I’ll start with a preemptive strike. I love my daughters. There. No need to get gushy about it.
You should know dear reader that I typed paragraph and a half of what could by some professionals be called gushy. It has been excised.
Babies can cry, loud and long, and they don’t lose their voice when doing so. They can go for hours. The worst is when the shrill cry for help bounces off the ceiling and canon balls into your ear. To back track a few sentences. It should be noted that no baby is an ass hole. None of them cry just to piss you off. Usually they’re hungry, wet, or have poopy diapers.
Still, there are times when you have just fed the beautiful little beast and yet they can’t be soothed. That’s why I always have a bottle of the precious breast milk ready at room temp. As close to the real thing as possible.
I call it Shut Up Juice (patent pending) I never say this out loud, when my wife is near. But I think those words sometimes. It rages through my mind. It courses through my blood when I curl into a ball in an attempt to exorcise the frustration. And it works every time.
Baby has her own juice. Its called the coo. She brings it home with a smile. These in combination energizes tired limbs, melts away frustration, and makes you fall in love a dozen times a day.
Well look at that. Gushy anyway.