We are having a marvelous time down in Georgia with family. Last night we all piled into the minivan and headed off to Wild Adventures again. (As we were loading up, I blindly aimed the camera and snapped a few shots of my overflowing mom-mobile, and this one didn't turn out half bad...though I'm hard pressed to say what Julie and Tom were doing...and Rowan's car seat mirror got all cattywampus so it makes for a pretty distorted view. But I digress.)
We went to the ice skating show. It was really good, much to my surprise. Rowan LOVED it. He was mesmerized by all the lights, music, and the smiling skaters. (By the way, if you have never seen skaters larger than tv-size do spins and jumps, I'll report it's a breathtaking experience indeed. The full weight of a human body being flung into highly risky moves is an adrenaline rush, even for onlookers. Hmm...I have digressed again.) The point is, Rowan loved it and didn't take his eyes off the action for a second. Problem is, I think the dreaded "overstimulation" (which the authors of our baby books like to throw around like a dirty word) appears to have crept into our lives on this occasion! Not that we haven't suspected it before when Rowan has seemed especially excited near bedtime because of some activity, but this time when our dear sweet wonderful boy screamed at the top of his lungs many, many times through the night (and for no short duration), the overstimulation theory seemed like more of a reality than ever before. The skating show had begun at 8pm, then we drove home, gave Rowan a bottle, and tucked him away where he happily drifted off. I'm pretty sure dreams of that skating Frosty woke him up in terror, and thus terror woke us all up! So, where ought I be? Bed, I'll clue you. Off I go.