BABY HATING

When it comes to babies, there is one thing I hate more then anything else.

Birth?
Heck no, that gave me warrior status, and I desperately wanted that.

Poop diapers?

Wrong.

Spaghetti night? Oh how I hate spaghetti night.

A poop diaper doesn't even come close; that's only one crack to take care of but with spaghetti night we are talking about a bunch of cracks and crevices filled with pasta sauce and noodles. And not to mention what can be found tangled into hair, shoved into ears and smashed onto every surface in a two foot parameter.... and Harlyn's poop diapers never get that bad.

And no matter how good you clean the kitchen, the next day you'll still find one last covert noodle hardened onto the underside of the table.

Just stop serving spaghetti...

You hold your tongue. Spaghetti has been served in America since the 19th century, what business do I have removing it from the menu? And it's delicious, all piled high with parmesan cheese. A little spaghetti on your parmesan anyone?

So its not the dish that boils my water, its the sudden impulse that a baby gets to flail and fling sticky noodles in every possible direction BUT into their own pie hole.

In Harlyn's spaghetti throwing rage she even flung off one of her shoes.

That has never happened on quesadilla night.

It's acceptable when people's shoes fly off when they get into bicycle accidents but not during dinner.

So from now on, shoes stay on. Noodles go directly into mouth. And red sauce stays off white chairs. All spaghetti induced seizures shall be saved for dinner out at restaurants.

By order of the warrior.