Baby Terror Tactics

I am currently writing this with one bleary eye open, typing fast and furious in fear that I may be discovered taking a moment for myself. I have hidden myself away in a bunker far from the ever watchful eye of the baby terrorist. If you are reading this, then you must have noticed my weak attempt at a distress signal. I was too tired to manage a full SOS - I think I stopped somewhere around S before I fell asleep while still awake. It's possible. I can hear the little one jumping away in her jumparoo. I think I have about five minutes to get this blog post out to the world before the terror tactics resume.

Never mind. The husband found me, and these days I'm not sure which baby is needier.

The little one turned four months old yesterday and she took that as a signal to exert her independence more than ever. She has never been a cuddly baby. She is pretty much the smartest baby that ever lived and that, my sweets, is a terrifying thing. It's like she can see right through me, and there is nothing scarier than a 13 pound terrorist that's got you all figured out. What the world sees as precious cooing I believe is her communicating with the mother ship, telling them the surest and fastest way to destroy me.

She began with being the cutest baby in all the world, lulling me into a false sense of security. She was all smiles and giggles, batting her pretty long eyelashes at all to see and giving that gummy smile that can melt even the hardest of hearts. She had me right where she wanted me. Silly mommy never saw the impending doom.

You see, Osama Bin Baby has decided that naps are for well, babies. And she is no baby. She will stay awake at the expense of everyone's sanity, including hers. I make myself crazy trying to soothe the cranky pants that she becomes as a result of her stubborn resolve to never sleep again ever for as long as she lives. I dance, I sing, I stand on my head (literally! At least the baby is helping me sharpen up my yoga practice.), I bounce her, I rock her, I read to her, I put on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and resign myself to having the Hot Diggity Dog song stuck in my head forever. I walk with her, I drive with her, I even try to rhyme with her.

And then I had reached my limit. She was having a fit and falling in it, and I thought to myself, "You know, sometimes a girl just has to have a good cry." So I put her in her crib and sat just outside her door listening to her scream like I was the worst mom in the history of mommy hood. As she yelled obscenities in baby language, I dissolved into a puddle of tears worrying that I may just very well be the biggest failure ever.

And what do you do when you start to feel like a failure? You demand that your husband take that baby out of the house and you pour yourself a stiff drink. So that's just what I did and suddenly, the line between failure and success became blurred just enough that I didn't even mind that the terrorist did, once again, win.

Osama Bin Baby