My two-month-old daughter has more in common with Hollywood movie monsters than she does with humans. Oh, she puts on a good show; she acts like a real angel when the grandparents are around. She even smiles at times. It’s all those other times it seems like I’ve spoken some forbidden verbiage and summoned her from hell.
I haven’t seen any evidence to disprove that I have a monster baby. She might even be multiple monsters, all swaddled into one, the human embodiment of Iced Earth’s Horror Show. I haven’t started packing garlic and wolfsbane in the diaper bag just yet, but I’m getting more and more anxious each day once the sun goes down. They don’t call it the witching hour for nothin’.
I’ve seen the signs, and I fear what she might become.
Sundown brings out the beast within. Somewhere between 6 and 8 PM, my daughter becomes filled with lycanthropic frustration. Feeding, changing, rocking, singing – nothing will quell her animalistic fury except to howl inconsolably to her new lunar deity.
I’ve even noticed a patch of hair on her back that is darker than usual, so I’ve started sleeping with the silverware. I doubt it’s real silver, but it makes me feel better.
My daughter’s vampiric streak began long before crawling out of the womb, so why stop now? I don’t really understand the logistics of having contracted such a thing while in utero. Maybe it’s hereditary. Either way, the longer she goes without a nap the greater her terrible power grows. She feeds on the living, draining us of sleep and patience.
Make no mistake – my daughter’s not one of those noble vamps, decked out in puffy Elizabethan sleeves, asking politely if she can be let in to share a carafe of dubiously colored wine. No, she’s one of those haggard, blood-starved killers, a real 16th-century bodice-ripper, who would sooner shred apart your corset with her jaw-knives than let that milk go a single more minute not inside her body. My daughter attacks my wife’s mammaries with all the subtlety of a Harlequin romance novel.
Somewhere in my family’s history, we must have contracted a curse. How else can I explain our string of nightly misfortunes? At night, the diapers become as wet as the Nile River, followed by raining frogs and boiling seas. I’ve begun tearing through all the junk drawers in the apartment, looking for scarab-shaped amulets.
Swaddling my daughter in the tight confines of a blanket lined with holy hieroglyphics seals away these apocalyptic phenomena, for at least an hour if we’re lucky. But it only delays the inevitable. She will rise again, as she’s done before… eons ago…
Creature from the Black Lagoon
I don’t know much about the Creature from the Black Lagoon. I’ve never seen the movie, and don’t really know the mythology. But I bet the CftBL must smell an awful lot like dirty diapers. For context, a “Black Lagoon” is what you get when you decide to risk ignoring a 2 AM fart, only to find that once day breaks it’s encroached beyond the boundaries of the absorbing pads.
Yes, yes, poop jokes and all. Hilarious! But seriously, I try not to let her diapers get this bad. I’m afraid if I let them go long enough, they’ll crawl from the diaper pail, kidnap women, and take them back to their swampy lair.
My daughter isn’t stitched together from dead bodies. Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s quite the opposite – I think she’s cuter than I could have dreamed, and all her flesh is 100% living (as far as I know). But bringing her into the world surely must have been a sin against God and all creation, for she’s having her vengeance upon us now. I can hear her cursing my name, even though she was fed just two minutes ago.
As much as I would like to flee to some antarctic wasteland every time she’s caught the colic, that’s just not very dadly of me. She’s my creation; I have a responsibility to make sure she eventually knows love, or whatever it was ‘ol Victor was supposed to do. I’ll pay for the wedding, but I won’t be stitching her up a lover.
More Monster Than Man
A monster daughter is trouble for the whole village. But all monsters have a human side, and it’s up to us to help them get in touch with it. Maybe it’s pointless; I hear she’ll become even more monstrous as time goes on. So I guess I’m putting in my dues now, building up my tolerance.
This is one of those things I get to throw in her face when she summons little demons of her own, right?