Globetrotter.

We got a call from our landlord on Sunday telling us that he had a couple who wanted our apartment, but only if we could be out by today. We had planned to trek up to the Clair on Wednesday to clear out, but with the opportunity to save half a month's rent, we figured Monday would work just as well.

Two things. One, Zoey had a rough night Sunday night, needing to be held to sleep. So she slept great. Mom and dad, not so much. Two, if you ever find yourself moving out of a third floor walk up, and possess decent homeowner's insurance, just burn the damn place down. Boy did those stairs suck.

But we're all out, and Zoey was great during our ordeal. The girl LOVES the car, and slept like a champ on the ride up and back to Marlboro. She also was a trooper as El and I spent the day gathering up all the crap we swore we already gathered up. Too much crap. Zoey was quite content watching the action from one of our floor cushions, eating when she got hungry, giving a coo when she needed some attention, and doing all of the other baby things babies do (think: the end result of eating).

Since the weather was a bit chilly, we bundled Zoey up. The only problem is, this girl HATES hats. She hates socks, pants, and the Red Sox, as well, but hating hats was the problem du jour. Our cleaver parent solution? A hooded sweatshirt. As you can see from the picture above, though, Zoey is tiny, and her sweatshirts are big; hence the Rocky Balboa, "I'm coming down to the ring" look of our daughter. She didn't mind a bit, being the chill babe that she is.

We all slept well last night, although El and I may both need back-e-otomies after a gazillion flights of stairs.

Anyone know of a good ranch style house on the market? Preferably one with an elevator.