2, 4, 6, 8 - We Don't Like To Separate

That is the face of a baby that does not want me to leave. EVER. Yes dear friends, it is separation anxiety time at the McCall household. Separation anxiety is when your baby knows who you are, that they like you, that you are fun, and oh yeah, you carry those treasures that provide a steady supply of frothy milky bliss and if you leave them, they think you have stumbled into a black hole of non-existence so they start to panic and cry uncontrollably. Babies are so stupid. This is the stage in which Maggie has to grasp onto Object Permanence, wherein she recognizes that when I leave to go into another room, I still exist. I told you they were stupid. This does not really cause too much of a problem, but at night, after I nurse her and try to slip her back into her crib she is revolting. Because she is all - hey booby lady, where are you? Where are you? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? I love my daughter, and for the most part, she has been a wonderfully easy baby. But for that all goodness, there had to be one bad. And that bad is a cry that is absolutely piercing and ultimately destructive to my nerve core. It sounds as if she is being stabbed to death, it is not a cry - it is a gut wrenching wail of wounding. I can’t listen to it without an immediate twitch in my right eye combined with a searing pain behind my temples. All those not familiar with the wail of banshees, I submit to you the following: In Irish Folklore is a spirit in the form of a wailing woman whose appearance is an omen that you will die. Although in Maggie’s case, it is just that I want to die. Oh, separation anxiety, how the hell did I forget about you? Oh yes, I know, because one tends to block out traumatic injuries to the psyche.