I Think My Baby Might Hate Me

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Yeah, so, the Spawn hates me.

OK, maybe “hate” is too strong a word. Let’s just say I’m not his favorite. Mighty, mighty good man David is his favorite. I’ve written before about how he is a daddy’s boy. But he’s taking his indifference to me to a whole new level.

Last week, The Boy was sick. He had roseola, which means he had a fever for three days followed by a rash. Poor kid. Considering he had a fever of 102, he was in pretty good spirits. He just wanted to lay around on the couch and watch TV. Toddlers: They’re just like us!

We were sitting on the couch together, watching a Baby Einstein DVD for the 10,000th time. I went into the kitchen to fill up his water cup, and when I returned The Boy had decided that I needed to sit somewhere else and lined up all his stuffed animals on the couch. The couch was taken.


(By the way, is there a support group I can join for parents who have seen the Baby Einstein DVDs too many times? The Boy is obsessed with Baby Newton, which contains a song about crayons and drawing a clown and it makes me want to hit myself in the head with a frying pan. Seriously, I’m hearing the song in my sleep. It’s awful.)

The other day, David was holding The Boy, and the kid gave David a kiss. I leaned in: “Do you have a kiss for me?” Then he stuck his hand in my face as if to say, “Oh hell no, Mom.” Shortly after that, David put The Boy down, and the kid bent down and gave the dog a kiss on his back, near his butt.

I know, right?

He would rather kiss the dog’s ass than give me a kiss.

Gee, no, that doesn’t hurt my feeling at all, why do you ask? Don’t mind me, kid, I’m just the lady who ruined her body to create you. I’m the lady that makes your food and does your laundry. But that’s cool. Go ahead and love the dog more than me.

I hear that kids go through phases; that they go back and forth on which parents are their favorite. But the Spawn’s favoritism of David has been going on for quite some time now. Mommy is never his favorite. I won’t lie: Sometimes it hurts my feelings. I think I’m a pretty OK mom. I’m fun. I get down on the ground and push cars around and build things with blocks. I start tickle fights. I play music and get short-lived dance parties going in the kitchen. Sure, I’m not perfect, but I’m doing OK. I sew up his ripped stuff animals and what not. He should at least kinda like me.

David is going to be traveling for work in a few weeks. I’m a little worried that it’s going to be four days of The Boy being pissed at me not being his Dad: “Why are you here? Where’s Dad? … Thanks for the food. When does Dad get home again? … You know who’s awesome? Dad! I love that guy. When does Dad get home again?”

Maybe The Boy can sense it. He can tell that I want him to love me. I’m desperate. He can smell it. Maybe I need to read He’s Just Not That Into You again. Maybe I need to play hard to get? Or maybe offer a bribe? “Listen, kid. Here’s a box of cheddar bunnies, now love me, dammit!”


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