The baby has her first cold. She hates me now. I’m the nasty man who wipes her red nose every five minutes. I’m the prick she blames for the fact she can’t breathe in the night. If only I could hear her inner monologue…
“Here he comes – the torturer, with his desperate smile and annoying white cloth. He’s taking the piss, putting that cloth right next to my gob then complaining when I try to eat it. He whips the snot away from my nose but just smears it across my cheek. That’s not a good look. Then he expects me to drink milk from a teat that completely seals my mouth and is completely oblivious to the fact I cant’ breathe through my frigging nose. Is he trying to actually kill me?
I’ve had a headache for days and tonight he took me outside at night to a place with crowds of people, big flashing things in the sky and relentless banging and shrieking noises. And he kept asking me whether I was enjoying it.
The fucking idiot…”
It’s no fun being an ill baby.