Game on, Widget. I see you there, trying to look cute so I’ll forgive you for the fussing you’ve done all day for the last week. Oh yes, and the grabbing your spoon to gnaw on in the most diabolical plan ever conceived for avoiding eating. You should want to eat the delicious puree I have made for you, from scratch. SCRATCH.
I see you looking at me with the saddest face ever, putting your tongue out of your mouth as far as it will go, foiling my attempt to look at your gums. But the joke’s on you. I moved faster than you, and I saw that canker sore-looking blister. I know that means you are getting your first tooth. Clearly this means I am doing a superior job keeping you from dying, as you are alive to erupt a tooth.
But I make no promises if you continue this behavior, combined with the amount of cling static will envy. In particular, I make no promises for your father, who just last night tried to clip your pacifier to your clothes (I keep telling him it’s unnecessary in the house but he doesn’t listen) and instead clipped it to your skin. I completely agree with you wailing and crying for 15 minutes because of that. I’ve pinched myself with it and that thing hurts. Just remember your father did that, and that it’s rude to take out fury on innocent bystanders who also produce your main source of food. Don’t bite the boob that feeds you.
In summation, you have many reasons to be cranky. But so do I. Bring it, for I shall win this battle royale. I have the patience which you have yet to dream of, and I WILL wait you out.