How You Know You Are the Mother of a Demon Baby

When you return from an evening out and ask the babysitters (PLURAL; it takes TWO to watch him), "How did it go?"

"No lasting or permanent damage. "

Survivor

Life with Demon Baby is like a reality show.

Imagine . . . you are in the shower, naked, soaped up, shampoo in your hair. You hear someone trying to break down the bathroom door with an axe. What do you do?

You don't even rinse, you run, dripping wet (trying not to slip and kill yourself) and open the door to find . . . not an axe murderer, but Demon Baby, using a heavy book as a hammer and trying to break down the door so he can . . . "keep you company."

How fast can you race up a flight of stairs before he hurls a container of yogurt over the balcony landing?

Can you rescue the dog with irritable bowel before Demon Baby feeds him M&Ms and corn?

I can imagine the show, the challenges. It's not for the faint of heart.

And that is why babysitters and family members don't "watch" Demon Baby. They "survive" him.

Our babysitter "survived" on Tuesday.

Babysitter

Realistically speaking, when you have a Demon Baby, you don't torture some poor, unsuspecting babysitter with him. Realistically speaking, few people in the universe can handle him. RELATIVES who are supposed to LOVE him can barely handle him.

But today, just this once, Demon Baby is having a babysitter because the choice was either a) hire a babysitter, or b) find me a strait jacket, because Oldest Daughter graduates high school today and there is NO WAY he is sitting through a multi-hour ceremony downtown.

I pay my babysitters REALLY well. Above the going rate. I call it the Demon Surcharge.

Pray for my babysitter today.