Mommy physics. An elusive subject that despite a millennium of brilliant research cannot be fully understood or explained. Einstein's theory of relativity should theoretically apply and work, but its as successful as applying a bandaid to a broken arm.
Our first lesson:
In every home in which resides a baby that doesn't like to sleep, there is a pinpoint coordinates in the space-time continuum that presides outside the bedroom door of restlessly sleeping babe, at any point in time within the confines of 9pm and 9am. It is never present in the converse of 9am to 9pm. Further, its location is fluid, the pinpoint moves with ease, like an air bubble in a sippy cup, unfortunately, it does not shift with the same predictability. Also, the said coordinates work much like a wormhole, transporting the baby from a state of peaceful sleep to riotous commotion faster than the speed of light. An unseen energy that swallows silence as effectively as a black hole swallows light.
If you are a sleep deprived parent you know the dreaded monster of which I speak (er, write).
The terrifying FLOOR CREAK. Its not there in the morning as the husband gets ready for work. Its not there in the afternoon while im running around with CDD (cleaning deficit disorder). Its not there as we trapse in and out of my daughter's bedroom all day for diaper and wardrobe changes. No, it is only there in the wee hours of the morning, lurking like a monster beneath our bed. Waiting. Waiting ever so patiently to spring forth at the exact moment to elicit the maximum amount of terror and dred. And by some cruel irony of the universe, the creak increases in volume and duration exponentially in direct relation to one's efforts to move slowly and silently. The more gingerly you place your foot and shift your weight the louder and more obnoxious that floor announces that your pea sized bladder needs to be relieved....again. However, and this is where neither string theory, Newton's laws or relativity apply - the creak appears even if you move differently, attempting the fast, light footed flittering of a fairy instead of the purposeful stealth of a ninja. And its just as loud, and how in the world does it continue even after you've crossed into the other room. It follows a sleep deprived, full baddered parent like a phantasm, eager to cause mischief and disturb the precariously sleeping babe behind the partially closed door. How can a mom compete against the unruly, unfair tricks of the universe? How does that floor creak on its own? Like the gravitational pull of the moon during that exact moment of the Earth's daily rotation was just too much to resist so the hard wood had to, Just HAD TO, sqeak with pleasure.
It leads a desperate parent to wonder if her infant is too young for earplugs.
Advanced calculus has yet to solve this particular mystery of the universe. Any person who can solve this particular equation deserves the Nobel Prize.
Our first lesson:
In every home in which resides a baby that doesn't like to sleep, there is a pinpoint coordinates in the space-time continuum that presides outside the bedroom door of restlessly sleeping babe, at any point in time within the confines of 9pm and 9am. It is never present in the converse of 9am to 9pm. Further, its location is fluid, the pinpoint moves with ease, like an air bubble in a sippy cup, unfortunately, it does not shift with the same predictability. Also, the said coordinates work much like a wormhole, transporting the baby from a state of peaceful sleep to riotous commotion faster than the speed of light. An unseen energy that swallows silence as effectively as a black hole swallows light.
If you are a sleep deprived parent you know the dreaded monster of which I speak (er, write).
The terrifying FLOOR CREAK. Its not there in the morning as the husband gets ready for work. Its not there in the afternoon while im running around with CDD (cleaning deficit disorder). Its not there as we trapse in and out of my daughter's bedroom all day for diaper and wardrobe changes. No, it is only there in the wee hours of the morning, lurking like a monster beneath our bed. Waiting. Waiting ever so patiently to spring forth at the exact moment to elicit the maximum amount of terror and dred. And by some cruel irony of the universe, the creak increases in volume and duration exponentially in direct relation to one's efforts to move slowly and silently. The more gingerly you place your foot and shift your weight the louder and more obnoxious that floor announces that your pea sized bladder needs to be relieved....again. However, and this is where neither string theory, Newton's laws or relativity apply - the creak appears even if you move differently, attempting the fast, light footed flittering of a fairy instead of the purposeful stealth of a ninja. And its just as loud, and how in the world does it continue even after you've crossed into the other room. It follows a sleep deprived, full baddered parent like a phantasm, eager to cause mischief and disturb the precariously sleeping babe behind the partially closed door. How can a mom compete against the unruly, unfair tricks of the universe? How does that floor creak on its own? Like the gravitational pull of the moon during that exact moment of the Earth's daily rotation was just too much to resist so the hard wood had to, Just HAD TO, sqeak with pleasure.
It leads a desperate parent to wonder if her infant is too young for earplugs.
Advanced calculus has yet to solve this particular mystery of the universe. Any person who can solve this particular equation deserves the Nobel Prize.
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