This Means War
Go ahead, Baby. Make my day. I’ve got smoke bombs and firecracker tanks at the ready.
Look at him over there bouncing in his Kolcraft WonderBug Activity Center. So smug. Sure. HE can make lots of noise and it’s OK because “he’s just a baby.” He squeals happily at the top of his lungs when he bats at the crinkle butterfly, or bangs loudly on the easy-to-clean toy tray and they think it’s cute. I swear, if I hear “Look at Gavin playing with the flower rattle” and “Gavin just spun all the way around in the 360-degree seat” and “Hey everyone! Doesn’t Gavin look JUST like that adorable little bee when he smiles?” one more time, I am going to throw up.
Ever since he was born, they don’t ever think anything I do is cute anymore. It’s like everything I do is wrong. All I’ve heard all day is “Mackenzie, stop twirling those sparklers around the baby” and “Mackenzie, don’t aim that roman candle at your brother.” It’s not my fault his motor skills aren’t developed enough to dodge a bottle rocket!
If you ask me, they should be the ones in trouble. Seriously. Who lets a kid my age play with fireworks, anyway?