It is time for me to accept that my daughter is not going to bed tonight. Or maybe ever.
Also, I am not allowed to leave this room, and sometimes, even though I’m in here, my presence is inadequate. I am receiving regular complaints about my performance, which I will admit has diminished in conviction over the last two hours. This is a standoff, the baby has won, and I think it’s about time I take her downstairs for a glass of wine and maybe a cigarette. She is a sophisticated lady and her evenings shall be languorous and period dramatic. “To hell with lung cancer,” she says, “I do what makes me feel good.” And she’s right, you know, because life is short and why the devil would we go to sleep? If she goes to sleep tonight, she’ll be missing nearly two tenths of a percent of her little life. That’s like me sleeping for 596 hours which we would all agree is too long and hahahaha like she would ever let me sleep that long and also she would not survive and also my math may be off because I’ve completely lost touch with reality, long division, short division, joy division, my to-do list, my somatic cognizance and my husband, who is not answering my hilarious texts. From the basement.
You guys, is this real life? This has never happened to anyone before, right? I broke the baby. I accept this.
Baby and I are going to get dressed up and go out clubbing. Have a great night.