I do complaints and kvetching, that's my thing. I do not specialize, or even dabble in, declarations of unconditional love or ridiculous superlatives about emotions. So, since I feel the need to maintain an image of a semi-decent person and passable parent, I preface my post with the following disclaimer: I love my child and would kill and/or die for him. He's the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. - now on with the bitching....


Since Max got here my capacity for productivity, beyond baby related matters, has been reduced to that of a triple amputee with attention deficit disorder. Where torture is concerned, water boarding is exciting enough to make video tapes worth destroying, but it is easily forgotten that sleep deprivation is also favored by the sadists charged with protecting our way of life (although war crimes would be a more appropriate charge) This baby has no qualms about routinely inflicting cruel and unusual punishment - on the very people that gave him life - by waking us at all hours with demands for food and entertainment. We heave up all 18 lbs of him, clutch him in a two handed wrestling hold, and bounce around in short circular patterns across the room. Smiles and laughter are the gold standard of goals, but sleep, quite contemplation or sleep are preferable to screaming.

Of course I can't blame the baby, he can only do what he knows how to. For my suffering I hold responsible the bizarre instincts within my genes and hormonal juices which compel me to analyze shitty diapers at 3am. Things like that were not a component of my character a few months ago; I never gave human waste a second glance in my pre-parental life. Nature drives me to my own demise by installing within my brain an unreasable program of absolute dedication to this new person.

Given the world's surplus of parents and the epidemic of literacy, I'm sure these thoughts have already been thunk and these words been scratched down a million times by now. There is no shortage of human breeders with a few minutes of free time, a half assed thought and a keyboard. I write anyway. The baby is fussing...