There has been much waxing poetical ’round here recently, and much deep thinking inspired by motherhood. One might think that the Bad Mother household was a haven of blithe domesticity, a tranquil domain wherein mother wiles away the hours in cuddle and play with an angelic baby, pausing only to reflect upon the sweetness of maternal love.

One would be mistaken.

WonderBaby is a lovely, lovely child. I adore her. But she is not remotely angelic, unless we understand ‘angelic’ in the strict Old Testament sense of mighty and punitive and very often bearing ancient weapons of mass destruction.

It may not LOOK like a flaming sword, but trust me. It’s an ancient weapon of mass destruction. You do not want it in your home.

She capable of the greatest sweetness, but she is heaven-bent on destroying me. Every exercise of our day involves a mighty struggle, an intense battle of wills that I, inevitably, lose.

To wit: the thrice-daily Battle of the High Chair. WonderBaby has decided that high chairs are for chumps. WonderBaby has decided that she, mighty being that she is, should not be restrained in a high chair. WonderBaby has decided that, should she deign to eat, she should not be expected to do it in such ignominious conditions.

She has further decided that she should not be expected to do so while fully clothed.

So, last night, WonderBaby took her evening meal while standing, facing backward, in her high chair.

Starkers.

While I crouched on the floor behind the chair, plying her with toast and yogourt.

(No, there is no picture. My nine-month old baby was balancing naked, on two sturdy but nonetheless unreliable baby legs, in an assembly line high chair. You want that I should have run for the camera?)

(Fine. I was tempted. But I resisted.)

I think that we can safely say that it is now official: I am her bitch.

Guided by the not-so-benelovent spirit of Michael Landon,* WonderBaby’s quest for world domination proceeds apace…

*With thanks to the Junipers for iconographic playwear.