Dear Baby boy of mine
In your ideal world you would be surgically attached to my nipples. In our real world together you have two modes of being; one, you are in my arms, and two, you are screaming. To me, this means that I cook to a backdrop of you screaming, I eat with one hand and you under the other arm, I wash up to a backdrop of you screaming. I type with two fingers and you under the other arm, I light the fire to a backdrop of you screaming. I put the clothes away with you under one arm, I dress Joni to a backdrop of you screaming. I realise that you have no understanding of me as a person, but I am tired and my back hurts. I understand that you didn’t like being shut in the bedroom, but I figured that if I could still hear you screaming through two doors and a wall, then you were probably mostly OK. It has probably saved both of us from infanticide, and if I didn’t love you I wouldn’t do it. Believe me you are grateful, even though you don’t know it. Just don’t tell social services.