This past weekend I asked my husband, Travis, if he could be on ‘baby duty’ for a few hours while I worked on a report for my real job (because sadly, I don’t get paid to write this sh*t). He agreed and I was relieved. I no longer had to stop what I was doing every 11 seconds after Lilla launched her pacifier across the room and had a subsequent meltdown.
I was looking forward to some peace and quiet while my husband kept her entertained, but on this particular day she was being a turbo b*tch. Yep, I just called my daughter the B-word and that is my motherly right (within the context of this story) because I am the one who carried her inside of me for nine months and then pushed her out of my vagina which, subsequently, tore open from here to kingdom come. Listen, I already warned you about stuff like this in my first post and you agreed not to call Child Protective Services. A deal’s a deal people, so put down the phone…NOW!
Now before you all start yelling at me about not tending to her most basic needs and being too quick to write her off as being a brat, here’s a quick rundown of the situation…she did not need a diaper change, she was not running a fever, she was not hungry and she already unleashed gas out of both ends that could rival a large man after shot gunning a beer while eating a bean burrito.
Anyway, after a few minutes of this “on-again, off-again, mostly on-again” temper tantrum, Travis leapt off the couch into SuperDad mode and swooped in to pick her up out of the Mamaroo.
For a minute, I thought he may actually have a reasonable plan to calm her. Perhaps he would check her diaper again, take her for a walk outside or use some techniques from ‘The Happiest Baby on the Block’ (which I forced him to read).
I was barely able to recall two of The Five S’s (Swaddling, Side, Shhhhh, Swinging and Sucking) that the book is renowned for when the following happened:
1.) Screaming baby picked up out of bouncy chair by husband and placed in crib.
2.) White noise machine jacked up to HIGH.
3.) Door to nursery closed.
4.) Beer retrieved from fridge.
5.) TV volume turned WAY up.
6.) Husband returned to couch with proud sense of accomplishment on his face.
7.) Remote thrown at husband’s head by aggravated wife.
I may or may not have wished explosive diarrhea on him at that very moment.
I had asked him to HELP so I could get some work done…IN QUIET. This does not mean that the analogy of the tree falling in the forest applies (you know, if nobody is around to hear it fall, does it really make a sound?). If you have the football game cranked up so loudly on the TV that your neighbors three blocks away are complaining about the noise, it DOES NOT mean that there is no longer a baby screaming bloody murder in the other room.
So after a minute or two of using “colorful” words to express to my husband that I think he is an idiot for letting our daughter throw a sh*t fit in the other room, I turned the TV volume down and heard……SILENCE. Lilla had magically stopped crying.
I quickly checked the baby monitor to make sure she was actually still in her crib and had not been abducted by The Goblin King as portrayed by David Bowie in the 80s cult classic Labyrinth.
There she was, napping quietly like a little bi-polar angel.
And there was my husband, smirking back at me with the “I told you so” look (that he is normally on the receiving end of) and ever so pleased with himself as he continued to enjoy his beer. He was rrr-rrrrrr-rii-riiiiiiii-right. He was right.
Now, I know that we will probably get a whole boatload of backlash from people scolding us on why a baby should never be left to “cry it out”. Let the record state, we are not condoning the abandonment of your child while they sob uncontrollably and especially not in a public setting where other people are trying to do things…like hear themselves think. It literally took her less than 60 seconds to pass out. When a baby cries, it means they need something. In this case, she obviously needed to SLEEP.
The moral of the story is…trust your instincts and do what YOU feel works best for YOUR child. Do not obsess over what every book and/or blog (unless it is THIS one) says is “right” or listen to unsolicited advice from friends, relatives, in-laws or the nosy barista at Starbucks. Just listen to your own neurotic inner voice…and make sure you have a good therapist on retainer for when your kid realizes you screwed them up six ways to Sunday.
The other moral of the story is…sometimes your husband isn’t a massive idiot. Sometimes he is a genius.