My kid hates me

I am not sure what the deal is, but I think Jack hates me. Wait, I know he hates me. Ok, not just me. I think Jack hates me, my parents and my grandmother. I think he hates everyone on this planet except for Mark. That may be a little harsh, because he hasn't met everyone on the planet and there could be some nice old lady in Tibet that he would really bond with so I can't go that far. But really, he doesn't like the majority of his immediate family.

I am not sure what we did to make him hate us so much, but he does. How can I tell? Well, he cries. I mean he really cries. A lot. Cries. A lot. Cries... ALL THE TIME. Cries. Jack. Cries. To sum it all up, basically Jack is a crier. Cry Criers Cryington is his new name. I am going to change it legally to that. Then at least he will have a reason to hate me so much.

Saturday night Mark and I went to a movie and then we were going to go to dinner. I called my parents after the movie to check in and my mom put it mildly and said "Jack's been a psycho." She is not one to dis her grandkids, so that shows what kind of evening she had. It goes without saying (well, I guess not since I am saying it) that we skipped dinner. We came home and he was fine. Why? Because Mark was here. He truly is only happy with his Dad, which I personally don't get. What did his Dad do for him? Yes he feeds him and changes the occasional diaper, but so far (let's just be honest) I've done all the heavy lifting. I carried him in my womb for 9 excruciating months. I had the torn ligament that sent red hot pain through my body with every step. I puked. I couldn't sleep. I had the back aches. Me. I had the c-section and the itchies that follow and if you don't ever experience that in your life, you are a lucky person. Its basically psychological torture... this insanely bad itch covering your whole body that you can't satisfy. My nipples turned into giant blistery blood clots while I tried to nurse and then I was the one hooked up to the milking machines like a dairy cow. I stay home with you, Jack. I feed and clothe you way more often than your Dad. I am the one keeping you in your sumo wrestler pudge, not him. If it were just him, you'd eat dinner, a midnight snack and maybe a breakfast if it got in before he had to get ready for work. I DO THE REST, JACKERS! So really, Jack, what has he done for you lately???

I would write more (believe me, I have more to say), but guess what... Jack's crying. CRYING!