Nina In New York: An Airing Of Grievances

A lighthearted look at news, events, culture and everyday life in New York. The opinions expressed are solely those of the writer.
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By Nina Pajak

Life with a toddler is tough enough on its own merits, so my tolerance for obstacles is at an all-time low. Some folks around here have been making my life difficult lately, and it's high time we had it out. I'm addressing everyone here, together, because . . . well, because I feel like it. I deserve to be heard, so you all are going to sit down and listen. Attention must be paid.

Dear Pot of Lukewarm, Boxed Mac & Cheese: You think you know me? You don't know me. I see you laughing at me, smirking from your perch on the stovetop. Maybe this time I'm not going to surreptitiously shovel you into my mouth directly from the pot with the mixing spoon while my family isn't looking. I don't need you. You're not nearly as good as you think you are. Why do I let you do this to me every single time? I keep coming back, even though I know you're awful. Well, no longer. We're through. You think I'm bluffing? Just watch me serve my toddler seconds without even so much as sampling a single shell. I'm so over you.

Dear Leftover Halloween Candy: I cast thee out! Begone, vile temptress! And yet! And yet, you remain. How can this be? The hold you have over me is unnatural. One of these days, you will see the inside of that garbage can. Beware, Leftover Halloween Candy. The night is dark and full of terrors.

Dear iPad: I'm sorry. Truly, I am. I think this one is on me. Once, it was good between us. You were mine, and I was yours. Now, if you're not causing a screaming match between me and my daughter, you're hooked up to the speaker playing "Rockabye Baby" on loop while she dances in slow, endless circles with a stuffed moose and I try not to rip all my cuticles out with my teeth. I hate what you've done to our household. I hate how you make me feel about myself as a parent. I hate how quickly you can turn my child into a shrieking demon. And the worst part is that I still need you. I need you bad, iPad. But you're really sticky and crusty and your screen is all gunked up now, so I suppose we're even.

Dear Half-Eaten Pizza My Kid Briefly Chewed and Then Deposited into My Hand: Listen, let's not fight it. We both know how this is gonna end. I'm going to hold you and continue my conversation, waving you around like you don't really exist. You're going to continue to congeal and cool until the oil on your cheese glistens like fresh morning dew on a leaf. A fat, juicy leaf. A fat, juicy, salty, saucy, bready leaf. I hate you, but not as much as I hate myself right now. And when my daughter suddenly remembers you in twenty minutes and asks where you went, just keep your crust shut, okay?

Dear Comfy Chair in My Daughter's Room: What witchcraft is this? What black magic do you possess? You came from Pottery Barn Kids, and all the catalog said was that you swivel and are covered with an easy-to-clean twill fabric. It didn't mention anything about mystical properties which cause me to collapse in a near-comatose state when I only intended to sit for one minute while getting my daughter down for her nap. I was going to exercise! I was going to clean! I was going to work or return phone calls and emails! Instead, I awaken an hour into naptime and spend the remaining thirty minutes remorseful and groggy. I've not yet figured out how to defeat you, but rest assured that I will never stop trying.

Dear Excessively Nice Couch: What were we thinking when we brought you home? We just weren't. You don't have a removable slipcover. You cannot be laundered. You are the color of freshly-picked wheat, for gosh sakes! You are an overstuffed, overpriced dog bed and crumb catcher, and we never should have gotten you. You lulled us with your siren song: just buy me. You're adults now and you deserve real furniture. I come with down throw pillows. You'll never have pets or children! It took you five years to find me, so buuuuy me. Buuuuyyy meeeee! Shhhhh. Don't think, just buy me. Now you reek of Labrador and shame. It isn't your fault, I suppose. You can't help who you are. But you lurk in my living room like the Ghost of Poor Judgment Past, and I can't bear it. We're stuck with each other until we move into a larger home and you can be demoted to Basement Playroom Furnishing. I will relish that day.

Dear Middle-Aged Nanny Talking on Her Cell Phone While Her Baby Sits Motionless in a Swing on a Crowded Day at the Playground: You are an actual person or group of persons, and I actually feel real fury toward you. Get out of here now before I sic my impatient toddler on you. Go. Now. Run.

I feel better! Isn't it nice to get everything out in the open? I hope we can all still be friends.

Nina Pajak is a writer living with her husband, daughter and dog in Queens. Connect with Nina on Twitter!