2/17/12
Any father of a breast-feeding infant charged with the solo care of said infant for any time period over four hours will inevitably run into a period of time where no amount of cajoling with a bottle, fatherly patting on the back, singing, rocking, crying, shouting, bouncing, screaming, swinging, etc... will do anything to comfort your own child. They just want boobs, period. Today was one of those days.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the fascination/obsession, it's just that I DON'T HAVE ANY! This is unfortunate when your son won't eat for 7 hours, nor be soothed by any of the above tactics. The frustration reaches a fever pitch that echoes the child's volume exactly - the louder and more prolonged the crying is when you are powerless to stop it, the more you feel like adding yourself to the world's worst father list, and possibly finding the closest bridge to jump off.
The icing on the cake, of course, is when one's significant other returns home, nurses the little rascal for about 10 minutes, then he looks at you with a milky smirk on his face as if to say - see, fuckhead - that's all it takes.
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