My Experience with a Screaming Baby
During our visit to Florida, in the very same store where I saw Tom and Lisa, Amanda and I were looking around at clothes with her 7 week old youngin'. Amanda asked if I could watch Micah while she tried on some things, and I said sure, why not? He was sleeping and being all cute and infanty, surely watching him for a few minutes wouldn't be a big deal.
Unless you are cognitively impaired and were unable to read the title, you know what happened next. Cute little Micah turned into red-faced, half choking, screaming like I'd been pulling his fingernails off one by one Micah in a matter of seconds. So I did what I was supposed to do. I tried patting his back to get him to burp out his misery. I walked around hoping the movement would soothe him. I did everything I could think of. I even tried showing him his own reflection. Who doesn't like watching themselves in the mirror, huh? Him, that's who.
Women walked past, giving me sympathetic looks. One asked, "does he have the colic?" To which I replied, "I have no idea." I tried to joke with some, saying things like "he loves shopping!" but their expressions never changed from that look of sympathy, perhaps because my jokes weren't that funny. He somehow wiggled the spit-up cloth (or whatever it's called) onto the ground, and when a kind girl retrieved it for me, I found it ironic that it read "Thank Heavens for Little Boys."
During our visit to Florida, in the very same store where I saw Tom and Lisa, Amanda and I were looking around at clothes with her 7 week old youngin'. Amanda asked if I could watch Micah while she tried on some things, and I said sure, why not? He was sleeping and being all cute and infanty, surely watching him for a few minutes wouldn't be a big deal.
Unless you are cognitively impaired and were unable to read the title, you know what happened next. Cute little Micah turned into red-faced, half choking, screaming like I'd been pulling his fingernails off one by one Micah in a matter of seconds. So I did what I was supposed to do. I tried patting his back to get him to burp out his misery. I walked around hoping the movement would soothe him. I did everything I could think of. I even tried showing him his own reflection. Who doesn't like watching themselves in the mirror, huh? Him, that's who.
Women walked past, giving me sympathetic looks. One asked, "does he have the colic?" To which I replied, "I have no idea." I tried to joke with some, saying things like "he loves shopping!" but their expressions never changed from that look of sympathy, perhaps because my jokes weren't that funny. He somehow wiggled the spit-up cloth (or whatever it's called) onto the ground, and when a kind girl retrieved it for me, I found it ironic that it read "Thank Heavens for Little Boys."
