Wait, let me start over. My youngest son just bought himself (with his saved up coins from doing chores no less) his first he chose it, he paid for it hardcover book ever. It's "Bad Kitty vs Uncle Murray: The Uproar at the Front Door" by Nick Bruel. It's the third in the non-ABC book series, and it kind of boils down to an innocent who is kind if slightly clueless who is harangued by an over sensitive, unpleasant, and downright neurotic cat. Whose reaction to poor Uncle Murray is to SCREEEEECH at the top of her lungs whenever he gets close (even if he can't see her).
I feel for Uncle Murray. On so, so many levels.
Today, I was forcibly reminded of the bad old days when my littlest was a newborn. A colicky, teething, angry newborn who needed constant walking back and forth to get close to being calm. Today, shorty met everything (and I do mean everything) with howls of angst and disappointment. Anger, disapproval, and a general joy of hearing his own screams.
I didn't murder him once, even though knitting let me down forcibly today. Although, to be honest, I likely let knitting down far worse... after all, I am supposed to be able to count to 6. Knitting is supposed to be nice and pretty and doesn't count on its own. So in all fairness, it might be more accurate to say that everything I touched today turned to SCREEEEECH.
Tomorrow has to look up, or I'm trading it all in for a passel of guinea pigs and a cold drink.
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