Rambling Rhodes

I don't want a crybaby

According to the frantic blast of 24/7 news I'm inundated by almost every day, I'm supposed to be thinking deep thoughts about healthcare reform, and I should be at the edge of my seat worrying about what we're going to do in Afghanistan, and I should stay in very close proximity of the fainting couch just in case the economy takes another dive.

And I don't even OWN a fainting couch.

As it is, despite a world that is apparently tearing itself apart from its head to its buttocks, my most immediate, pressing and important concerns revolve entirely around trying to keep a baby from crying.

The sound of a crying baby. . . check that. . . the sound of MY crying baby has become the sound by which all of my recent life decisions and actions have been taken. I will go to extremes never before considered possible to prevent or limit the sound of my baby boy crying.

Consider:

-- I will change diapers most haz-mat workers wouldn't dream of approaching.

-- I will engage in babbling dialogue so inane, even the cats think I'm mentally challenged.

-- Speaking of the cats, I've sprayed them with a water bottle several times for "meowing too close to the baby." As bizarre as it sounds, I deem it a necessary act.

-- I will carry a baby around the house until my arms are on the verge of full revolt and seccession.

-- I will turn the television volume down so low, it can only be detected by satellite dishes operated by the Search for Extraterrestial Intelligence (SETI).

-- I will sleep so far on the edge of my bed, I wake up sometimes wondering if I am, in fact, levitating.

-- I have subconsciously learned where every squeak exists on our hardwood floors, to the point I look like a ninja attempting to sneak his way through a feudal Japanese enemy castle.

-- I will actually resist flushing the toilet if I know the baby is sleeping in the next room, and you wouldn't BELIEVE some of the stuff I've left behind for later flushing, either.

-- I've been known to actually get silently enraged at the mailman, a man I've never even met, for delivering the mail "too loudly."

-- I've developed an entirely new, silent form of gesture-based communication with my wife, which we use to convey surprisingly complex conversations.

-- Although it hasn't been as much of an issue since the temperatures dropped to more winter-like norms, I nevertheless seem to recall sacrificing a chicken within a pentagram in my basement, chanting in Latin an ancient curse meant to bring about the complete, irreversible destruction of every Harley-Davidson motorcycle ever created.

-- I considered writing a lengthy plea to the local police and first responder units to please, please, PLEASE start using some form of whisper-quiet siren.

-- I started working in my garage on a new form of whisper-quiet siren. Once complete, I'm planning on marketing it as the "Shhhhhhhhhh!" I'm confident I'll make a fortune on it, especially once new parents start lobbying their city councils to approve the new siren on all emergency vehicles.

-- I've amended my nightly prayers to include the line: "And God, thanks for holding off on the thunderstorms since the baby arrived; keep up the good work on that one."

And that's just been the first two months. I can't imagine how long the list will be after six months, although it probably won't be quite as long as the healthcare reform bill working its way through Congress.

Nothing should be that long.

Posted by Ryan at November 18, 2009 05:30 PM | TrackBack