So, I’ve been conferring with my friends and it would seem that there is quite a variation in the length of time you make us share a room with you. Some of the lucky ones are moved to the premier suite – their own room – in a matter of days – days! (or so I’ve heard on the milk-vine). Others less fortunate, however, are bound by someone called WHO (seriously, you take advice from a faceless, nameless entity who’s clearly not very memorable?) and make us wait it out for six months – six months! Half a year!

I wouldn’t mind, but you’re so noisy! If you’re not snoring like a big bear (and not the teddy-kind), you’re ‘breathing heavily’ (yes daddy, I’m looking at you!). And talking about how “cute” I am the whole time. I know. I get it. But it hardly does much for my street-cred.

And how would you like being lumbered in a tiny little Moses basket (or crib, if you’re lucky) within full view of that monstrous cloud-like bed every single night? Talk about rubbing it in.

But all this pales in comparison to the true awfulness of the situation. I do not want to be reminded that you two are, like, in love, and kiss and stuff. I mean, you’re my parents. Ew. That kind of thing gets your rattles dribbled on by other kids at playgroup.

So please, I beg you. Stick a baby monitor in my faces, if you will. Come check on me hourly, if that will put your mind at rest. But for God’s sake, do it on my turf.

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