taking the passive out of passive-aggressive

Thursday, July 15, 2004

My latest daughter is a tiny, illiterate tyrant. She subjects me to the most awful tortures--carrying her little seventeen-pound self around for two hours while she drinks a bottle, crying at the strangest times and interrupting my mealtimes, keeping me up all day and night. When she says jump, I ask how high. When she demands a strenuous rocking and singing session, I'm warbling "You Are My Sunshine" at the top of my lungs, which she finds endlessly amusing, grinning so wide her binky falls out. When she wants to go outside, we march, all of us, into the sunshine for some serious tree-gazing. Even my older daughter, who previously wouldn't so much as pick up her own socks, is enslaved to this miniature martinet. She says, with a dazed look in her eyes, as she hauls the baby around, "This baby needs fun! And love!"

My husband has no clue. Tonight, he tried to put Queen Bee to bed, and failed; I was having my first shower of the day (yes, it's true) and I marched down the stair buck naked to tell him, "SING GODDAMIT SING! SHE WANTS YOU TO SING!" He piped right up and started singing, with the same dazed look in his eyes, and I laughed. Now he knows--resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.

1 Comments:

At 4:00 PM, Blogger chang said...

It's things like this that make me not want that second kid. Sounds fucking horrible.

I'm good with more cats. They're like five year olds without speech.

 

Post a Comment

<< Home