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.