The Wombat File Is Yours to Keep

...in which Imogen remains asleep in her big o'l hospital crib. Really, down to seconds now, as she just made one of those "waking-up-pissed-off" cries that she gives in increasingly frequent intervals before actually, well, waking up pissed off.

At 3 AM she was a bundle of unmanageability. No hold, no swaddle, no angle, position, rocking action, butt-patting (for our childless readers: the judiciously applied butt-pat is, improbably, one of the single most important get-the-kid-to-sleep tools one can employ) or shushing was of interest or effect. The bottle was an affront, the bed a place of torment and outrage. Eventually, exhausted by her own discontent (her father's daughter, to be sure), Iggy fell asleep on my lap at about five, waking up to nurse an hour later.

And then, blessedly worn out, she consented to be wrapped up and placed in her bed. A series of ingenious light-baffles has been deployed in Macgyver-ish fashion, to keep the rays of the rising sun out of sleeping beauty's eyes and extend this unexpectedly peaceful early morning. And with an enormous coffee from the 24-hour carbo-purveyor downstairs, it's actually pretty nice hanging out in here (the wireless network from a nearby apartment, which I am forced to admit we seem to be, um, sharing, is a big plus, and the reason -- natch -- I can bring you this little report).

Medical news isn't much different than yesterday -- we are not entirely certain that there is no infection of the spinal fluid, but preliminary results are promising, according to our doctor. This would put Imogen's stay here at a probable max of two weeks. All to the good, especially considering that we were gearing ourselves for worse. The doctor assures us that the treatment she's getting is very effective, and that Imogen won't require anything further to beat this. We're certainly hoping that's true. And, a night of serious fussiness aside, she's doing about as well as can be expected, considering she's had two spinal taps this weekend...