I sometimes joke with my sister that being around her kid has convinced me to have none of my own. About 50% of the time that joke is a joke, and the rest of the time it’s not.
My nephew is the cutest kid. He’s a little sweetheart with a contagious laugh and a set of iron lungs. Before noon he’s a little cherub, completely sweet and lovely and beyond reproach. But then it hits noon and its like the proverbial full moon bringing out the werewolves.
He screams and screams and screams. They say he’s teething, which makes sense. He can’t keep his hands out of his mouth and the drool never ever ends. There are puddles round the house. I kid you not.
And then of course there’s the part where his momma is on crutches for the next few months and needs help with everything. I mean that’s not her fault but the little tyke is a menace. A baby shouldn’t be crying for a solid six hours a day. He’s had his diaper changed, he’s been fed, he’s been burped, he’s been held and hugged and cajoled. There is nothing left wanting. It’s just the teething.
The goddamned teething.
When I tell you that when this angel cries for hours and hours every day, it breaks my heart, it means that it breaks my heart for about 45 minutes. Then it just drives me crazy for the next five hours.
Do moms get a special hormone that helps them deal with the crazy? Cause I haven’t gotten that, cause I’m not a mom. And my sister who can’t even walk on her own right now just has this look of patient angelic resignation as she hugs and sings this kid to sleep. (Not that that lasts more than 2 minutes on average.) How does she keep that eager smile on her face?
Maybe I’m just not the mom type. If I wasn’t still so annoyed with not being able to hear my thoughts over the sound of the baby wailing, I might be upset by that conclusion.
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