Dear Mr. Baby:
I know it must be extremely difficult to be unable to say what you want. If I had to guess which side of the gene pool your recalcitrance and Olympic-sized opinions come from, it would be.....your dad's. But I'm hoping we can have some sort of cease-fire. One like maybe where, until you can say something (I don't care how loudly right now, I really don't, I just want the perpetuity to end), you just accept that some stuff will not be what you want. And stop yelling. In return I shall continue to be a Perfect Mother, and try my best not to kill you. I shall now outline my argument for you:
So a month ago, when you started to scream about having your pants changed, it was anybody's guess what the hell was bothering you about it, and, well, Mr. Baby, it still is anybody's guess what you find so goddam irritating about somebody removing a big gooey shit from your pants. (I'm happy to tell you what I find annoying about it, if you ever feel like listening to something).
Also a month ago you started screaming in your high chair, and even though I walk around making stupid faces and shrugging Chaplinesquely and bellowing ''What could the baby want?'' in some weird cartoon voice, I'll just be honest and tell you: I know what you want. You want a delicious meal to just shoot right out of somebody's ass, steaming hot and ready to go. We all want that, Mr. Baby. But since the psychology books all say you're so incredibly observant, I thought maybe you would key in on a few things while you sat there screaming and watching me. Like it takes time to mash bananas, and put things in bowls, and turn frozen food into thawed food. Not much time, but some time. I thought you would think, "'Oh. My screaming doesn't remove time from the equations governing the laws of physics, so I could just maybe shut up because people are running around and doing it as fast as they fucking can. Look at them running frantically, like little elves. Hey, I'm being a huge dick!''
Also about a month ago, you got really pissed off about clothing, socks more than pants, and pants more than shirts. Simultaneously you began bitching because your feet are cold, and also began making these ostentatious shivering sounds with your four new little teeth. It's really over the top. The best part about this is that I get additional shit from everyone who sees you in bare feet at the grocery store. Bad mother, they are saying with their eyes. Look at the poor little frozen angel.
And then it seems like things aren't really going your way. The potty won't open, the pages of your book stick together, the whole floor is not magically elevated to the height of your blocks container and so you fall down, people keep telling you you can't stick your fingers in outlets or smash clay birds repeatedly into the windowpane, Fred is a terribly unreliable source of support as you're trying to walk, etc., etc. There's also a bunch of crap I don't understand, like why you are yelling at the curtains or insist on giving a lecture to the bicycle pedals like they're half-deaf.
The point is, you've been screaming about all of this for about a month now, and I just want to point out, for the sake of reason and logic - those most endangered of human faculties in these parts - that your screaming hasn't changed a goddam thing. Down is still down, glass is still not for babies, poop has to be wiped down and I'm still going to tie those booties on your feet if I have to sit on you, god damn it. And I know you aren't getting any votes for Most Logical around here, what with your whole frontal lobe basically missing for another ten years, but....I don't know, Mr. Baby? Does that suggest anything to you?
And just....finally, I just want to say this on a somewhat related note: Mr. Baby, I am not responsible for gravity. There's no one I can talk to about it, no little switch I can flip, no little trick I can do. OK? So quit yelling and giving me dirty looks about it.
