This is the last baby blog. I am not a baby any more. I have a career now. Are you ready for what it is? I have decided to become a professional insomniac. Not only is this exciting because you get to stay up all night, but you also get to keep everybody else up as well.
Just the other morning I suggested to my parents that they take me out in my stroller at two thirty in the morning because I wouldn’t sleep. You can see the scene from the picture above. I took it with my infrared camera, the one attached to my stroller. They just didn’t know what else to do with me at that hour, and they were blindingly dull about the whole darn thing. They just rolled me around. We went up one side of the street and then down the other. Weren’t there any movies playing? Shows to go to? Stores open? Target, even? Alas, no, I learned. At three in the morning there are just one or two cars driving slowly, the low hum of the street lamps, the unblinking dark eye of the sky, and precious little for a person of my age to do.
Inside our apartment, on the other hand, things are quite exciting in the small hours. I am passionate about throwing things and screaming, and when the big hand is on twelve and the little hand gets to be on three, let me tell you, this is memorable for all concerned. I like to walk around and around the couch a thousand revolutions and open and close the same cabinet fifty or sixty times until my father, who is curled up on the couch in a fetal position, begins to make sounds like a dolphin which I think are really just quiet sobbing.
I am very good at all of those things now and don’t need any more practice doing them. It’s time for new sleepless horizons! But where shall I direct my considerable nocturnal talents? As I wait for your suggestions to pour in, I do have a confession to make. My new career will cut down considerably on my blogging.
I admit, I do get help with the writing sometimes, and as my father says, “who can write when you are frigging falling off your chair from utter exhaustion?” He puts a lot of extra words in there and I don’t know exactly what they mean, but I really don’t understand what he is complaining about anyway. I fall off things all the time. I keep going. There is no shame in being so tired that drool freely flows from your mouth. Happens to me all the time, although dad says this is causing problems at work when it happens to him in meetings.
My mother, who is a beautiful person, is much more tolerant. She looks into the depths of my blue eyes and feels unbounded compassion for me. She believes wholeheartedly in my separation anxiety. My problem is that I fear being alone quite deeply, and she understands and feels my pain.
My teachers at baby school suggest that when I start to walk I will tire myself out and sleep better at night. Might happen. I will also eventually realize that my soul will remain intact even when I am not clinging to my mommy and passionately biting her with affection. C’est la vie.
For now, I think there is nothing more important to me than being close to my mommy and also being a professional insomniac, which is perhaps the most important job in the world. It barely leaves time for my hobby, which is high-velocity, high-altitude testing of food. I can turn a piece of tofu into a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball like nobody’s business. Baseball players get paid a lot of money to throw things fast, so why not me? Will somebody who knows how to operate a phone please call either the National or American League and let them know that I am available?