The Six Million Euro Man, and other sordid tales

There are moments when you just feel like your humor and your entire range of references goes unsavored by your spouse. For example, yesterday Thomas came home and stripped down to reveal a heart monitor which he had to wear for 24 hours as part of some exams he's had done. I immediately burst out in a rousing rendition of Styx's massive 80's hit "Mr. Roboto", and was rewarded with just a blank stare.
Tragic, but true. That's when you wince to yourself and say "Dang, I almost forgot for a minute there...." and then you think sheepishly "Not only does this reconfirm that I married out of my culture, but I also cradle-robbed, if this guy doesn't even recognize Mr. Roboto, or the name Styx even. Dang."

In other news, Her Highness seems to be possibly (knock on French wood) on the upswing? Had a perfect day at the nanny's yesterday where she went down for naps with no fussing and slept well, and last night hit the pillow for 12 hours without a peep. Mr. Roboto and I (yes, he had to sleep with that thing strapped on last night - which incidentally felt a little like I was in the 1970's thriller film "Coma", which p.s. I didn't even both asking him if he had heard of.....) woke up and looked at each other and said "C'est pas possible!".
To celebrate, here are photos of her today, playing in her crib, and, to my surprise, the last shot: I plopped her on the floor in her room while I picked up toys in the living room and when I came back, she was babbling away to herself and seemed to be intently reading a book. In French. Yikes.