Friday, September 5, 2008

Banshee Baby

My daughters super power involves a phenomenal temper and an ear piercing scream.
Last night, moments after I walked through the door, my supposedly happy all day baby girl morphed into a crying, screaming, child made purely of undirected rage and Velcro.
She didn't want to nurse, but she wanted my breasts out an available, just in case.
She wanted to be held, but only in the most awkward and painful of positions imaginable, guaranteeing that my arm would break and my back would be permanently bent.
She did not want her father, her brothers, the neighbor, or the band of traveling gypsies I offered to sell her to.
She didn't want food.
She didn't want a bottle.
She wanted me, focused completely and totally on her, preferably singing her song ("Hey There Delilah" , but I substitute her first name) over and over until my lips bled and my throat was as dry as a nervous virgin.
Punk held me hostage as surely as if she had pressed a gun to my head. So I walked around last night, bare chested, carrying a sobbing, hiccuping child and closely resembling a National Geographic pictorial. You know the ones--all I can say is orangutan titties.
I want my baby back. I want her back now. I'm offering a reward. If you find a sweet, happy, chubby cheeked baby girl who answers to Punk, send her to me. If not, give me an address to send this child to.
With sugar on top?

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