why i hate myself today
first of all, the baby is officially 8 weeks old today. she should thank us for letting her live this long. man, this kid can cry. she cries all damn day. ALL. DAMN. DAY. mrs nice guy calls me at work at least twice a day to say: "she's still crying. she hasn't slept for more than 15 minutes. i hate her." i make sympathetic noises over the phone. then i hang up and praise allah that i am miles away.
we are all tired and a little cranky. which means it might--JUST MIGHT--not have been a total mistake when i injured my daughter this morning. i swear i didn't do it intentionally, but subconsciously? who knows.
as i was getting ready for work, the baby was doing her thing, perfecting her already impressive crying skills (see paragraph one). i cuddled her, i cooed to her, i put her in her little bouncy chair. she wasn't wholly satisfied with the way things were going, which she indicated by ratcheting up her cries by eighteen decibels. so i decided to put her in her swing. her swing always calms her down. the thing is baby crack. it's great: chills baby out so you can actually do something that doesn't involve selling your soul to make her stop screaming. we love the neglect-o-matic.
so i plopped her in the swing. she looked up at me and grinned. my heart melted a little. i tickled her and i forgave her for all the evil she has brought into the world. and then i buckled her in. snap! i buckled the left buckle. snap! i buckled the right buckle. hmm, there was a little resistance there.
i didn't just ... is it possible that i ... did her thigh get pinched in the buckle? oh sweet tiny infant jesus, weeping on the cross.
her grin instantly disappeared from her face. about ten million synapses fired in half a second as her face went from blank confusion to searing pain and indignant rage, indicating that i had indeed pinched her chubby thigh with the buckle. she actually spoke these words: SO HELP ME GOD I AM GOING TO FUCKING SUE YOUR SCRWANY WHITE ASS SO THOROUGHLY THAT YOUR GRANDCHILDREN WILL BE FOREVER IMPOVERISHED! (she's still so little that she didn't realize that she was talking about her own children. how cute.)
then she cried her real tears again. christ i fucking loathe myself. mrs nice guy scooped her up and cuddled her, pet her, kissed her. she inspected the thigh -- lo and behold there was a little purple bruise already. i cannot begin to explain the hot heat of fiery rage the flared in my wife's eyes when she looked at me again. she said no words, but the meaning of her glare said "you are already dead, you just don't know it."