Dear Book,

I know we got off to a tentative start. You were packaged beautifully enough, and so many people said we’d get along, so I took a chance. I was happy to invest my time even though we didn’t seem to have a lot in common. I thought that I might have to get to know you a little better to see if we really clicked.

I’m sorry to say that this is the end. I don’t want to waste any more of your time, or mine, because clearly this is going nowhere. It’s not you, it’s me. Work’s been so busy lately, I haven’t been getting much sleep, and I just don’t have the energy. Maybe the timing was all wrong. Maybe we could have had a good time if I was younger, or maybe if I was a little older. I don’t really know. Maybe I’ll run into you again someday, we can pick up where we left off, and by then we’ll have grown into one another’s tastes.

You did show me a few new things, and I’m still grateful for our acquaintance. I hope that you won’t take this the wrong way.

A recovering compulsive book finisher



Life now follows a particular logic, alien to the pre-baby mindset. I have enumerated the new equations below.

Baby Math:

  • Eating + baby = chew x 5 speed
  • Nap time x baby = random success rate
  • Hot days + baby = buy an air conditioner or everyone suffers
  • Tired baby = hyperactive baby
  • Clothes + baby = spit stained + yogurt scented
  • Cooking + baby = crying + smoke alarm ringing + questionable meals 
  • Sleep + baby = unsolvable