Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?
Uh, no. It's an iPhone. Pretty cool, huh?
Also, if you've ever done any internet dating, is this picture not reminiscent of those in a number of men's profiles? I was always like, why, why are they taking their own picture and not smiling? It makes me think they don't have any friends. And they don't, in fact, love to laugh. No matter what their profile might say.
In sooth, the only difference between a zombie and me today is that I'm not out to eat anyone's brains. Well, that and I can talk and type. I don't think they can do either. Although I can't say for certain, because honestly, I avoid zombie shows. I wouldn't be able to sleep at night. Truly.
But if you were a zombie and you nursed your kid, would you turn your baby into a zombie, I wonder?
So my non-zombie baby, she is not happy about this sleep-training bullshit. Her cries are not, "Help me, help me!"
Oh, no sirree, no! These cries are all, "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS? I'M AWAKE! AND I'M USED TO MUCH BETTER SERVICE THAN THIS! IN FACT, I'D LIKE TO BE ABLE TO JUST RING A BELL TO SUMMON YOU. BECAUSE WE'VE ALL SEEN DOWNTON, BITCHES! NOW GET THE HELL IN HERE!"
It pisses her off, and she is not shy with expressing her ragey rage at top volume. I must say she comes by this honestly.
With Jordan, it only took a couple nights. Not with this one. I met a friend for lunch today and she said that it had been a long, hard slog with her daughter.
"The problem," she said, "is that she's stubborn. I think the real issue is that our girls are just like us."
Which makes me think, oh, man. I am in for it.
When I was in high school, we were at my North Dakota grandmother's for a few weeks in the summer, and I found a letter Betty had written to her mom when my brother was a baby. She said she'd thought I was a good baby, but only because I was her first. Because my brother, he was actually a good baby. He was easygoing. He slept. He was wonderful.
She had written something like: Lisa, on the other hand, never slept. Never napped. Never wanted to be put down. The minute you put her down, she opened her eyes and screamed.
It wasn't until my brother came along that she realized how exhausting I actually was.
I read the letter out loud to her. She felt terrible about what she'd written, and being a teenager, I teased her about it mercilessly. It didn't hurt my feelings, even then. And now, now all I can do is sympathize with her.
Pretty sure we all owe our mothers big-time.