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In Shirtless Irish Houseguest (aka the Meet Cute of Infamy) News:
So Kate's parents hired me to stay at their house last night to watch Kate and her older sister, as their mom and dad were going out of town and Shirtless Irish Houseguest (herein referred to as Niall, for that is his name) was on call at the emergency room all night. The girls were great, we had a wild fun time, yadda yadda yadda, and then at about midnight Sophie (Kate's eight-year-old sister) came downstairs and informed me that she'd woken up and couldn't fall back to sleep. Being the consummate professional that I am, I have a long list of tactics for just such a situation. An hour later, I had exhausted them all and found that the only thing that would send the little Sophster off to dreamland was if I sat on the floor by her bed - perfectly still - and held her hand. For an hour and a half. And let me tell you, that kid has one hell of a grip.
The trouble was, even after she finally fell asleep her hold on my fingers was like iron. Every time I attempted to disengage, her death grip only tightened. So I was slowly attempting to extricate myself, gingerly freeing one finger at a time from the tiny, bone-crushing hand of doom, humming "Hey Jude" (the lullaby that had finally done the trick) under my breath to cover the sound of my shoes squeaking on the floor when I heard a chuckle. A distinct, man-like chuckle that was absolutely not coming from Sophie.
So Kate's parents hired me to stay at their house last night to watch Kate and her older sister, as their mom and dad were going out of town and Shirtless Irish Houseguest (herein referred to as Niall, for that is his name) was on call at the emergency room all night. The girls were great, we had a wild fun time, yadda yadda yadda, and then at about midnight Sophie (Kate's eight-year-old sister) came downstairs and informed me that she'd woken up and couldn't fall back to sleep. Being the consummate professional that I am, I have a long list of tactics for just such a situation. An hour later, I had exhausted them all and found that the only thing that would send the little Sophster off to dreamland was if I sat on the floor by her bed - perfectly still - and held her hand. For an hour and a half. And let me tell you, that kid has one hell of a grip.
The trouble was, even after she finally fell asleep her hold on my fingers was like iron. Every time I attempted to disengage, her death grip only tightened. So I was slowly attempting to extricate myself, gingerly freeing one finger at a time from the tiny, bone-crushing hand of doom, humming "Hey Jude" (the lullaby that had finally done the trick) under my breath to cover the sound of my shoes squeaking on the floor when I heard a chuckle. A distinct, man-like chuckle that was absolutely not coming from Sophie.
( (Read on...) )