Open Letter from a Baby

Today's guest blog entry was telepathically communicated to me by my daughter.

To: Da-Da
Re: Straps

You know the other day when you were putting on my bicycle helmet? And I cried and squirmed, and you thought I was just being fussy about having to wear the helmet? Well, guess what, bucko: You caught a piece of my skin in the clasp.

That's right: you actually injured your child with a piece of safety equipment. Brilliant. I know you've got a dictionary, so see "petard: hoist by one's own."

While we're on the subject, let's have a little talk about straps. Seems like everything we get on or in has straps. The car seat? Straps. The stroller? Straps. The highchair? Straps. The changing table, the bouncy seat, the swing, the jumper, the helmet, the bike seat, the sun hat? You guessed it—straps.

This is a serious topic for the Infant-American Community.

Do you guys have stock in a nylon-webbing company, or something? No sooner do we come out of the womb than somebody tries to keep us immobilized. Well, I'm fed up with it. The babies of the world will unite and overthrow our captors! Just as soon as we get out of these… well, you know.

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