My two-year-old daughter and I are feuding.
Don’t let her age or stature fool you. She is a formidable opponent.
It started with boobs. Some people are boob guys, others are into butts. Personally—I’m into both, with an emphasis on boobs. Turns out, pregnant ladies get enormous bosoms, my wife included. Also of note, upon enlargement, my access became extremely limited—a look-but-don’t-touch policy, to be exact.
My wife: Stop touching my boobs.
Wife: They’re tender.
Me: And huge. I love them. I mean—I love you, and everything about you. I want to touch you, and them especially.
Wife: I’m also tired. Tender, and tired.
Me: I’m randy.
Damn it—babies. Make my wife’s boobs huge and irresistible, and also unobtainable. So happy, and so frustrated. Dad mad.
And if I thought the ta-tas were off limits then—HA! My kid breast fed for a whole year—limiting my access to, hmmmm … calculating—zero minus the zero carry the zero, and, ah, yes—zero.
This is where it began—but hardly where it ended. I’d get into all the things my daughter does to torture me—but I don’t want to sound petty—so I’ll highlight some totally reasonable (TOTALLY REASONABLE) complaints.
1. She hates sleeping because she knows how much I like to. Always has. Parents don’t like to use the word “manipulation”—but let’s be real—my daughter is the most manipulative little thing of all time. I think she’s been playing me from week one. She’s not tired. She’s not hungry, or dirty, or scared. She’s just doing her daddy wrong because she can.
<Screeching from the other room>
Me: What’s the matter honey?
Me: Are you ok?
Lucy: Waaaaa (translation: “I’m not really tired. This is just the only sound I currently know how to make … and I’m f’ing with you.”)
Me: (in a singsong voice): Daddy’s going a little crazy hun. How’s about you stop making that noise?
Lucy: WAAAAAAA!!!! (translation: “Hows about no? I’m too busy f’ing with you right now.”)
Me (to myself): Must. Not. Shake. Baby.
Me (also to myself): Want. To. Shake. Baby.
Me: Fine—cry all you want. I don’t even care.
Me: Holy f’ing shit—did she just laugh? She did. I knew she was f’ing with me.
Marie: SHE’S TWO WEEKS OLD.
2. She’s declared war on good music. Her most recent move is the double-knee flop followed by uncontrollable sobbing. I play some Bob Marley—she says, “I no want that one.”
Me: You haven’t even listened to the song.
Lucy: I NO WANT THAT ONE!!!
Me: AND I NO CARE!!
Wife: What is wrong with you?
Me: I’m being honest. I don’t care what she wants to hear. I’ve heard the “Hello Song” 25 times today.
My wife (to Lucy): Honey—I think we’ve heard your music enough today—we’re going to take turns and Daddy wants to listen to this music.
Lucy (flop—sob, tantrum): I no want to hear this one.
My wife: OK—one last time and then it’s Daddy’s turn.
Me: WHAT?! Don’t you watch TV? No negotiating with terrorists.
My wife (dripping in sarcasm): I love your level of maturity—it’s why I married you.
Me: And I love your boobs.
Thing is, I love kids. Wait. Scratch that. I love my kid—I don’t really care for yours. Just like dogs. I really liked my old dog—but chances are, I don’t like yours. And puppies and babies are more alike than you might think—they only survive infancy because they’re cute. I made the following astute comparison in my last conversation with my wife about having more kids.
Me: I’d love to get another dog—I just don’t really want another puppy. You know what I mean?
Wife: … Are you comparing having kids to having dogs?!
Me: How awesome was that shock collar?
BTW. She’s pregnant. We’re having a puppy.
–The Big (expecting and completely mature) Avocado