fuss talk

You don't get out much when you have a baby, or at least we don't.
The logistics of taking a baby anywhere outside home base and their unpredictability effectively supresses the potential social payoff.
It's like preparing for a mountain climb, with the caveat that inconsolable shrieking may cause you to reverse course halfway up the peak.
Never having been tremendously social (to criminally understate matters), this aspect of the Fuss is something of a Get Out of Jail Free card.

"Oh, you know.....the baby," I say gravely, pulling a long face and nodding slowly.

Of course, it only works because he actually is tremendously difficult and unpredictable.

Last night we had dinner with Burl and Fiend, delicious tacos and a big vat of guacamole.

The food was lovely, but after he grew weary. As recently adopted political beliefs proclaim sleeping beyond the reach of Fussland territorial waters to be treason, he made a fierce display to drive off Morpheus.

The parenting of babies can be accurately reduced to this gritty kernel- who's turn is it to fall on the grenade?

The possession arrow was not in my favor and so I ferried him home.

But an apocalypse well begun is not easily interrupted.
He howled and writhed as if my efforts were aimed more at exorcism than comfort, until at last exhaustion trumped ideology and he slipped into the sleep of the honest revolutionary.

I staggered into the kitchen, shell shocked, and scanned the freezer for ice cream, only to find the pint container reduced to a hollowed-out 1/4" at the very bottom, by spoon or spoons unknown.