Mommy. A blessing and a curse. For the first 14 months of her life I coaxed that word from her pretty little lips. It appears that I was too eager. Let me paint a little picture...
I'm sitting on the couch in our family room, finally relaxing after a day of play-doh, chicken nuggets, Elmo and dance class. I'm trying to focus on the glass of wine in my hand and the episode of The Office that I missed. I'm trying to have a Calgon moment. But the serenity of my un-wind time has been breached by a persistent chorus of the many variations on one word. Mommy. "Mama... Mama... Mommy, Mommy, MOMMY! Ma ma ma ma ma... MAAAAMAAAAAAAAA!! Uh oh! Mommy?? Mama? MOMMY!!!!!!!! Mama, Mama..." Re-read the previous sentence for about a half an hour and consider yourself initiated into my own private hell. A hell where the sweetest word you've ever heard is repeated so many times you want to stab yourself in the ear with a pencil.
The baby monitor is no longer my friend. It is from hence forth to be considered an instrument of terror (or "terra" if you're from Texas). It is an evil baby monitor, hell bent on destroying any semblance of rationality I may still possess. I think it might be Chuckie's baby montitor actually.
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