Fussy Loves Company
Why are you always on me about being fussy?
You’re fussy if you’re tired.
You’re fussy if you’re hungry.
You’re fussy when you have gas.
You’re fussy when there’s nothing on TV.
You’re fussy when you’re too hot or too cold.
You’re fussy in the morning before caffeine.
You’re fussy when I wake you up
in the middle of the night.
You’re fussy when you look in the mirror
and don’t like what you see.
You’re fussy when your mother pays too much
attention to you.
You’re fussy when your mother doesn’t respond
to your call.
You’re fussy when you’re over- and/or under-stimulated.
You’re fussy sometimes for no apparent reason at all.
The gist is
we’re not so different—
you and me.
Clearly, the fussy nut
has not fallen far
from its fussy-ass tree.
Can you explain to me
what makes you
so very uncomfortable
with my pacifier?
I like to suck.
You taught me that.
I got rewarded for sucking.
I got fed. With warm, delicious milk.
I felt close to you.
Heck . . . I felt close to achieving Nirvana.
Can you blame me for wanting to keep that sense of
peace and oneness going for just a little longer?
Sucking on something makes me feel like I might
have a chance at being a truly successful human being.
Can you say that about any of your vices?
You wish you could find something that makes you feel this good about life.
Something that wasn’t bad for you . . .
didn’t rot your liver,
give you cancer,
slow down your brain.
Just clean, honest impulse satisfaction.
It’s hurting no one.
Except maybe you and your fragile sense
of confident parenting
in the face of some random stranger’s perceived judgment
The Sounds of Being Humiliated
“What’s the doggie say?”
“What’s the kitty say?”
“What’s the rooster say?”
“What’s the lion say?”
“What’s the pig say?”
“What’s the horsie say?”
I am not your puppet.
I am not your clown.
I am not your trained monkey.