Her hands are her own enemy. Somehow, this is my fault.
October 21, 2026
I had been awake since 4:30 in the morning.
Not by choice.
Nobody usually wakes up at 4:30 because they feel like it.
I had a 7:00 AM appointment, which meant I needed to get dressed, get Meatball dressed, feed her, pump, drink coffee, and transform from a sleep-deprived shell into someone legally permitted to operate a vehicle.
I had already made the coffee.
Technically.
But by the time I could drink it, it was cold and not sweet enough. By then, it was less of a treat and more of a maintenance dose.
Still, I had shit to do.
Meatball was already dressed and fed.
She was wearing a white cardigan with donut pants, looking like a tiny businesswoman who had arrived early to discuss quarterly snack projections.
Surely, she would go back to sleep.
I would pump.
I would drink my disappointing coffee.
I would watch Blue Bloods in peace.
Then I would get ready for my appointment without anyone demanding additional services from my body.
This was a reasonable plan.
Unfortunately, Meatball had called a board meeting.
The Staring
At first, she did not cry.
She did not babble.
She did not kick.
She simply stared at me through the crib slats.
For approximately ten minutes.
Ma’am, you’re fucking creepy. Blink, please.
I’m uncomfortable with these conditions.
Especially when I’m attached to a breast pump and holding a cup of inadequate coffee.
I tried not to make eye contact.
She continued watching.
I looked at the television.
She continued watching.
I glanced back.
Still there.
Still silent.
Still studying me like she had discovered several inconsistencies in my story.
There was no expression on her face.
No obvious request.
No indication of whether she needed assistance or was merely documenting my failures for Human Resources.
Just two tiny eyes between the crib slats.
Watching.
Waiting.
Judging.
I had the distinct feeling that I was about to be asked where I saw myself in five years.
Hopefully asleep.
That dream is comical, honestly. But one can hope.
The Meeting Begins
Eventually, Meatball decided the silent intimidation portion of the morning was complete.
She started talking.
Not words.
Nothing actionable.
Just passionate baby commentary delivered at full confidence by someone who has never paid a bill.
She had escaped enough of her swaddle to free both arms, which meant the meeting now included visual aids.
The hands were out.
This is never good.
Meatball’s hands do not work for her.
They are independent contractors committed to disrupting every service she actually wants.
Her mouth wants the pacifier.
Her hand removes the pacifier.
Her mouth realizes the pacifier is gone.
She cries.
I replace the pacifier.
Her hand immediately removes it again.
She cries because someone has taken her pacifier.
The suspect remains at large despite being visibly attached to her wrist.
This cycle repeats indefinitely.
Pacifier in.
Hand removes it.
Baby cries.
Mother replaces it.
Hand removes it.
Baby cries.
Mother questions every decision that led to this moment.
Nobody learns anything.
We will continue this process till I retire.
Not until she retires.
Until I retire.
Or die.
Whichever comes first, honestly.
From what, exactly, I do not know.
Motherhood does not offer a pension.
Or life insurance.
These Hands Have No Supervision
The problem is not that Meatball has hands.
Hands are generally useful.
I support her having them.
The problem is that nobody appears to be supervising them.
They grab the bottle while she is actively drinking from it.
They push the bottle away.
She becomes furious that the bottle has moved.
They pull the pacifier out.
They scratch the crib sheet.
They grab her own clothing.
They grab my clothing.
They locate handfuls of my hair with the precision of a trained sniper.
They scratch my face off.
Hello, Freddy Krueger Jr.
They behave as though none of this was their idea.
Meatball is both the victim and the perpetrator in every crime involving her hands.
She will be peacefully drifting toward sleep when one rogue arm launches into the air and wakes her back up.
Then she looks at me like I did it.
Ma’am.
I was across the room.
Your assailant is still attached to you.
Please direct all complaints internally, honey.
Independent Enrichment
Once Meatball accepted that sleep was no longer on the agenda, she began entertaining herself with the baby-safe yarn blanket my friend made for her.
The blanket has little holes between the stitches.
Meatball discovered she could push her fingers through them.
This became her entire career.
One finger in each hole.
Inspect the result.
Then she couldn’t figure out how to remove them.
So they stayed in the holes.
She studied each hole with the concentration of a scientist conducting groundbreaking research in textile finger distribution.
For once, her hands were doing something productive.
I did not interrupt.
If the hands were occupied, the pacifier had a chance of remaining in her mouth for more than four consecutive seconds.
That is what success looks like before 7:00 in the morning.
Not peace.
Not rest.
Just strategic hand placement.
Then, because she couldn’t figure out how to remove them, she just held the blanket and went to sleep.
Then I had to go remove her hand because ✨ SAFETY ✨.
This was success.
Paci was safe.
Baby was asleep.
Meanwhile, I Had Plans
I was supposed to be preparing for an appointment.
Instead, I was pumping while monitoring an infant board meeting, reheating coffee I had already reheated emotionally, and trying to determine whether I had enough time to become presentable.
Meatball remained fully booked.
She had staring scheduled from 5:15 to 5:25.
Unlicensed commentary immediately afterward.
Pacifier removal every thirty seconds.
Blanket-hole research until further notice.
Possible bottle sabotage pending availability.
I had mistakenly believed feeding and dressing her completed my morning responsibilities.
That was adorable.
Getting a baby ready does not mean the baby is ready.
It means the baby has entered the next phase of operations.
There is always another phase.
Morning Management
People talk about morning routines like they are peaceful little sequences you intentionally create.
Wake up.
Stretch.
Drink water.
Write in a journal.
Set your intentions.
My morning routine is negotiated live with a tiny person whose intentions are classified.
I wake up when she decides.
I drink coffee at whatever temperature it arrives in.
I pump while being monitored through wooden slats.
I replace the pacifier she personally removed.
I explain that her own hands are betraying her.
She disregards my findings.
Then we do it all again.
There is no sunrise meditation.
There is no gratitude journal.
There is only Meatball, staring silently from the crib while I try to remember whether I brushed my teeth.
The Adjournment
Eventually, I got ready.
The milk was pumped.
The coffee was consumed despite its mediocre existence.
Meatball survived the repeated theft of her pacifier by her own hand.
We made it out of the house.
Barely.
Nothing about the morning was efficient, but everything technically happened.
That is the standard now.
Not graceful.
Not peaceful.
Completed.
Meatball will continue fighting her own hands.
I will continue replacing the pacifier.
She will continue looking at me like I am responsible for the consequences of her actions.
And I will continue providing full administrative support to an infant-run organization with no clear leadership structure.
Till I retire.
Or die.
✨ BALANCE ✨
-EC 🌈
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