Things aren’t funny anymore.
At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. That’s my justification for not working on the blog lately. Things used to be funny, so I wrote a funny blog about them. Now things are not funny anymore, so no funny blog. But I do love writing, so I had this idea to try to craft a humorous post about the non-humorous nature of our current family life. “My life is so not funny! Isn’t that hilarious?!” Yeah, that’s got failure written all over it.
Of course it’s all nonsense anyway. Things are still as funny as ever. Probably funnier. But maybe having a little baby around has taken my mind out of funny mode. Or more likely, maybe having a little baby around has taken up EVERY SINGLE MOMENT OF MY FREE TIME. Whatever the case, I’m going to try to be funny again. Bear with me.
I don’t believe I’ve properly introduced Bunny, but she’s daughter number three. She’s nine months old now and painfully adorable. One thing I really like about Bunny is that she has brought the concept of napping back to the house. Of course Bear (five years old) and Bean (nearly four) are so mature and so wise, and have fully evolved beyond the infantile notion of sleeping during the daytime, and as such, they will never again engage in such meaningless triviality. But someone is napping. Napping good and hard, I might add, which I totally dig.
As you may or may not know, the ritual of naptime is an exact science that must be executed with extreme precision. Any deviation from the usual routine could result in a ruined nap, which almost certainly will result in a cranky baby, which will without a doubt result in a Dad questioning his will to live. This morning I was putting Bunny down for her morning snooze, when the most unexpected culprit just about sabotaged the whole stinking effort. A band-aid.
While opening the mail yesterday, I managed to slice open my finger pretty good on an envelope. It was a credit card offer, so yeah, totally worth getting a paper cut over, or even opening in the first place. I do wonder what’s wrong with me sometimes. Anyway, I patched myself up, and that was that.
Or so I thought.
As I sat with Bunny this morning, gently rocking her and bottle-feeding her, everything seemed to be going just swimmingly. Her eyelids began sinking to half-mast, and she began to mindlessly play with my fingers, as is her habit just as she starts to enter the realms of sleep. All was well until her tiny fingers brushed the surface of my band-aid. At this detection of a slightly different texture, her eyes shot open, and her rhythmic sucking of the bottle came to an abrupt stop. She pried her lips from the nipple (I’m very comfortable with bottle terminology) and began a full-on inspection of the band-aid. One moment she was a gulp of reheated breast milk away from sleep sweet sleep, and the next moment she appears to be using the scientific method to determine what foreign substance is on Dad’s hand. So goes my life.
I tried in vain to tuck my wounded pinky into my fist, as I struck a silent deal with Bunny. “Bunny, I need thumb and pointer to hold the bottle, but you can totally play with tall man and ring man. All day long. They’re all yours. Let’s just give pinky a little break, eh?” Out of sight out of mind, right? If only. Bunny has apparently mastered the concept of object permanence, because she went digging for pinky like nobody’s business.
I soon realized the futility of trying to hide the object of her desire, so pinky came out, and little Bunny grew more and more awake as she labored away on the band-aid, with a troubled look on her face that seemed to say, “Seriously, what the f^@k is that $#!t on Dad’s finger?!”
She never did figure it out, and I think the weight of that failure is what ultimately caused her to cry a little bit more than usual in her crib before falling asleep. I hear her awakening now, and being the awesome dad that I am, I’m going to go let her inspect the band-aid to her little heart’s content.