Rolling around on the floor giggling! Feeding her stuffed animals! Dancing to the music of her push toy! Lucia was very calculating in her explosion of cuteness over the past few weeks. Let me ingratiate myself, she thought, before turning into an absolute monster.
Upon our arrival in New York, which followed the Worst Flight Ever—well, let me spend a moment on the flight. Five hours of screaming, crying, and writhing, with intermittent bouts of more screaming, crying, and writhing. No nap, though it was naptime. We were the parents about whom people whisper disgustedly, Can’t they control their child? We were trying, believe me. But even with her very own seat, even with an entire grocery store’s worth of snacks, even with an arsenal of toys, Lucia would neither nap, nor snack, nor play. She just wanted to scream.
Now, back home, she has turned into a baby Godzilla, descending on the city with roars and stomps, gobbling skyscrapers and sending terrified pedestrians fleeing as she wreaks her path of destruction. But the skyscrapers are our apartment, and the terrified pedestrians are what remains of my sanity. She is a jetlagged, teething terror.
It doesn’t help that I am drowning in freelance work. Or that my Christmas shopping has barely begun. Right now I am typing this as Lucia writhes in the Ergo and smears teething biscuit all over my neck. Anyone considering having a baby should take a look at me now. Anyone considering having a second baby should, perhaps, take a look in a large mirror and imagine just for a second doing this with two. Whew, that decision was easy!