This Is Not Going to Go on Forever

For about 72 hours, Bug's crap factory hasn't been working the way it should. Which means:

• She lets loose with a crackling scream of pain every 15 minutes. This has the dual effect of making my heart go warbly and taking a sandpaper strip to the right side of my cerebellum.
  
• She has a twosie every 24 hours instead of the regular every 3 hours. What this means is that each movement is its own Homeric epic. As the man said to the mayor, I have seen shit that'll turn you white.
• No sleep.
• My wife says "I need a drink." She barely understood the human motivation toward alcohol before the Bug arrived. But now she has leapfrogged right into getting-the-shakes territory. (To her credit, she still hasn't had said drink. I think this just code for "escape.")
  

Suffice to say these are some exhausting shifts. With that in mind, I cannot understand the modern American parents who survive their child's infant years, succeed in raising a functioning over-16 teenager, but "who are willing to chauffeur their children to activities" rather than see that kid get a driver's license. I do not understand fathers or mothers who love golf but who "won’t spend a whole day away from their family anymore."

I am getting the hell out whenever I can.

Now, I can't swing a golf club to save my life but the kid managed to sleep from 3-5 this AM. So I got to work early; not because I had to, but because I happen to enjoy my current job. And I mean to keep doing so, rather than turn into a chauffeur who works with blogs sometimes and gets a pang of sadsack nostalgia every time he cruises by the driving range.

The moment this kid can master the art of putting peanut butter between two slices of bread, I am heading back to the library/African paradise/New Orleans barstool with a swiftness. (I'm counting on They Live-style teleportation watches will be commonplace in this near future.)