I know that your teeth hurt. And I know that you are tired of being in your swing. And I know that you want to be held, and cuddled, and fed copious amounts of fresh milk until you pass out in a happy little delirium with milk dribbling down your chin, dreaming of sugarplum fairies and really hot cars. And I think that's great. Those are lovely ambitions. Everyone should have a goal.
I understand that you are displeased with me, your humble servant. I appreciate that you feel my performance is less than stellar, as I am not quick enough to respond and cater to your every whim. But must you be quite so forceful in expressing your displeasure?
Seriously. Stop it.
I have fed you. A lot. I have held you, cuddled you, whispered sweet nothings and cooed to you as I looked deeply into your big blue eyes and smiled happily at you. I have given you Tylenol for your teeth, changed your diaper, burped you, and wiped the spittle from your face. I have pushed you in your swing just exactly the way you like to be pushed, sung songs to you, and ensured that your little stuffed-kitties-on-a-teething-ring toy is always close-by. And I sincerely don't know what more you could want. You have been treated like royalty. You have been fed, changed, snuggled, drugged ... this type of treatment would make most people very happy. But not you, oh my sweet baby of doom. You will not be content until you have thoroughly demonstrated your incredible vocal powers, so that all of the neighbours may take note and fully appreciate your amazing gift.
Why do you scream at me with such ferocity, making my head throb and my ears bleed as you permanently damage my hearing with your high pitched shrieks of rage? Your needs have been met insofar as I can meet them. It is perfectly apparent that you are tired and should just go to sleep now. And if you would stop screaming long enough to close your eyes and drift off into peaceful slumber, I feel you would quite enjoy it.
I know I would.