Baby oil

Hannah recently read about baby massage, which is the kind of thing that bio-organic-earth-peace-parents like ourselves should be into.  A bottle of Trader Joe's olive oil was pulled from the cupboard, the baby was stripped off, and we immediately incorporated it into his bedtime routine - a routine which, so far, has involved doing whatever he wants to stop him screaming until he falls asleep.

If he was anything like his father, Peter would believe that appropriate physical contact begins and ends with a handshake, especially if the person is your doctor or spouse.  It turns out that he's somewhat more liberal, happy to be basted in half of a salad dressing by his mother, at least for a while.  After that he started screaming, so was slipped to his grandmother.  I'm already fearing the day she leaves; I may have to...you know...engage with my child directly.

Getting the client ready.

Starting with the ever-increasing thighs.

Happy so far.

Moving on up.

Whoa lady!  I didn't pay for that!!

No squeaky joints tonight.

And handed to Grandma who, like the pro she is, didn't even need to put down her chilled glass of Californian Viognier.

Did this smile occur a) shortly after baby massage, or b) while playing with daddy earlier in the day?  I think we all know.