Tomorrow we depart from this den of cleanliness and nice ladies in scrubs. Off we sail to our White House, as we call it, or "Casablanca," in the parlance of the two worldly adventurers at the helm of the U.S.S. Fussy Britches.
We shall lift anchor by 11 a.m., with The Skipper Keaton buckled in tightly to his hand-me-down car seat.
His third day on this planet was routine by the previous days' standards, but full of its own landmarks. Keaton is eating more, though still on a quest to gain weight. He's discovered the benefits of the pacifier, and has begun opening his eyes and scouting out his surroundings a lot more. With each day, his curiosity grows.
The Good Cap'n Quinn is still fond of his new sidekick. Uninstructed, he likes to lean down and nuzzle his nose against Keaton -- a gentler form of hug. He's driving his Grandma Smith nuts, but that's what 2.5-year-olds do.
Mommy is enjoying the service at the hospital, if not the food. She'll miss being waited on, though it's even odds that Daddy will take over some of those duties. He's probably happiest to return to the White House after three nights sleeping on a pull-out bed that could easily be classified as a mild form of torture.
But mostly, it will be the Skipper's big day. It's his maiden voyage to Casablanca, and Sam's gonna be playing his tune.
Here's lookin' at you kid.
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