She has suddenly become immeasurably stronger, faster and more willful than the strong, fast, willful baby that she was yesterday. Or the day before that. I don’t know anymore. I can’t remember. Because I am SO FUCKING TIRED.
Not, mind you, from lack of sleep. WonderBaby sleeps through the night; she has done, with the exception of the odd night here and there (and on vacations) since about four months. Ever since we bust free of the swaddle, finally, and got her into her nursery and her crib. Lucky, lucky Bad Mother, you’re saying. Pretty baby sleeps through the night!
Whatfuckingever. If she didn’t sleep through the night I’d be dead by now. So it’s simply Nature’s/God’s/the gods’ small mercy that she sleeps through the night. Because she ain’t interested in sleeping during the day, except for the odd catnap here and there. Or maybe one hour in the morning and THAT’S IT. Nada más. Ya esta.
(Which is why, FYI, I have been lagging in blog socializing. Apologies, apologies. It’s one thing to surf and scroll and comment one-handed when baby is clamped to boob. Quite another when baby is swinging from your hair.)
This might not be so bad if she weren’t a turbo-charged baby hell-bent on world domination. Starting with complete and total domination over Mommy. (Scratch that. Mama. MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA.)
Mama’s her bitch.
It was all light-hearted, really, when I began referring to my bright little baby as Future Ruler of the Known and Unknown Universe. But I should have known. She has been, um, spirited from the very beginning. Her eyes were wide open and she was hollering before she’d even made it all the way out of my life-ushering vagoogoo. She was ready for biznass.
I was thrilled, proud. My baby, warrior princess and future philosopher-queen! Watch out, world. My sweet little despot is going to Kick. Your. Ass.
What I didn’t anticipate: that first, she’d kick mine.
WonderBaby’s hungry? More boobie! And then – lunch! Which must be carefully arranged so that she can feed herself. Unless Mama wants to hear some screaming. So the banana and avocado are broken into slices and set on tray. Cereal is spooned into cup with baby-friendly spoon at hand. And then WonderBaby feeds WonderBaby, until WonderBaby grows tired of feeding WonderBaby and Mama must act NOW to get peas (NO NO NO not bananas avocado cereal those are for WonderBaby hands only! Peas! With new spoon! NOW.)
I would make a joke about visualizing whirled peas or giving peas a chance, but it’s just not funny in a state of war…
WonderBaby wants to move? WonderBaby will walk, thank you very much. Which requires the presence of Mama’s hands for balance. Until we reach the couch/ottoman/rail/cat, and then WonderBaby must be left alone. ALONE. To revel in her standing power.
(That crawling thing of two weeks ago? SOOO two weeks ago. Crawling is reserved for the clinch, for pursuing wayward toys and chasing cats. Otherwise, crawling is for chumps. Walking is where it’s at. Never mind the physical limitations of a 6-and-a-half month old body. If world domination requires upright mobility, upright-mobility-training commences now. NOW.)
(Pictures? Of the standing/walking/tearing at Mama’s arms? OMFG are you kidding? Pictures are now only possible when child is restrained. Or thrashing about in crib.)
WonderBaby wants action? Bash toys. Bash Mama with toys. Climb Mama. Pummel Mama until she agrees to go to the park. Refuse to recline in stroller. Sit straight up clutching toys as stroller bounces over curbs. Then insist upon being carried. Then squirm. Squirm more forcefully. Insist upon being put to ground, feet first, to commence walking. Shriek at any sign of resistance.
Keep pushing that swing, peon! Push or I’ll vomit!
Work that playground like the motherfracking future ruler of the universe that you are. Yeah, you, Hippy-Granny-in-the-straw-hat, you’re her bitch, too. Dance! (Cue hippy granny twirling in circles for the sweet, sweet reward of high-pitched WonderBaby giggles. Hippy granny does not realize that this is the dolphin-pitched war cry of the WonderBaby summoning her Army of Infants. Mothers of Toronto – or of the immediate vicinity of Dufferin Grove Park – if your babies are rattling their crib rails and agitating, it is because they have heard the cry and are preparing to take us all down. Be on your guard.)
(You think I’m joking.)
This child is not seven months old and I’m already whipped. And exhausted. So exhausted. And in dire need of a martini, and pissed off that my body no longer tolerates martinis, because how the fuck am I supposed to get through the coming months, years (gah gah gah), without the cool solace of vodka shaken over ice?
Goddam but this is tough. So tough.
But, but… (You knew this was coming.)
Such sweet, sweet domination. How could I be anything other than completely in her thrall?
Still. One of these days I’m going to do a post entitled How To Know If Your Child Is A Future Despot, which will be based upon a close textual analysis of Xenophon’s Cyropaedia and my personal experiences with WonderBaby. And my tongue will not be in cheek.