Wow, as I first read it yesterday, I totally felt like I could've written Metrodad's post, "Take my kid, please!" After reading the 81 comments that followed, I was like, whew, dodged that bullet.
Yet here I go, playing with a loaded gun, and I can't tell if there's a safety lock on it:
- I've got a million non-kid-related things to do that aren't getting done.
- the still-sick kid's hair falls in her Wonka-factory-sized snot bubbles for the hundred and first time, but who's counting?
- fed up at parents' woeful inability to understand her, the kid has replaced 80% of her private language with high-pitched whines. It's the infant equivalent of speaking loudly to a blind person.
- ever the iconoclast, she insists on grabbing the other end of the yogurt-filled spoon, repeatedly.
- did I mention she's teething?
When I handed her off to my wife yesterday afternoon and headed for the train, I'm thinking, "ah, finally," followed immediately by pangs of guilt for even thinking that the solution to my stress is to get away from the kid for a day.
[related: Extolling the benefit of blogs on the radio, Matthew Baldwin explained how there's no way he could tell how he dropped the baby when the yoga ball exploded to the always upbeat members of their parents group.]
Meanwhile, his improvised lullaby lyrics from those first few sleepless weeks have permanently displaced the originals, whatever they were:
No, for real.
Go to sleep.
Or we'll sell you
Previously: More improvised lullaby lyrics