Forget cigarettes. Forget alcohol. Forget pain pills, illicit drugs or even the sweet relief of caffeine. I’ve decided that there is a new evil to fought, and my daughter is in it’s grasp.
What proof do I have?? Oh, surely you jest! I have bags under my eyes. I have intimate knowledge of everything in my path from my bed to babyQ’s crib. I can tell the time by the shades of light that filter in through our windows at various stages of the night. For, you see, in order to sleep babyQ must have her soother. Should she wake up and be unable to lay hands on it – as is, apparently, often the case – she cries. She cries a sad, pathetic little cry that one might think would simply subside and she could drift back off to sleep.
But, one would be wrong.
Her eyes closed, head up and mouth open, all one has to do is put the soother within 2 inches of her gaping little maw for sufficient suction to draw the soother in with a pop. At almost the exact same moment, she softly turns her head, lays it back on the bed and gives a little sigh as she returns to restful sleep.
Lest we be neglectful parents, we have tried the options. She could not care less whether or not we change her diaper. She escalates to shrieking and turns her head away should we dare try to wake her further with food. Back rubs, we are now given to believe, are the devil’s own plot to destroy the universe. All hope and goodness resides within The Nuk.
And all because I didn’t want her to have crooked teeth.