Like all parents, I’d like to keep my child as distress-free as possible. That’s not exactly the same as happy. I mean, I’d like perpetually happy, who wouldn’t, but I’m willing to negotiate. I’ll take non-crying.
The truth is, after almost ten months of hearing my baby cry, my tolerance for her distress remains surprisingly low. That leads me to do all sorts of ridiculous things.
Case in point: Sometimes she sits in her high chair like an empress on her throne and I mince around like Jim Carrey circa 2000 for her amusement. While I take a shower, she’s in her car seat just outside the fogged glass, and I regal her with stories, songs, and all manner of vocal calisthenics, alert for her every whinny and whimper, all to stave off discomfort. Hers or mine? I’m not always entirely sure.
I didn’t know it would be this way. More specifically, I didn’t know I would be this way. Sometimes I feel like a hostage to my love for her.