Tagged: The Rolling Stones
Adventures in Baby-Proofing: Part 1 – There Will Be Blood
I wanted to finish baby-proofing our house earlier. I really did. But it’s the thought that counts.
I had the best intentions when I began work in October, and have slowly made what I believe to be significant progress given the circumstances, as the project has been narrowly constrained by multiple, immovable factors:
1) My Fans
I am apparently so incredibly awesome and compelling that my pint-sized fans cannot bear the thought of me leaving the room. Not to go to the bathroom, wash dishes, get diapers, or anything else that takes longer than five seconds. The Experts call this “separation anxiety.” I call it “the reason I can’t get anything done around the house unless I want an improvisational high-pitched duet as a soundtrack.” Due to sharp drills and screwdrivers and the same hazardous cabinet contents I’m trying to bar from their tiny, inquisitive hands, I can’t have them climbing all over me while I install latchery. Keeping them in the room with me as I work necessitates restrictive holding cells such as Pack ‘n’ Plays and Exersaucers, but they are proficiently crawling their way to walking any day now, and thus assertively refuse any restraints in efforts normally attributed to Wild Horses and Freebirds and Eyes of Tigers. These factors all imply that the ideal baby-proofing window is during a Nap Overlap or Ni-Night Time. Aside from the fact that a Nap Overlap itself is rare, the slightest of sounds from a pin dropping to a grizzly bear/man hybrid slamming a car door can wake them, so firing up the drill while they’re asleep is simply ill-advised.
2) My Schedule
Two of my weekdays are spent on campus studying in preparation for world domination. I have not yet taken my program’s Building and Remotely Controlling Your Own Robot Henchman 101 class, so baby-proofing production grinds to an unfortunate halt on these days. The remaining three weekdays are dedicated to house-husbanding and twin-wrangling, which, as I just mentioned, are not conducive to accomplishing anything but avoiding tantrums and occasionally escaping for a guerrilla laundry load. This leaves the weekends, the only time we are together as a family, during which we spend quality time driving around town running errands, and every once in a while, pretending we have a social life. This aspect has recently been amplified by…
Satisfaction (or Lack Thereof)
Not a whole lot has gone right in the Pseudonymous Household this week. In fact, the most prominent scientists in the field have estimated the past few days to have kicked my hindquarters more forcibly than a ninja grizzly bear/man hybrid shuts a vehicular door.
Be not afraid, O Loyal Reader. Nothing serious has transpired–it just seems a devious conglomerate of small, annoying occurrences has established an Axis of Evil bent on thwarting our usually positive outlook. Everyone has bad weeks now and then, and apparently our number has been called at the Deli of Life, serving us an open can of Whoop-Ass (an alleged derivative of Spam) instead of the grocery-store-club-card-discounted honey-roasted turkey we asked for. Don’t you just hate that?
Such a week would usually be excellent fodder for this fine publication, but it’s been so hectic that I don’t even have the time to sufficiently thrill you with a proper Twincident.
However, I do have the time to play you a thematically-relevant song on a baby toy.
Here, in Twinfamy’s first-ever musical performance, is Yours Truly rocking the seminal opening riff of The Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”…on a Baby Einstein Count and Compose Piano.
Forgive me for not working out the whole song. I only have five notes in my arsenal with this particular instrument.
. . .
Fortunately, the week is almost over. I have no doubt that the smoke will soon clear, and the elusive Satisfaction will be re-gotten. In the meantime, the Twinfants and I will be here in the playroom, dancing our cares away, just like they used to do down at Fraggle Rock.
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If not, perhaps you should take our dancing-away-of-cares invitation more seriously.