I Quit the Baby

You’ve pushed me too far this time, Baby--I’m going on strike.  As of right now, this instant.  Finito.  Find yourself a new lapdog, my friend.  Your incessant demands  in no way correlate to the “attractive benefits package” I was enticed by, and I am hereby going Norma Rae on you.  I know your tiny brain can’t possibly process this injunction, let alone comprehend the ramifications, so let me spell it out for you in my brand new I Quit the Baby Manifesto:

1.     Feedings will henceforth be self-administered.  This will be a neat trick, my friend.  Getting the refrigerator door open should provide a veritable Everest in and of itself.  Let alone turning the faucet on and warming the bottle.  Oh, what does cold milk taste like, Daddy?  Much like retribution, my boy.  Only not as sweet.

2.    Thou shalt change thine own diaper.  You really shouldn’t just let yourself fester in your own waste material, Bub—that is a breeding ground for diaper rash.  Everybody knows that.  And as for the changing itself, well let’s just say your mere 4 months of dexterity training should prove to be comically inadequate.

3.    Recreation will now be limited.  And by limited, read:  non-existent.  No more fun-time walks in the Baby Bjorn, no more stroller jaunts in the sunshine.  The Curious George readings, the Follow-the-musical-giraffe game, the smile-offs, all gone.  Entertainment shall now be limited to variations of the How-many-fingers-can-I-shove-in-my-mouth game, aka Baby Solitaire.  I’d provide you a score pad and writing utensil, but you would just shove them in your mouth.

4.    Crying shall now be negotiated.  No more of this free-form, willy-nilly crying stuff.  Crying is a commodity, tears are now a good, subject to the laws of everyday economics.  As the supply of comfort dips sharply, so shall the demand for tears follow accordingly.  And should you choose to break off negotiations, I will remind you that my Ipod did in fact come with fully functioning headphones.  I’m not above using them.

5.    Sleeping through the day is now mandatory.  It’s really the best case scenario for both of us when you think about it.  But should you disagree, if this upsets you and gets the tears a-welling, kindly refer back to #4.

Please keep in mind that if my demands are not met, I am prepared to go to the union I just created for assistance.  I will picket and throw cans of Spaghetti-Os at any scabs attempting to cross my line.  I will make signs (‘Honk if you think Babies are Over-privileged’ for example) and get passing cars to honk in support of my cause.  Your injustices shall be known to the world, Baby, and the truth shall set me free from this baby jail I’m doing time in.  It’s Zero Hour, Bub—get ready for a battle of wills.

Editor’s Note:  Baby was given a copy of the Manifesto, which he promptly proceeded to shove in his mouth.  War is hell.