen up I said sincere words about sickness and health and richer and poorer, but I made no promises about ham.
My goodness, each week in the life of a baby is momentous and each week of the baby's life in my marriage is equally so. He will be 8 weeks old tomorrow and the changes we've seen since the beginning are huge and I remember the past as a sort of bizarre and terrible dream.
Like Week 2, where the brutality of the broken nights felt like a physical beating.
Or Week 3 which I was convinced I wouldn't survive. Also known as the Week Of Hopeless Crying.
Or Week 4 which brought us Grandma and rolling over, and the first gummy baby smiles.
Or Week 5 of the Baby Going To Sleep And Not Eat With Grandma, otherwise known as the week that gave me back my sanity.
Or Week 6, she of the Relentless Inconsolable Colic Trauma which I think of more informally as the Contemplating A Divorce Week.
Currently we're wading through Week 7, the GripeWater as Remedy For Colic week and as I contemplate the start of week 8 in the spirit of cautious optimism. I feel like the way Third Cat used to behave when she first came - traumatised but eager to believe in the possibility of happiness and love.