Official Announcement

The jury has reached a verdict. After a surprisingly brief deliberation, the jury has announced in a recent press release that it is true.
My baby is wretched. HE IS WRETCHED I SAY.
I picked him up at Baby Angels Daycare and I was informed by one of his handmaidens that he was muy triste. That means he was very sad. He's also been cranky. Roy and I agreed that I should take him to the Night Clinic. HA!
And now I know why I always weasel my way out of this chore and sucker Roy into doing it. It wasn't that there was the usual fleshy mass of miscreants. None of the heathen children were sick this season...aside from mine. Just one other young mother sat in the waiting room with a chubby baby girl. I sat a few seats down from her...a wretched child in my grasp. And when I say wretched...what I really mean to say is spawn of the red devil in hell. Make no mistake. I do not exaggerate here. Now that this kid can walk he thinks he's the boss. Okay...he always thought he was the boss...but now HE IS MOBILE. He can walk AROUND. He can GRAB THINGS. He can be WRETCHED. He bucked, he squawked, he snarled, he EVEN KICKED OFF HIS SHOE AT THE DOCTOR. Here is the moment captured in time...

Doctor: What was that?
Me: I don't know. What was it?
Doctor: Was it his shoe?
Me (struggling, head swiveling back and forth): His shoe?
Doctor: Does he have his shoe?
Me (lifts up Miko's shoeless shank): I believe that was his shoe.

Back to my story. So Miko is carrying on like a bratbeast and I'm getting ready to set him down next to this old lady and pretend he isn't mine so I can regard him with blatant scorn. I wonder if you can picture me juggling a heathen child in the crook of my arm, holding a pen in my mouth, hanging onto the diaper bag with two fingers by it's zipper and using whats left of my hand to dig the checkbook out of my purse. Meanwhile the wildcat is howling. Something is falling out of the diaper bag and I THINK that my forearm is slick with drool but I can't be sure at the moment because all of my senses are shutting down one by one and I am entering the zone. The zone is where I go shortly before reaching insanity. Its a way station.
I'm ready to jump off the bridge into the vast waters of dementia...teetering OVER THE EDGE, PEOPLE...peering with squinty eyes into the swirling oblivion that awaits me...who am I? where am I? WHAT am I? I don't know. All I hear is the insistent bellows of the BratBeast as he kicks at me and waves his little fists in the air with kingly indignation.
And FINALLY the doctor comes back.
I am very relieved to know that although my child is wretched...he has a damn good reason for it. Ear Infection. Maybe it's not too late for me. Maybe he really is a good baby. Maybe it was all about his ears. There was PAIN. It's reasonable to assume that his wretchedness was completely due to pain. So maybe I won't spend the next 5 years of my life embattled with a beastly child. Tralala!
Then again...maybe not.