Photo by Erica J Photography
What follows is a purely sarcastic, in jest open letter to my littlest love. Please don’t take it seriously and report me. Thanks.
The past 21 months with you have been lovely. Your sweet nature is like a dream, and your silly personality is so precious, sometimes I don’t know whether to grab a camera or just stop and enjoy the show.
That being said, I have a serious bone to pick with you. That’s right, little one. I have some complaints and questions.
Let’s begin with one that pertains to this past or so when you’ve been sick. If someone were to come to me and sacrificially excavate my nostrils so I could breathe and look less grotesque, I think I would be eternally grateful to that person. These words come to mind: “Wow, thank you so much for wiping my disgusting, revolting mucous off of my nose and face so that I don’t need to walk around looking sticky and snotty. FURTHERMORE, may I give an extra thank you to the time when you had to use your bare fingers to ‘go the extra mile’ on some of the stubborn nuggets of germs. I just want to thank you for that and give you a day of pampering so that somehow the solitude and relaxation will magically purge my nostril discharge from your memory.”
But what do I receive as my thanks? Outrage, screaming, tears. As if this is something I purely want to do and am forcing upon you for my own selfish joy and fulfillment. Let me make myself clear: I DON’T WANT TO DEAL WITH YOUR MUCOUS. I do it out of love only to receive ungratefulness and angst in return!
Let’s continue. There are times when you need a nap, are begging for a nap, and yet… I am treated like Satan himself when I try to give you your much needed rest. I have two options: let you cry in your crib or let you cry in the house. Notice that neither of these options include “let you play peacefully” or “let you snuggle lovingly with me”. My only option is chaos, and I am somehow, amazingly at fault for this! I will put it simply as if you were saying it, Daniel: “I am sad because I am tired. I don’t want to sleep, though. Now, I am crying around the house because nothing will soothe me because I just need a nap I don’t want to take, and, oh by the way, you are to blame, Mom. You stink, Mom.”
what. the. junk.
How about the times when you decide you want to throw your toy on the floor from the highchair and then demand and insist that I pick it up for you? Let’s review: You throw on your own volition. I am forced to pick it up against my will or you will scream and cry. This is some sick, twisted involuntary version of fetch! May I remind you that I am not a dog?
Which reminds me, we don’t have a dog. So if you could stop that whole “throwing all food off your highchair” thing, that would be just great. Considering I am not big on wasting food, a little part of my soul dies when I sweep up enough food under your highchair to feed the city of Port Saint Lucie.
Now, moving on to my personal favorite. The beloved diaper change. Do you honestly and truly believe that I as your mother like to change your stinky, poopy diaper? Can you fathom a time when that would give me personal satisfaction, joy, and/or exhilaration? Because you act like I am some sadist who loves to unnecessarily wipe poop that could make a marine hurl when I don’t actually have to. As if the poop will just magically reabsorb and disappear much to the happiness of anyone who has had the pleasure of catching a whiff of it.
You squirm, you scream, you thrash out of my grip only to fall back on… the poop I have just lifted you out of!!!!! I have taken you out of filth and yet you want to return! One word, buddy: rash. But do you think of the future? No! You only think of instant gratification of not having your little bum raised in the air and your ankles held by me. Does it occur to you that it will only take longer and make me hold tighter when you squirm and thrash and get poop all over everything?! I know you are only a year and a half, but COME ON! Let’s think logically, man!
These are my complaints. If you could deal with them in a timely manner, it would really make things run smoother with a lot less drama. If you have any further questions, have your people contact my people… which really just looks like me talking to myself like a psychopath. So basically, just normal stuff around here.
Your Tired, Confused Mother