The Parents moved me from the playpen to the floor mat and now in the swing.
I whimper as I kick my chubby four-month-old feet.
Oh good, Mommy finally acknowledges my protests. She walks towards me, pauses in front of the swing, touches the knob.
And walks away!?
“Wahhhh!!” Don’t leave! I want to sleep on your chest for another three hours! The swing suddenly got a boost of energy, swaying faster back and forth.
“You’re a hypocrite. You never let me swing Izzy at the highest setting when she was a baby,” accuses Daddy in the background.
Like sitting in a pirate ship at an amusement park lifted to the highest peak, I can see all the toys scattered on the floor beneath me.
Then swoosh, I am descending so fast, my vision becomes a blur, and now I can see every lightbulb in the ceiling. One. Two. Th…. Ah! Before I can finish counting, I am swinging in the other direction.
Is this supposed to be soothing?
I clasp my hands tightly together, my chubby fingers intertwine, holding on to each for dear life. My lips seal tightly to hold down the spit-up. I scream quietly on the inside. Every few seconds, I got a glimpse of the fan’s spidery arms, ready to descend from the ceiling to snatch me up. Luckily, Mommy buckled me in.
Oh, the adrenaline. The rush. Oddly, this is making me sleepy.
The angular momentum creates a slight breeze kissing my bald head. A yawn escapes my mouth. I doze off to the music blasting in the background and Lady Godiva running down the hall.