Now that Harrison has graduated out of Infant 1 to the bigger kids' room, Miss Maureen is freer to play favorites. Last week our suspicions about just how much she adores him were finally proven when she whispered to him, "Now don't tell Michael [her son], but you are my number-two favorite: the second cutest and best! If all eight babies in my room were just like you. . ." This from a woman who has been in charge of an ever-changing array of newborns and infants for god knows how many years.
Doug and I are in preliminary discussions about Baby 2 (the key word being preliminary, so don't get your panties in a bundle, people!) and we are absolutely terrified about the cosmic debt that's been stockpiling against us in the baby temperament department. When Harrison was sick and cranky and crying last month we were all, "Wha-huh? . . .derr. . .what are we supposed to do?" because we honestly don't know how to handle normal babies. If Cheerios don't solve the problem, I'm pretty much out of ideas.
God knows it's nothing that we did that made him turn out like this.
Yesterday at Harrison's birthday party, Colleen was telling us all about toddler-Doug's splayed-out-on-the-floor-in-public foot-stomping, ground-punching, and tortured-screaming shenanigans. It didn't sound pretty, and you know that all of this bad karma Doug accrued as a tantrum-having beast child is going to come home to roost one of these days.
The way I see it, the only possible outcome is going to be similar to what happened in The Exorcist or Rosemary's Baby: Either we're going to go into Harrison's bedroom one day and find him shrieking, speaking in a devil voice, and spewing pea soup everywhere like Linda Blair, or Doug's going to join the neighborhood Satanic cult and secretly prostitute me to Satan in a deal to advance his career. Then I'll give birth to Satan Junior and have to keep him in a black crepe-draped bassinet, just like Mia Farrow. "What have you done to his eyes!?!" I'll shriek at the satanic gatherers after getting a pixie cut.
Or something like that.
Anyway, I live in fear, and I'll totally blame Doug.
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