I think being nine months pregnant gives me a complaining pass. I'm not even that uncomfortable or "done" with being pregnant, but these things make me ornery and I've got to blog about them before all the negative energy pent up inside me dooms my daughter to a life of working at a call center.
1. Stop calling it "a feeding" when you nurse/give your baby a bottle. Your infant is not a velociraptor! He doesn't "feed," he EATS. I'm fine if you use "feed" as a transitive verb, as in, "I'm feeding Pepper right now, so I can't do a back flip." (Wishful thinking in both of those clauses ... Nathan has vetoed "Pepper," and I need a trampoline to do a back flip.) All other uses of "feed" in relation to nourishing your baby have been abolished. Stop grossing me out.
2. To all you grumpy, non-lovers of children, stop working at public libraries. You should especially stop volunteering to host toddler story time if you have an authority complex/are a sadist/have totally anal ideas about rules. To Miss Carol at the Oak Forest Public Library--you are amazing, and every time you dance along to the "Silly Dance Contest" song, a baby river otter is born immune to pollution.
3. To all babysitters: when I tell you to give my kid a PB&J for dinner (seriously, so easy), this doesn't mean you ask the 2-year-old if he wants one, and then when he says "no" give him a few crackers instead. Graham isn't the one paying you at the end of the night. Sit his little diapered tush in his high chair and give him a sandwich. Also, 8pm bedtime means 8pm. Not 9pm, and definitely not 7:30pm, unless you're willing to come back at 6am the next morning, free of charge, to deal with the consequences. Also, if you're going to break into my Blue Bell stash, you'd better do the dishes.
Am I being unreasonable? Is this too much to ask? Remember, this is for Pepper's sake.