A baby just survived two days of being awakened at untimely points by her grandmother. Her grandmother agrees that a baby is “high needs,” which I could have fucking told you. Each day is like juggling several rabid badgers and running chainsaws, although a baby allowed us to eat dinner the other night because she was too busy stuffing her feet in her face. My mother elaborated so much as to use the term “handful.” And this is coming from a person who never met an inconvenient, convoluted process that she didn’t like.
To wit: on her last baby-poking expedition, Mr. H sent my mother to the grocery store with a detailed map. She returned with bags of groceries. Mission accomplished. On this expedition, I offered to draw her a map to the store, but she said she remembered where it was. My instinct said “no, not so much,” but I let her go anyway. Three hours later, I was thinking about calling the police. Turns out she went to the wrong store last time. Over the state line, in New Hampshire. So in the process of attempting to mis-follow the original directions, she missed New Hampshire. Some people gave her directions, and she ended up at the store in the next town. An employee at that store then gave her directions to the store I had initially suggested. Then she went to that store. So three hours for two real and one imaginary stores isn’t so bad. I guess.
She didn’t get out the Burl Ives records, did she?
I knew you would get that, haha.
“It’s not a badger. It’s probably just Milhouse.”