Thank you, Mrs. Lance

Our daughter is about 9 months old now. She's like a miniature teenager;she's got her own opinions, but it isn't like she's got a drivers' license. Today was a really long day, as our tiny daughter was full of opinions all day long. She liked the black beans that I cooked, but she only wanted them whole, and she wanted to feed herself. She wanted to try walking, but refused to try balancing herself on the edge of the furniture. Cheerios were good for breakfast, but oatmeal wasn't really good anymore. Maybe only babies eat oatmeal.

It has been quite warm, so tempers all around were relatively short. By the end of the day we were all beat. My wife and I practically counted down the seconds until 9:30. Bedtime. Time for a short rest and a long breath of relief. My shoulders unconsciously relaxed as our daughter's door clicked shut. Now, I need to clarify. Under normal circumstances, our baby is the most pleasant person I could want to spend time with. Now that she's got teeth and some mobility, she really wants to explore. This is understandable, but since she also cannot tell us what she wants, it can be really frustrating for her and for us.

From the other side of her door, I could hear a faint noise. A breath of discontent, if you will. If you happen to be an incredibly precocious toddler, reading this post, please forgive my wife and I. We're new parents. Idiots, really. The following will serve to illustrate that point.

Anyway...this faint noise grew gradually in volume until it became an impressive impression of the air-raid siren perched on the post down the block. If it weren't clear that the racket were coming from our daughters' room, I would have checked the radio for a severe weather alert. Lucky for me, I was doing the dishes. Aimee drew the short straw to find out what might be bothering our tiny bundle of joy...

As I finished the sink of dishes, it occurred to me that this particular protest was unique in both length and intensity. This thought had barely coalesced in my consciousness when Aimee staggered out of the child's room and "tagged up". Uh oh. My turn.

I tried all the usual fixes, but none worked. She was really mad. This was evidenced by her simultaneous attempts to cuddle into my chest and push me away. After playing this one sided tug-of-war for a few minutes I decided to put her in bed, where I could pat her back until she would fall asleep. This grand mal temper tantrum had been in progress for an ear shattering twenty minutes. She must be tired. So I thought. Not only wasn't she tired, she refused to even stay in one place long enough for me to pat her back.

Then I saw it. Or rather, didn't see it. Something was conspicuously wrong with our baby's crib. I called out to Aimee, only to have my worst fears confirmed. In the distance I could hear the sound of a slowly chugging washing machine mocking us. I'm quite sure it was actually jeering at us. Luckily my wife came to the rescue. We both launched into the storage bins under the crib, trying to find the one in which we had placed various items at the conclusion of Winter.

Finally, at the bottom of the last tub we searched, we found the only other potential substitute for the item we had so foolishly tried to clean. No sooner did we cover our daughter with the hand made afghan given to us by the Lance family, than she stopped crying. The soothing effect was nearly instant. Twenty minutes of mayhem because we tried to put her to bed with the wrong blanket.

Thank you Mrs.Lance! We are both looking forward to sleeping tonight instead of staying up all night with our distraught little girl!