The Mad Poller What Polls at Midnight (maeincarnate) wrote,
The Mad Poller What Polls at Midnight

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The Fun Part

Please do not think that because of all of the unusually bad events of this weekend that I didn't have any fun. After I got off the phone with the Postal Inspector, my brother, his wife, and I headed up to the northern suburbs of Philadelphia to meet up with our friends the Niners and their 8 month old son, Owen. We arrived shortly before one, shuffled around with situating a baby seat, five adults, and a stroller in an SUV. We headed to Peddlers Village, a place where my family used to go every Day-After-Thanksgiving that I hadn't been to since I was around nine. We wandered around for hours: they had hot apple cider in big cauldrons, carolers, lights, the works. I even managed to get a present for one of the hardest people on my list. The baby was angelic. He didn't make a sound all day--the most he acted up was to keep taking his hat off. We went over to New Hope, another (and if I may be a purist, less pre-fab) cluster of artsy shops and boutiques just a few miles away. We went to dinner at a nice restaurant, enjoyed a few Yeunglings and had a fancypants meal.

We walked our dinner off until Owen got tired and we all got cold, went back to the house and the Niners put the baby to bed and made a fire. We stayed up drinking beer and playing Trivial Persuit in front of the fireplace until were all nearly nodding off. Sunday was a lazy morning of pancakes, Vice City, and babyfaces. I got a little homesick for the house we had when I was in high school; it was so comforting to wake up in a cozy colonial and look out the window to see snow all over the ground.

There was a discernible highlight to the weekend, and the star, of course, was the baby. He behaved perfectly all day as mentioned, but it was in the restaurant when Owen's moment came. After silently watching us eat our dinner, for the first time all day, the stinky arose. His mother got up to change him and returned from the bathroom about ten minutes later demanding a plastic bag for his undershirt. Apparently since he was sitting on such a hard highchair, there was nowhere for the enormous steamer he had been hanging onto all day to go but straight up his butt and all over his back. Victory was his. Owen: 1. Undershirt: 0.

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