Monday, March 27, 2006

When Van Gogh Cut His Ear Off, He Must Have Been Babysitting Baby Boy

My parents have now left. Sweetie Pie asked me if I missed them and I didn't know how to answer that, because saying "no" seemed like it would make me sound like a bitch. It's not that I don't love my parents, I do, but I'm a routine girl and having visitors for a week to entertain, especially when the weather was cold and crappy and all of my plans involved outdoor activity means that it was stressful and my perfect little routine was out of whack which made Baby Boy out of whack and he became nightmare baby and continues to be today.

My advice to any of you who are pregnant is once the baby comes, don't allow any visitors until they're 18. We have the Internet now. Family members who want to see the child can use a Webcam or see the thousands of pictures you take on

It's because of statements like this that my mother called me a Nazi last week. Apparently, my not liking the front blind open because people at the door can see me and it leaves me no choice but to open the door makes me a Nazi. And this comes from the person who is so freaking anal that my poor Sweetie Pie feels like he can't even exhale at her house without getting in trouble.

I'm trying to get through to the pediatrician as we speak, because I'm one more bleary-eyed night away from jumping off a cliff. Baby Boy has been an absolute nightmare, refuses to eat and wakes up constantly because he's hungry and yet still won't eat. And I'm at my wit's end and hoping that the woman who went to school for 15 years so that she could figure out what my screaming child wants will have a solution, because except for whiskey, I've tried everything to make this child happy. Hell, that's not true. I've drank whiskey to drown out the screaming, but that damn baby is loud I tell you.

I just got into a fight with him after trying to make him happy since he woke up at 6:30. I told him I'd had enough, stuck him in his crib and told him he could scream in there all day if he wanted, that I was done.

This made me feel like a Romanian orphanage worker, but really, I haven't had a cigarette in two years people and I sure as hell could use a pack or two right now because nicotine always makes things better. And at least then the lung cancer would guarantee me sweet release from this scream-laden life.

Until I got to H-E-Double Hockey Stick anyway. I'm sure there's a lot of screaming down there.



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