Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers

To say that my daughter is fussy is an understatement. I've described her as obstinate, particular, persistent and down-right discontent. I like to think that this little baby body is just too confining for all her potential. Inside, she has the makings of Ronald Regan, Maya Angelou, Mia Hamm and Picaso all just bursting at the seams and when she opens her mouth, nothing but burps escape. That's gotta be frustrating.


Then again, maybe she's just fussy.

Either way, she was hell in a handbasket this morning. Wednesday and Thursday are E's days to come to work with me. Usually this goes smoothly. Today, not so much. I don't know if it's the shots she had on Tuesday or her nap that was interrupted yesterday or the polish sausage I had for dinner last night, but whatever the cause she was screaming bloody murder ALL MORNING. My co-workers are patient, but I could see rage rising in their eyes.

I fed her. I bounced her. I burped her. I changed her. I covered her up. I uncovered her. I picked her up. I sat her down. I fed her again. I gave her a pacifier (inappropriately titled as it never "pacifies" Eleanor). And then finally I gave up. I sat her in her bouncer and in an attempt to simply drown out her screams, I cranked up some Tom Petty. Turns out, 'Mary Jane's Last Dance' is actually Eleanor's lullaby. I've been blasting the likes of Boston, Bob Seger, Pink Floyd and Steve Miller Band ever since and haven't heard a peep from the tot. I don't know if I should be excited or terrified. Do I have a cool rocker chick on my hands or a non-shaving, hemp-sandal-wearing, weed-smokin' hippie? This child's gonna be a trip...