There was no post yesterday because my child was sick. I'm not sure what was wrong with her, but she seems better today. Believe it or not, the vague nature of that statement reflects my growth as a parent over the last 22 months.
After she was born, we kept her in the hospital room with us rather than sending her to the nursery. One night I noticed that she was having difficulty breathing and frantically pressed the emergency button for help. No one arrived within the 30 second window that I was willing to wait so I put her in the little plastic hospital baby cart and ran full speed down the hall to the nursery. I started banging on the door like a lunatic, "Help, help, my baby can't breathe. Do something!" The nurse opened the door, looked at my daughter for all of three seconds and started laughing. Another one walked over to see what the commotion was and in between laughing the nurse relayed my concern, "He says the baby can't breathe." The second nurse looked at my daughter and started laughing too.
I went into CIA mode real quick. I was thinking, "I don't know who these inept, heartless wenches are but I see a sink in the background and a receiving blanket. Someone is getting waterboarded until I get the help my kid needs." The first nurse couldn't stop laughing so the second one put her hand on my shoulder and said, "She has the hiccups, sir" before bursting into laughter again.
Keeping my paranoia under control in the beginning was a challenge to say the least. I didn't get much sleep because I kept waking up to make sure she was still breathing. I found myself playing CSI with her diapers, trying to analyze the liquids (and solids) that came out of her. If she so much as sneezed I was checking the house for pollutants and every time she caught a cold I saw it as a personal failure on my part to protect her from life.
Over time, however, that changes. Your worrying can fire on all cylinders for only so long. Either you burn out or you find yourself earning an honorary doctorate in Pathology thanks to all the calls to the nurses line, trips to the doctor and research on the internet. I'm the latter and I've evolved. If it won't result in a broken bone, lacerations or pregnancy...have fun. The other day she licked the elevator floor and I was like, "Meh, she'll be alright."
Friday, May 11, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Girl Power
So yesterday I found myself in Toys R Us with my daughter again and it went surprisingly well. The first time I took her in there people just laughed at me like, "What a noob. You don't take kids in a toy store." Back then she was on her "Rose from Titanic" thing trying to jump out of the cart to get back to the Elmo aisle (You jump, I jump). This time, however, I was proud as hell.
I explained to her a long time ago that Elmo, Mickey and everyone else she sees actually live in the toy store and if we were to take them home then it'd be kidnapping. Now I don't know how much of that she actually internalized (more than likely, none of it) but she happily played with every toy I handed her in the cart and as we got close to the register she started handing me toys to put back on the shelf. She even waved goodbye to them. (My parenting DVD will be on sale starting Friday for just $9.99)
Yesterday was a learning experience on all fronts. I went in there for a toy baby stroller so that she could stop pushing the real one around the house. I realized yesterday that I've never actually been down the "girl side" of a toy store before. All of the little kid toys are usually in the unisex preschool section. Toy strollers fall into the doll baby category and things in that category are kept in the Land of Estrogen. It's a world that I never ventured into before.
As a little boy, you stay in the action figure section. Everything is dark and blue and manly. Even things like yo-yo's and rubiks cubes have explosions and guns on the packaging. So when the guy pointed me in the direction of a Barbie endcap, I found myself picking up a Nerf bat for protection.
I don't know if the stuff I saw was new or something they've been selling for years but there are a lot of "women of the night" play kits in those aisles. There's makeup and fake fingernails, Hello Kitty hooker galoshes and even realistic looking doll babies. I saw one that potty trains and pees. No wonder girls are more mature. That would be like GI Joe coming with an amputation kit and a coffin draped with a miniature American flag. What the hell man?
I wasn't alone in my confusion. I saw two men on separate aisles looking just as disturbed and lost as I was. Both of them were looking at a piece of paper which lets me know that some little girl gave them a list of what they wanted and they have no clue what or where the hell it is. I found the stroller I was looking for and followed my bread crumb trail back to civilization.
[caption id="attachment_2196" align="alignnone" width="604"]
I dropped my masculinity in there somewhere, but I'm too afraid to go back and get it.[/caption]
I explained to her a long time ago that Elmo, Mickey and everyone else she sees actually live in the toy store and if we were to take them home then it'd be kidnapping. Now I don't know how much of that she actually internalized (more than likely, none of it) but she happily played with every toy I handed her in the cart and as we got close to the register she started handing me toys to put back on the shelf. She even waved goodbye to them. (My parenting DVD will be on sale starting Friday for just $9.99)
Yesterday was a learning experience on all fronts. I went in there for a toy baby stroller so that she could stop pushing the real one around the house. I realized yesterday that I've never actually been down the "girl side" of a toy store before. All of the little kid toys are usually in the unisex preschool section. Toy strollers fall into the doll baby category and things in that category are kept in the Land of Estrogen. It's a world that I never ventured into before.
As a little boy, you stay in the action figure section. Everything is dark and blue and manly. Even things like yo-yo's and rubiks cubes have explosions and guns on the packaging. So when the guy pointed me in the direction of a Barbie endcap, I found myself picking up a Nerf bat for protection.
I don't know if the stuff I saw was new or something they've been selling for years but there are a lot of "women of the night" play kits in those aisles. There's makeup and fake fingernails, Hello Kitty hooker galoshes and even realistic looking doll babies. I saw one that potty trains and pees. No wonder girls are more mature. That would be like GI Joe coming with an amputation kit and a coffin draped with a miniature American flag. What the hell man?
I wasn't alone in my confusion. I saw two men on separate aisles looking just as disturbed and lost as I was. Both of them were looking at a piece of paper which lets me know that some little girl gave them a list of what they wanted and they have no clue what or where the hell it is. I found the stroller I was looking for and followed my bread crumb trail back to civilization.
[caption id="attachment_2196" align="alignnone" width="604"]
I dropped my masculinity in there somewhere, but I'm too afraid to go back and get it.[/caption]
Monday, May 7, 2012
Welcome to DC Part 2: The Metro
For those just tuning in, we're talking about what I love about DC that caused me to move back here. A lot of my out of town friends are considering moving here and often ask me to sell this place to them. At the same time a lot of people I grew up with who moved away are considering moving back and want to know if it's still home sweet home. So here we go...The Metro.
The company that runs the transit system is called WMATA (pronounced: Meh-trow-fuh-kin-sux). Still, most of us just refer to the whole system as "Metro." Metro can be described like a 1990 Nissan Z. Back in 1990 it was a good car. In 2012, however, it sucks and you're lucky if you make it to your destination alive. The system is 30 years old, underfunded, mismanaged and thus not able to live up to it's former glory from the time before I went to college. But, I'll get to what went wrong later. Let's focus on our tourist brethren.
There are five lines Blue, Orange, Green, Yellow and Red. It's a common misconception that the Green Line is the Middle Passage for ghetto Black people in this city. Let me be the first to dispel that hateful, ignorant and insensitive myth. ALL of the lines are the Middle Passage for ghetto Black people depending on where you get on them. Here's a map:
[caption id="attachment_2186" align="alignnone" width="604"]
Warning: Staring at this in the station will get you robbed.[/caption]
Okay here's what you need to know for your own safety:
This concludes our focus on tourists. This last part is for the original DC folks. Metro sucks now. Where it used to cost $2 to get from Anacostia to the ends of the Earth, you're now lucky if two dollars will get you down the elevator to the platform. They do trackwork every weekend now so they single track or shut down complete stations. During the week, it's not uncommon for trains to break down and people to get stranded. We don't even refer to them as "escalators" anymore. They're just metal staircases because they never work. There's no such thing as A/C on the trains anymore and they raise fares whenever the hell they feel like it. The new fare increase will now assess a $1 surcharge for anyone using a paper farecard. So yeah...they suck now. You have a better chance doing what my wife said...saddle up a squirrel and ride that shit to work.
As for the bus...it really isn't that bad. Nothing has changed much. You're safe as long as you're on it and not in front of it. They tend to hit people, run lights and crash into cars on occasion, but what else is new?
The company that runs the transit system is called WMATA (pronounced: Meh-trow-fuh-kin-sux). Still, most of us just refer to the whole system as "Metro." Metro can be described like a 1990 Nissan Z. Back in 1990 it was a good car. In 2012, however, it sucks and you're lucky if you make it to your destination alive. The system is 30 years old, underfunded, mismanaged and thus not able to live up to it's former glory from the time before I went to college. But, I'll get to what went wrong later. Let's focus on our tourist brethren.
There are five lines Blue, Orange, Green, Yellow and Red. It's a common misconception that the Green Line is the Middle Passage for ghetto Black people in this city. Let me be the first to dispel that hateful, ignorant and insensitive myth. ALL of the lines are the Middle Passage for ghetto Black people depending on where you get on them. Here's a map:
[caption id="attachment_2186" align="alignnone" width="604"]
Warning: Staring at this in the station will get you robbed.[/caption]Okay here's what you need to know for your own safety:
- As a tourist, you belong at the Smithsonian Station and Woodley Park Zoo. Stay away from any other places. They're not all bad, but you'll just get lost or get in the way of people trying to get to work on time. For the love of God, if you do end up somewhere else please remember "LEFT SIDE WALK, RIGHT SIDE STAND." That means that you don't get to stand next to your loved ones on the escalator. You'll meet them again when the ride is over. Heaven forbid you have to turn your neck around to them standing behind you to continue your conversation.
- L'enfant Plaza heading South on the Green Line is the point of no return. I don't care how lost you are, get off!!! If you find yourself missing that stop, put on your angriest face. Talk to yourself, drool, do something to make you look crazy and then get off at Waterfront and run to catch the train going back the opposite way. If one isn't there, then drop into the trackbed and just run on foot.
- The same goes for the Blue and Orange lines heading East once you get to Stadium Armory. There may be a few friendly faces, but they know better than to help you if things go south.
- If you want to study race and socio-economic class, then I invite you to catch the Red line. From the "right side" of the map you'll find a lot of Black people. From Silver Spring to Gallery Place it's mostly negroes. 70% will get off at Gallery Place to get on the aforementioned Green line. Then you'll arrive at Metro Center where things get really interesting. The train is gonna get a lot brighter as just about all of the remaining Black people get off at Metro Center to catch the Blue and Orange lines while an endless sea of White people get on from that point. There will be a handful of Black people peppered throughout the train but 9 times outta 10 they're on their way to UDC.
- Finally, as a tourist it is your duty to stay off the metro during rush hour. We want to get to work on time. We don't have time for you to lollygag as the train pulls up because you don't know the rules of "GET ON! or GET THE HELL OFF!" You also don't understand that your Autobot sized stroller doesn't belong in the middle of the aisle during this "transition period." Standing near the door without a sense of purpose will get you mowed down by an angry mob of people in khakis and business-casual, so just chill in the hotel room until after 9:00.
This concludes our focus on tourists. This last part is for the original DC folks. Metro sucks now. Where it used to cost $2 to get from Anacostia to the ends of the Earth, you're now lucky if two dollars will get you down the elevator to the platform. They do trackwork every weekend now so they single track or shut down complete stations. During the week, it's not uncommon for trains to break down and people to get stranded. We don't even refer to them as "escalators" anymore. They're just metal staircases because they never work. There's no such thing as A/C on the trains anymore and they raise fares whenever the hell they feel like it. The new fare increase will now assess a $1 surcharge for anyone using a paper farecard. So yeah...they suck now. You have a better chance doing what my wife said...saddle up a squirrel and ride that shit to work.
As for the bus...it really isn't that bad. Nothing has changed much. You're safe as long as you're on it and not in front of it. They tend to hit people, run lights and crash into cars on occasion, but what else is new?
Friday, May 4, 2012
Welcome to DC: Part 1-The Carryout
DC seems to be a hotspot lately and I must be its ambassador. I have a few friend from high school who are considering moving back and then I have friends that I met in NC who are considering moving here for the first time. All of them ask me the same question: Should I do it? Why or why not? Someone even asked me why the hometown love is absent from this blog. Today we're gonna tackle life's greatest mystery...
Why would an otherwise happy man choose to move to this godforsaken place?
First off, even though I constantly down it and post stories of the craziest things going on here, I love this city. As a matter of fact, anyone who knew me between 2000 and 2008 probably got sick of hearing me talk about how great DC is. I even had a miniature DC flag posted up in my cubicle right beside a Rock Creek Soda label and a Full Yum's Carryout Menu.
It's hard to say off the bat what I love about this place. Much the same way that we don't recognize how strong our love was for a person until they're gone from our lives, so was the case with DC. During my eight years in NC I managed to compile a list of things absent from my life and I'm gonna share em with ya. So today marks the beginning of the "Welcome to DC" series. For our first entry, we're gonna talk about the lifeblood of Washington, DC and no, it's not the Metro. We're talking about The Carryout.
I went to college in NC and the first thing I noticed was that there were no carryouts. There were places that sold Chinese food but that's not a carryout. Per Roget's Dictionary:
carryout- (noun) A semi-rundown establishment located on every third corner within a city wherein the staff serves such a bountiful selection of items that it is implausible that they turn a profit. Selections include, but are not limited to: Chinese Food, Pizza, Rib tips, rotisserie chickens, hot and cold sub sandwiches, fried and steamed seafood, gyros, hamburgers, mozzarella sticks and last, but not least, chicken wings with mumbo sauce.
You could go into any carryout right now within the DC area (I'm typing this at 11:59 pm on a Thursday) and not only are they still open, but they can cook everything I just listed and have it all ready in 10 minutes. I could call and order a poached pigeon breast filet in a white wine and three-eyed Potomac River fish reduction sauce and at most they'd tell me it'd take an extra five minutes to procure the fish.
And they don't stop at just normal food items either. A decent carryout also sells sodas, candy, Mystics and Everfresh are the official sports drink of the DC carryout. They have cigarettes (loose and whole packs), blunts, Black and Milds, cheesecake and carrot cake slices. I used to go to one that sold knit caps with Redskins and Cowboys logos, t-shirts and even went to one that did passport photos.
And to secure all of these items, they take precautions. For starters they're behind two inches of bulletproof glass. Whatever business you can't transact by talking through a little slit in the glass or food that you can't receive through a bulletproof turnstile just isn't that important.
Now I'm not gonna pretend the food is healthy. I'm offering ten dollars to the person who can provide photographic evidence of a delivery truck dropping food off at a carryout. I'm not racist nor ignorant enough to perpetuate the rumor that it's cats and dogs. That's just an ignorant thing to say, but I'm not gonna lie and say those are real chicken wings. I know pterodactyl when I see it. You ain't never seen a chickenthatbig in your life. It could be a penguin wing for all I care. As long as it's still $4 for four wings and mumbo sauce then I'm good.
And finally...mumbo sauce. The origin of mumbo sauce is probably something that would be told with the same visual grace and dynamic storytelling as the intro to the first Lord of the Rings movie. I'm sure some recipe was forged in the fires of Mt. Doom and half was given to the elves while some were given to the dwarves and finally the race of man. Sadly, no one knows that story by heart so all of us respond the same way when asked what the hell it is:I don't know.My theory is that it's a mixture of ketchup, BBQ and sweet and sour sauce, but what do I know? It could be the blood of those pterodactyls where they're getting the wings. All I know is that a chicken wing isn't a chicken wing unless it's drowned in mumbo sauce.
Why would an otherwise happy man choose to move to this godforsaken place?
First off, even though I constantly down it and post stories of the craziest things going on here, I love this city. As a matter of fact, anyone who knew me between 2000 and 2008 probably got sick of hearing me talk about how great DC is. I even had a miniature DC flag posted up in my cubicle right beside a Rock Creek Soda label and a Full Yum's Carryout Menu.
It's hard to say off the bat what I love about this place. Much the same way that we don't recognize how strong our love was for a person until they're gone from our lives, so was the case with DC. During my eight years in NC I managed to compile a list of things absent from my life and I'm gonna share em with ya. So today marks the beginning of the "Welcome to DC" series. For our first entry, we're gonna talk about the lifeblood of Washington, DC and no, it's not the Metro. We're talking about The Carryout.
I went to college in NC and the first thing I noticed was that there were no carryouts. There were places that sold Chinese food but that's not a carryout. Per Roget's Dictionary:
carryout- (noun) A semi-rundown establishment located on every third corner within a city wherein the staff serves such a bountiful selection of items that it is implausible that they turn a profit. Selections include, but are not limited to: Chinese Food, Pizza, Rib tips, rotisserie chickens, hot and cold sub sandwiches, fried and steamed seafood, gyros, hamburgers, mozzarella sticks and last, but not least, chicken wings with mumbo sauce.
You could go into any carryout right now within the DC area (I'm typing this at 11:59 pm on a Thursday) and not only are they still open, but they can cook everything I just listed and have it all ready in 10 minutes. I could call and order a poached pigeon breast filet in a white wine and three-eyed Potomac River fish reduction sauce and at most they'd tell me it'd take an extra five minutes to procure the fish.
And they don't stop at just normal food items either. A decent carryout also sells sodas, candy, Mystics and Everfresh are the official sports drink of the DC carryout. They have cigarettes (loose and whole packs), blunts, Black and Milds, cheesecake and carrot cake slices. I used to go to one that sold knit caps with Redskins and Cowboys logos, t-shirts and even went to one that did passport photos.
And to secure all of these items, they take precautions. For starters they're behind two inches of bulletproof glass. Whatever business you can't transact by talking through a little slit in the glass or food that you can't receive through a bulletproof turnstile just isn't that important.
Now I'm not gonna pretend the food is healthy. I'm offering ten dollars to the person who can provide photographic evidence of a delivery truck dropping food off at a carryout. I'm not racist nor ignorant enough to perpetuate the rumor that it's cats and dogs. That's just an ignorant thing to say, but I'm not gonna lie and say those are real chicken wings. I know pterodactyl when I see it. You ain't never seen a chickenthatbig in your life. It could be a penguin wing for all I care. As long as it's still $4 for four wings and mumbo sauce then I'm good.
And finally...mumbo sauce. The origin of mumbo sauce is probably something that would be told with the same visual grace and dynamic storytelling as the intro to the first Lord of the Rings movie. I'm sure some recipe was forged in the fires of Mt. Doom and half was given to the elves while some were given to the dwarves and finally the race of man. Sadly, no one knows that story by heart so all of us respond the same way when asked what the hell it is:I don't know.My theory is that it's a mixture of ketchup, BBQ and sweet and sour sauce, but what do I know? It could be the blood of those pterodactyls where they're getting the wings. All I know is that a chicken wing isn't a chicken wing unless it's drowned in mumbo sauce.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Avengers Assemble
The Avengers comes out at midnight tonight and I'll be first in line to see it. It's like two and a half hours long so I won't get home until like three, but it's cool. I don't mind missing out on sleep if the movie is as good as people say it is.
I'm sorry, where are my manners? I meant to italicize the above statement. That's what the "me" in an alternate universe is saying right now to his friends. You remember that guy, right? I wrote about him a while back. It's "Childless Me" who has the superpower of doing whatever the hell he wants whenever he wants (He's not as powerful as "Wifeless Me" from Parallel Universe #3, but I digress).
Yeah, I'm sure that guy's gonna have a great time tonight. He'll probably be there with all his non-diaper/non-Gerber/non-baby's-health-insurance-premium appropriated money buying out the concession stand like the baller that he is. Meanwhile in this world, our hero will be donning his unibomber hoodie lined with chips, a Sprite, Wildberry Skittles and Reeses Pieces as he goes to the matinee on Sunday when the movie is only six dollars.
It's not just about the money though. I can make peace with spending it on a good movie. I can't stand to part ways with the more valuable commodity...sleep! Every morning as the sun comes up and the wife gets ready to leave me with the child I find myself laying in bed thinking about all the organs I'd be willing to sell for just two more hours of sleep. I can't bring myself to give up 3 hours of sleep just to watch a movie. I can't do it...at least not in this world. Darkwing Baby (the terror that flaps in the night) would kill me the next day.
So I raise my glass to all those people who can... in this world and the next.
I'm sorry, where are my manners? I meant to italicize the above statement. That's what the "me" in an alternate universe is saying right now to his friends. You remember that guy, right? I wrote about him a while back. It's "Childless Me" who has the superpower of doing whatever the hell he wants whenever he wants (He's not as powerful as "Wifeless Me" from Parallel Universe #3, but I digress).
Yeah, I'm sure that guy's gonna have a great time tonight. He'll probably be there with all his non-diaper/non-Gerber/non-baby's-health-insurance-premium appropriated money buying out the concession stand like the baller that he is. Meanwhile in this world, our hero will be donning his unibomber hoodie lined with chips, a Sprite, Wildberry Skittles and Reeses Pieces as he goes to the matinee on Sunday when the movie is only six dollars.
It's not just about the money though. I can make peace with spending it on a good movie. I can't stand to part ways with the more valuable commodity...sleep! Every morning as the sun comes up and the wife gets ready to leave me with the child I find myself laying in bed thinking about all the organs I'd be willing to sell for just two more hours of sleep. I can't bring myself to give up 3 hours of sleep just to watch a movie. I can't do it...at least not in this world. Darkwing Baby (the terror that flaps in the night) would kill me the next day.
So I raise my glass to all those people who can... in this world and the next.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Energizer
Daddy's Log 5.2.12
Nuclear powered children. I scoffed at the idea when it was first suggested to me years ago. Newborns sleep 18 hours a day. You expect me to believe that two years from now this person will outrun the sun? I was so young back then and my naivety was surpassed only by my lack of preparation for this moment. This child doesn't sleep. Put her to bed at 9pm and she'll be up at midnight doing lines of No-Doz.
At one point when I was at my lowest, I actually considered this an honor. People stand in absurdly long lines for a cellphone that boasts the best battery life and here I am with a child who can get 18 hours on one charge. Snap out of it. She must be stopped. It would be a colossal failure on my part, were she to end up in the hands of government scientists. I must prove to them and the world once and for all that she is not "Unbreakable."
Yesterday I conducted an experiment with the scientists from The University of Me. Our hypothesis: The child will sleep if the appropriate energy discharge station is found. I took her on an 10 mile bike ride in her trailer. I then stopped at Gravelly Point Park and let her run up and down the field for an hour. We then went to the park where we played with her bouncy ball and blew bubbles that we chased around the park. This lasted for another hour. She then began to show signs of fatigue so I tricked her into thinking she could sleep in her stroller. As a sign of mercy I allowed her to take an 8 minute power nap as I walked from the park to the playground where I woke her up and let her play for another hour.
By the end of the 3 hour exercise, my wife had made it home. She bathed the child and fed her. We both donned smug grins as we watched the child's eyes grow heavy and her head start to do that "wobbly thing" that precedes sleep. It was 7pm. Two minutes later, the child was asleep. Two minutes after that, the child was awake again and would remain so until 11pm. The experiment was a failure. The child awoke at 7 this morning humming the theme from Gremlins.
[caption id="attachment_2168" align="alignnone" width="364" caption="I'll get you Gadget, next time. Next time!"]
[/caption]
Nuclear powered children. I scoffed at the idea when it was first suggested to me years ago. Newborns sleep 18 hours a day. You expect me to believe that two years from now this person will outrun the sun? I was so young back then and my naivety was surpassed only by my lack of preparation for this moment. This child doesn't sleep. Put her to bed at 9pm and she'll be up at midnight doing lines of No-Doz.
At one point when I was at my lowest, I actually considered this an honor. People stand in absurdly long lines for a cellphone that boasts the best battery life and here I am with a child who can get 18 hours on one charge. Snap out of it. She must be stopped. It would be a colossal failure on my part, were she to end up in the hands of government scientists. I must prove to them and the world once and for all that she is not "Unbreakable."
Yesterday I conducted an experiment with the scientists from The University of Me. Our hypothesis: The child will sleep if the appropriate energy discharge station is found. I took her on an 10 mile bike ride in her trailer. I then stopped at Gravelly Point Park and let her run up and down the field for an hour. We then went to the park where we played with her bouncy ball and blew bubbles that we chased around the park. This lasted for another hour. She then began to show signs of fatigue so I tricked her into thinking she could sleep in her stroller. As a sign of mercy I allowed her to take an 8 minute power nap as I walked from the park to the playground where I woke her up and let her play for another hour.
By the end of the 3 hour exercise, my wife had made it home. She bathed the child and fed her. We both donned smug grins as we watched the child's eyes grow heavy and her head start to do that "wobbly thing" that precedes sleep. It was 7pm. Two minutes later, the child was asleep. Two minutes after that, the child was awake again and would remain so until 11pm. The experiment was a failure. The child awoke at 7 this morning humming the theme from Gremlins.
[caption id="attachment_2168" align="alignnone" width="364" caption="I'll get you Gadget, next time. Next time!"]
[/caption]
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
State of the Union
Daddy's Log 5.1.12
You would think Mickey Mouse was Hezekiah Walker or something considering the way that this child jumps, convulses and shouts at the screen whenever The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse comes on. Because she only knows about fifty words, everything she says sounds like she's speaking in tongues anyway. What happened to the kid that I could just prop up on the couch with a Boppy and leave a flashlight pointed at the ceiling to entertain? Someone is plotting on me.
You could say I'm going crazy. 664 continuous days of 4-6 hours of sleep each night while tending to a 2 foot tall tyrannical dictator each day would drive someone insane. Or maybe that's just what they want you to think. It's easier to say I'm nuts than to admit the truth: There is something supernatural at play. It seems like each day she grows stronger while I grow weaker. Her powers of influence eclipse my own and whereas I once bent others to my will through my gift of debate and logical persuasion, she can move mountains and make men do her bidding with a simple wail--an endless, shrieking, forceful and thunderous wail.The devil's hands have truly been busy.
I have remained the same height for over ten years, yet in just a year's time her size has nearly doubled. She calls my peek-a-boo ruse and raises me one "I'll run away from you and hide in the store. Now, 'where's baby?'" She's been here before. She lords over her toys. I find scores of Elmos following me with their eyes. Toys peer at me through half closed closet doors, and she taunts me while I'm in the bath by standing, staring and grasping an iPhone as if to say, "This could be a toaster. You've been warned."
Message received.
A civil war looms on the horizon. I can delay it maybe another 12-13 years, but something tells me that when this child turns 16, no one in this house will be safe.
You would think Mickey Mouse was Hezekiah Walker or something considering the way that this child jumps, convulses and shouts at the screen whenever The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse comes on. Because she only knows about fifty words, everything she says sounds like she's speaking in tongues anyway. What happened to the kid that I could just prop up on the couch with a Boppy and leave a flashlight pointed at the ceiling to entertain? Someone is plotting on me.
You could say I'm going crazy. 664 continuous days of 4-6 hours of sleep each night while tending to a 2 foot tall tyrannical dictator each day would drive someone insane. Or maybe that's just what they want you to think. It's easier to say I'm nuts than to admit the truth: There is something supernatural at play. It seems like each day she grows stronger while I grow weaker. Her powers of influence eclipse my own and whereas I once bent others to my will through my gift of debate and logical persuasion, she can move mountains and make men do her bidding with a simple wail--an endless, shrieking, forceful and thunderous wail.The devil's hands have truly been busy.
I have remained the same height for over ten years, yet in just a year's time her size has nearly doubled. She calls my peek-a-boo ruse and raises me one "I'll run away from you and hide in the store. Now, 'where's baby?'" She's been here before. She lords over her toys. I find scores of Elmos following me with their eyes. Toys peer at me through half closed closet doors, and she taunts me while I'm in the bath by standing, staring and grasping an iPhone as if to say, "This could be a toaster. You've been warned."
Message received.
A civil war looms on the horizon. I can delay it maybe another 12-13 years, but something tells me that when this child turns 16, no one in this house will be safe.
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