Gurgle gurgle goo-goo waaaaah! Hi, it's Baby Reed
here and as soon as my wee fingers can figure out
how to punch the numbers on the phone I'm totally
calling CPS on my own mother. Man, I thought things
were going to settle down and I could just relax in
my cradle with my binkie -napping and making poopies
and being fussed over and drinking the formula my
idiot dad doesn't seem to understand needs to be
tested before he shoves the rubber nipple in my
piehole. If I could teach myself to use Mommy's
laptop, I would order that guy a parenting book from
Amazon. Parenting for Stupid Lesbian Lumberjacks,
to be specific. Or maybe I should just take a whiz
in his face next time he changes me. Dude! Your
hands! The calluses! I'm just saying!
Anyhoo, I barely had one decent night's sleep at the
Sugar Shack before Mommy started losing interest in
me. In her email to this "Sabrina" broad, she
neglected to mention how she's itching to farm my
baby-powdered ass out to daycare, pronto. What
gives? Of course she didn't mention it, because any
normal person would bitch-slap the daylights out of
my Mommy for being such a selfish dildo.
Hello! I was the size of a freaking circus
peanut when I was yanked from her slumbering womb,
and as I flailed around in my tadpole terrarium for
months, I was given the distinct impression that
everybody couldn't wait to get me home
and recalibrate their lives to revolve around me. As they should. For God's sake! Fellow
Daycare Rejects, raise your little fists if you are
also a Bona-Fide Miracle Baby. Yeah, I didn't think
so. Well, you're not missing anything 'cause it's
all hype and this gig sucks.
I can't believe my own mother would rather sit in
her moldy old office - moving stacks of papers from
one side of the desk to the other and nosing around
the Busiest Breakroom In Town looking for other
people's Yoplait's - than to spend time bonding with
cute little me. Look at me! I make cute faces
and funny noises. See, I just made one now. It was a
toot, but I'm a little baby so it's adorable. Sorry
about the smell. I have no control over my own
pooper.
If I would have known Mommy and Daddy were more
interested in their crappy careers than they are in
me, I would have chewed off some of those rubber
tubes they had me hooked up to in the aquarium. The
only reason I didn't is that I can't hold my own
head up and I have no teeth.
What's so great about walking around in a cheap suit
from the Men's Wearhouse and looking at grainy video
footage of people carrying file folders down
hallways or riding the elevator down to the parking
ramp? Why is Mommy so hot to get back to
whatever-it-is she does other than professionally
fighting with Grandpa? What's the appeal of making
money you don't need and putting your only child in
a kennel? I can't wait until I'm a surly teenager in
about eighteen months so I can change my name from
"Reed" to "Chopped Liver".
Don't believe a word they say about the high quality
of the Newman Baby Coop. If letting me sit in my own
stank until my poor little tushie feels like it's
covered in battery acid is quality child care, I'd
like to speak to the manager. As soon as I am able
to form words, that is. The lady who puts me down
for naptime uses this disgusting "peach"-scented
hand lotion that does not smell like actual peaches
and it makes me fussy because I have a very delicate
constitution and strong scents make me spit up.
That's what happens when you lived the first few
months of your life trying to rest in the preemie
ward and nobody would leave you the fuck alone for
five seconds. All those flashbulbs! Those low rumbly
voices! Brad's hairy hands poking at me all the
time! What the hell do I need to do to catch a
break?!
Well, at least Grandpa is richer than God so he can
foot the bill for the years of therapy I'll be
needing when I'm in my early thirties in about three
years. In the meantime, waaaahhh! Mommeeeee!
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