BIG LITTLE GRUMP

Dear Spike:

You’re driving us nuts.

Don’t get me wrong, we still like you a lot. You’re cute, charming, smart and funny.

But lately, you’ve also been one big little grump.

You don’t sleep — not in your crib, not in our bed, not on your nap mat in my office. It takes 30 minutes to put you down for a 15-minute nap, which, to say the least, makes it hard to get much work done. At night, you wake up three, four, five times — not for food or to use the bathroom, it seems, but simply to make sure that we know you’re still there. Nonetheless, your mother wakes up every time to give you an opportunity to eat (that’s what moms do when their eight-month-old babies are only as big as most four-month old babies.) I’m not sure how she does it. Frankly, I’m tempted to check her pill box for methamphetamines.

You only eat sporadically. A little oatmeal here, some milk there. When I bring you to see your mother at lunch, you spend more time fussing than sucking. She doesn’t get a lot of time to feed you when she’s at work, so it’s frustrating for her.

It’s 20 degrees outside, but you rip off you hats, your socks and your leg warmers. You squirm out from under your blanket.

You pull at the velcro straps on the brance on my arm. You tug at your mother’s hair.

And you scream. All. Day. Long.

Back in high school I had a 1969 Ford Mustang. It was a beautiful old car, but it was troubled. The engine stalled. The headlights sometimes wouldn’t go on. The transmission was shot.

But I loved that car. And until recently, I never thought I’d be able to love anything so much that gave me so much trouble.

I was wrong.

Even when you’re completely rotten, you’re still the best thing in the world.

And anyway, since I can’t just take out a classified ad to sell you, like I did with that car, I suppose we’re stuck together for a while.

Love,
dad