Viking Baby

I swear I have a viking baby. A farting, burping, swearing, food-chucking little bloody viking. His incoherant whines and screams is really an ancient viking language and each sentence has pretty much the same tone: "Get me my food, bitch. Screw you, bitch, I don't want to go to sleep. I want to stay up all night eating, whoring and shitting with Big Bird and Mr. Owl."

Food times are the worst. I believe that more food lands on the ground than in his little circle on his face. I spend my days sweeping the floor, to keep the ants at bay and wiping his grotty little food-stained paws that claw and rip each morsel of food scraps I throw at him, paying mind not to get too close for fear of the almighty smear in my eye/ear/hair. I've come to believe that avocado doesn't have any properties to make my hair shine. I just end up looking oily and green. The 'Kermit the frog' look went out in the '80's. 


I'm hoping that the viking eventually leaves in his little dragonship and sails far far away, leaving behind the sweet little darling that used to dwell in my quiet abode. But I guess that won't happen until well after his teen years. Best be adopting the 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em' philosophy. Arrrrrgh!