Something happened the day I gave birth to my son Kyle. Well, duh, of course something happened. I squeezed a nine pound baby from my loins without the help of any modern medicinal agents that are so commonly used today. Well, okay, I suppose I un-willingly received help from the medical world in some fashion. It came in the form a nurse, I'll call Helga, who leveraged herself against the rails of my bedside and barbarically pushed on my ribcage in true WWF fashion, hoping to help in the delivery my already half grown child. But aside from the trauma caused by my son's harried birth, (and despite the fact that immediately afterward, I was trying not to think he looked like a squinty, one-eyed Mickey Goldmill who at any moment could've sat up and declared, “You're the champ, Rock,” in gravely tones), the day I had Kyle changed me. Yes, I morphed into something of which Parents magazine would never write—something more awful than the pain of natural childbirth itself. I became...a mommy monster.
Mommy monsters think they are the only ones who can do something right, but then get (how shall I say it?) pissy when others try to do things that only they are qualified to do. They ask things like, “Who folded these burp cloths like this?” in tones so snippy that no one dares fess up to the alleged crime. They say things like, “I just put the baby down. Don't even think about picking him up.” They do things like repeatedly check on a the slumbering tot and change him incessantly before anyone else can interfere with her master plan of parenting. And while it may seem that the mommy monster is in complete control of her newly created reality, it becomes very evident that she is not exactly 'wrapped tight' when something so simple as her spouse suggesting that she go take a bath while he watches the baby, sets her off on a tirade, screaming, “No one ever helps me around here. I have too much to do to bathe. Now,get out of my way!”
to be continued...perhaps at novel lengths.