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Death of A Kindle

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Morning Readers,

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the minute you become a parent, accept that all your stuff will soon be broken.

It’s not all bad. For instance, when you own absolutely no worldly possessions, you no longer have to choose between sitting on the couch or sitting on the love seat. The children un-stuffed both of them last week, so communing with the floor it is.

It’s a simple life filled with shirts with buttons missing and side tables with no decor.

Just kidding. You don’t have side tables either. Sacrifices must be made to keep the integrity of a nice game of “Climb the Mountain: If you fall, you get left behind edition.”

The only thing harder for a parent to comprehend more than having things break, is when things break and it’s utterly, completely, and totally their fault.

Doc.

Doc, as it turns out, is a banshee.

Yes, like the mythical creature.

For the past week, the screaming has been non-stop. Happy, sad, or trying to figure out if he can lick the pureed pear off his elbow, the child is screaming. High-pitched, blood-curdling, are-you-sure-his-leg-isn’t-being-torn-off-no-because-he’s-smiling screaming.

I drank an entire bottle of wine by myself last night. That’s the type of screaming we’re dealing with.

So, yesterday afternoon, in an act of desperation, I started handing out things to keep him distracted: toys, blocks, my college diploma (I’ve found most people start laughing hysterically when they read “Bachelor of Arts in English,” so it was worth a shot). But nothing worked.

Until….

“Here, baby. You take this Kindle in its leather case. For, due to this extremely durable case, you will be able to do it no harm. So says I, and so say the knights of the realm.”

It was accepted by chubby hands. “Ma.”

And there was quiet over the land.

Until…

“I think my Kindle’s broken.”

Husband gave me a measured look from the couch. “Probably because you let the baby play with it. Are you sure it’s broken?”

I nodded. “Judging by the welcome message of “You’ll never read books here again”, I’m leaning towards the affirmative.

“Yep.”

“I blame no one but myself. Un-cork the wine and start The Descendants. George Clooney must now bear the brunt of my emotional upheaval.”

So today, I say goodbye to one of my dearest friends, and begin saving for a replacement.

Or more alcohol.

Or obedience school for the baby.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.


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