I already complained about the joy of living in an apartment building here, but I stumbled upon the more or less same problem at my boyfriend's place as well. He shares his bedroom wall with a young family of three: a papa human, a mama human and a precious little bundle of joy. Of course you know where this story is going ...
Just a few nights ago, the bundle of poop decided to start crying at 6 a.m. and woke me up. The fact that I had to be awake with the two proud parents didn't bother me as much as the fact that my boyfriend was sleeping like a baby next to me as the baby in the next room should have slept. There I was wide awake staring at the dark thinking: "What would the police say if I called in and said that I want to complain about a crying baby ..." Of course I wasn't planning on calling, a baby was crying, for Peet's sake, that's what babies do. But I was just wondering why is it ok to call the police when a teenager throws a party when he or she's home alone - that's what teenagers do. Or why is it ok to call the cops when a dog barks in the middle of the night for an hour - that's what dogs do. Or why is it ok to call the cops when a drunk person falls down the stairs and wakes everyone in the building up - that's what I do (did I just say I?). And please, don't tell me that kids just can't help themselves whereas others can. The level of crying CAN be cut down to a minimum, I should know.
I think that before my father decided to have children, he went to Greece, Sparta to be exact, to test his child raising methods and he actually showed those people how it's done. They might call it the Spartan upbringing these days, but I'm sure that my father just wanted to be humble and renounced the title.
When I was 4, I got sick and he had to take me to a hospital. He said: "If they have to draw your blood, I don't want to hear a sound. Understood?" I had no idea what "to draw blood" entailed but even if I had known, I still would've had to nod. Who knew that meant sticking a needle in my frigging arm. So we got to the hospital and before I knew it, a nurse took off my coat, sat me down, rolled up my sleeve and said: "We'll have to draw your blood." Great. No sound, got it.
She started poking my tiny arm and couldn't find a vain. She stabbed me 3 times before she tried my other arm and took a catheter and tied it around my feeble 4-year-old bicep. When she stabbed me with the damn thing for the 5th time, she said:
"You're such a good girl. Other kids always cry."
"I'm not allowed to cry."
She looked at me in sheer shock: "You know, if it hurts, you can cry."
I looked at my father towering over her and thought: "You bitch iz crazy." I decided that she was wrong and didn't make a sound.
There are two morals to this story. First: You can, in fact, prevent children from excessive crying (so, please, do). And second: If you don't allow kids to be afraid of needles, they might grow up and tattoo and pierce the hell out of their body.
Hope to see you back this Friday and again next Monday and Wednesday. Follow via Twitter if you like. If you don't, I won't cry but not because I wouldn't want to. :)