I have a child, aged one. She is a joy. If you see me walking down the street on any given day, I probably look like a fool with a smile on my face for no apparent reason. Except there is a reason, and it is her. Which makes my nightly wish to defenestrate her a bit jarring when it inevitably pops into my mind. That's right, every night I experience a desire to heave my young progeny out of a third story window.
It takes roughly two hours of hard manual labor to get the kid to sleep. She weighs like thirty pounds, and after rocking her for a minute my back and my neck start to tell my brain that it's time to die. It would make me feel better if she would take the hint and put in a little effort to go to sleep, maybe lie down or close her eyes or at least shut up. Instead, she likes to take the opportunity to blow raspberries for five minutes straight, or sing happy birthday to me. It's not my birthday. She doesn't know what a birthday is, really. In fact, I think she might think bedtimes are birthdays.
She makes up for my nightly rage-induced headaches in a lot of ways. For one thing, my one year old has excellent taste in super heroes. Show her a Super Man picture book, and she will pee on it, and you, in disdain. But she spends hours a day babbling about Batman. She makes Batman drawings. They look like blobby scribbles, but the fact that she says "Batman, Batman, Batman" while she is drawing them makes it pretty obvious what she was going for. She was Batman for Halloween, and two or three times a week she likes to put on her Batman costume for a while, preferably while reading Batman Hooked on Phonics books or watching Batman youtube videos.
My one-year-old, cooler than me already.
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