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Abby started dance class this weekend.  I can’t help but feel that this is one of those milestone moments, the first time that we let her go into a space to learn something when one of us wasn’t right there with her.  It’s also the first time that we bought equipment (read: tights, tutu, and dance shoes); I suspect it won’t be the last. 

Nora came with use, of course, and she was a star in her own right.  She’s just over two weeks old now, so she’s officially out of the sleep-all-the-time-except-when-pooping-and-often-not-even-then stage.  Now she opens her eyes, looks around, grunts and snorts, and continues to fill her diaper with vigour and gusto.

I’m trying very hard to make time for all of my girls, but my wife is the one that gets the raw end of it.  She’s tied to Nora all day, every day, with (at most) four hours between feedings.  So while I can take Abby out to Starbucks for a cookie and apple juice, and while I can take Nora out grocery shopping for an hour, I can’t really do something just with my wife because Abby isn’t quite ready for babysitting yet.  And with Nora cluster feeding right now, anything more than an hour-long escape is risky act at best.

Being a Dad isn’t like being a Mom.  No matter how hard I try to make up some of the vast deficit in what I can offer my family, I can’t be to my girls what their mother is without even trying. 

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