Sometimes Mommy Fails Too: Electric Boogaloo

Now yes, I'll admit that I will probably be the reason our little girl needs therapy when she gets older. Between finding non-standard ways to stop her crying, wanting to wake her up early because "it's only fair," thinking I'd killed her and generally blogging about her (labeling her a cockblocker, for example, may come back to haunt me some day) will probably lead to some huge psychosis as she grows older and her therapist will look back, point squarely at me and say "Yup, he sure screwed you up real good. Bad daddy."

But I'm not alone. Oh, no. Not at all.

If our child has an identity crisis as she grows older I will shake my head at the therapist and point straight at where the problem comes from.

Mom.

Now it's bad enough that one of our two cats is called "Pretty Cat" and that Lois is often cuddled and cooed at as "pretty girl." That gets switched around often enough that I just laugh. Mom is holding the baby, cuddling up to her, and gently, lovingly says "Oh, you're so adorable Pretty Cat..." and then looks around in hopes that Pretty Cat is actually nearby so she can pretend she was talking to the cat to abate my laughter. Yes, that would be bad enough.

But we have another cat.

And the other day Mom was holding Lois, cooing over her, softly lulling her to sleep; rocking her gently, and uttering nonsense words intended to just quietly tip her into the land of the sleeping. She looked down at her little girl and with love in her eyes gently spoke:

"Chester."

"Yeah, Mom? What's up?"