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Language Log

Thursday, Oct. 04, 2012 - 7:54 a.m.

I start my day out irritated because there's always some shit one of our well-meaning helpers has done to throw me off. Today, I wanted to start a batch of bran muffins, but some helpful soul decided to put my room temperature butter back in the fridge. Goddammit. I could cry.

Then it goes on all day. People telling me how often I should feed the baby, trying to get him to wait longer even when I've said I don't want him to. People saying he should cry, when I've asked them to pick him up so I can finish my goddamn sandwich. Because I can't enjoy my sandwich with my baby laying there crying. People who can, fine. I can't.

People coming in and out of our bedroom like it's central fucking station, because that's where the baby stuff is. Fine. But they just waltz in unnecessarily, as if someone might not be getting dressed or trying to take a shower.

Then you ask them not to set the table for dinner, and they do it anyway. Setting the table is useless activity #1 in my book right now. You get the plates out from the kitchen and put them on the table. You carry your empty glasses from next to the sink to the table. Then you have to carry everything back into the kitchen and back out to the table again when it's time to eat. Goddammit. Just take the glass out, fill it with water, then go to the table. You cut out 2 steps that way.

All this help is killing me. Or driving me insane. Or both.

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