Fuck this, fuck that and most of all fuck you.
It is hard to be cheerful when the little voice in the back of your mind flat out refuses to not be heard.
It is even harder when you, most of the time, whole heartedly agree.
Fuck me for thinking I could take time off.
Fuck you all for not following the motherfucking written directions I left. In the goddamned log book we are all supposed to read before shift. The written instructions that were fucking initialed and dated by everybody indicating that they were read.
Fuck the ‘pass the blame game’. I thought so-and-so did it/would do it/had done it already.
Fuck me for taking time off. No excuse for not spending time with Snow and David and baby brothers first Thanksgiving. He’s an infant, for Christ’s sake. Eating, sleeping and shitting. Oh, and crying. A lot of crying. All the fucking time.
Well, not when I hold him.
Or Regina, come to think of it.
Fuck, now it’s N…baby brothers first Christmas. Toys every fucking where. Brand new fucking toys. Toys for infants. Toys for toddlers. Toys in blue. Toys in pink. And every fucking color, shape and size imaginable. Toys that light up. Toys that move. Toys that make noise. Toys that light up and move. Toys that light up, make noise and move. You get the idea.
Cribs and bassinets. Receiving blankets. Car seats. Pacifiers.
Don’t even get me started on the fucking clothes this infant has. Shoes. Hats. Designer fucking infant clothes.
Heated discussions about the ‘right’ diaper.
Heated discussions about organic baby food.
My First Baby books. Baby magazines. Mother magazines. Child rearing books.
Snow expected me to sit with her and fucking watch a documentary on…? Some fucking baby thing.
Then help her pick out the best pictures to fill yet another baby album.
Oh, yes. And fucking baby music. Classical. Modern. ABC’s. Colors. Shapes.
I swear to God, every fucking word out of her mouth is about or has to do with the baby.
Like nothing else exists.