I can't allow you to do that, Dad.

Where am I? What's going on? Who? Uhhh....cognitive systems failing... Well, Aidan had a banner day yesterday-- he managed to stay awake most of the day, keeping Mom from doing pretty much anything other than tend to him. When I got home, after fighting the rampaging hordes and marauding miscreants I call "drivers", he was still awake. And he was making it clear in no uncertain terms that he was not to be put down or left unamused for any length of time. So, while Mom ate a much deserved dinner, I wandered around playing "keep the pacifier in baby's mouth" and making up words to lullabyes I never learned properly. "Hush little baby, don't you cry, daddy's gonna buy you a ...uh....steaming pie. And if that steaming pie tastes bad, daddy's gonna...ummmm.....destroy Baghdad." And believe me, it only went downhill from there; let's just say it's a good thing the kid can't talk yet, or I would have some serious explaining to do. After this serenading, Aidan decided that I suck at singing, and started screaming for food. TAG! Mom's it.

While she was feeding him, I took the chance to do something fun. Ok, that's a lie. Actually, I did laundry. That was followed by a rousing round of "storm about and cram food into my face as quickly as possible". Then, more miscellaneous housework until he finally fell asleep. Only had about an hour of time before we trundled him off to bed...and then my enslavement to the baby moniter began anew. People who work in a corporate environment often joke about how they're slaves to thier machines (i.e. computers). Well, all I have to say to that is PISS OFF. You have no idea what being a slave to the machine is until you begin worshiping at the Baby Monitor Altar of Neverending Paranoia. I'm a light sleeper anyway, and although my survival instinct have kicked in somewhat, allowing me to sleep, the monitor still gets me. It's not the noise, really... it's more the light. We have one of the monitors that has three bars of light that come on in sequence depending on the amount of noise being made. This, of course, is utterly useless, because the thing is so sensitive that it's always on only one bar or (more frequently) full-on-Times-Square-on-New-Year's-eve-Village-People-Pink-Floyd-lazer-light-extravaganza. THAT, my friends, I cannot sleep through. The sounds, I cope with. Fluctuations in light levels sends my fight-or-flight instincts screaming into the red. And seriously, Fischer Price, WHY did you have to make the lights the color of Satan's gaping butthole? Why not a nice blue or soothing green? Gah. So everytime the damn lights go off, I am absolutely POSITIVE my little prince is throwing a clot or suffocating himself on some stuffed animal he managed to Jedi mind-trick into the crib with him.

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love my little buddy, and fully realize that at this age he has zero control over his body and needs-- and I don't begrudge him at all for that. In fact, it's cute. But OH GOD THE LIGHTS.... I think tonight I'm going to slap some electrical tape over the display when Mom isn't looking. Cause for her, it's the noise that rouses....and much as I like driving 2 hours a day to work 10.5 hours at my job, I'm ready to give it up. The job part, I mean. Which of course, I won't, but a guy can dream....