Week 33 – Learning by Teething

The following is a written account by a Dad suffering from TOBBS (that’s Told Off By Baby Syndrome).

Seems like everything we do at the moment is taken as a direct insult to our son's good honour, and he reacts accordingly. By shouting at us. My poor lady wife gets it full blast non-stop because I get the luxury of going to work still. However, I do receive texts off my aforementioned good lady wife stating roughly that she’ll walk out and I’ll never see my family again if I’m even a minute late from work, so that’s fun. He’s just crying all the time again, barely able to sleep more than 45 minutes in one go, and has basically turned into a 50/50 mood-swinger.

What a week.

Let me tell you the whole story so you’re properly clued in: my son's teething again. There, that’s the whole story. Horrifying, isn’t it?

We pretty much just tag-team him when we can and hope for the best, it’s sort of a guessing game as to when he’s going to emotionally explode again. Like a time bomb but in a nappy, and more explosive. But you can’t throw this one out the window James Bond-style. We’ve started slathering his gums in Anbesol just to relieve the pain of his splitting gums. You ever tried Anbesol? You remember that old technique of getting babies to stop crying from the pain by rubbing whiskey in their mouth? And how we all shook our heads and scoffed, spouting phrases such as “Old people know nothing” and “Alcohol’s bad for kids.”

Whiskey is 40% alcohol.

Anbesol is 97% alcohol. And lidocaine.

It’s no wonder he stops crying and drops off to sleep, he’s drunk off his man tits!

And when my son isn’t drunk or recovering from a baby-sized hangover, he’s being used as a template for Daddy to learn from! I failed to put him in a high chair – legs flailing, arms bicycling, and Daddy quickly coming to the conclusion that he has zero chance of squeezing a chubby bag of limbs into a small space without medicinal help. Then Mummy shows Daddy how to hold baby’s feet together with one hand and essentially strap his upper half together with the other, then gently lower him into the awaiting straightjacket – sorry, highchair – and lock him into place. Then he can’t go anywhere, hahahahaha!

DO give him mashed banana on bread.

DON’T give him mashed banana on granary bread. Seeds everywhere. Terrible mess.

Oh yeah, the dog stole my son's cheese. Right out of his fat fist. It was very funny. ’Nuff said.

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