Me: Oh my beautiful little girl, I'm sorry, but I can't feed you the way Mommy does. I'll get you a bottle.
Baby: I demur, Father. Here: I will lower myself to feed from you.
Me: No, I assure you, this is anatomically impossible. Also, that's my shirt.
Baby: Shut up and lactate.
Baby: I demur, Father. Here: I will lower myself to feed from you.
Me: No, I assure you, this is anatomically impossible. Also, that's my shirt.
Baby: Shut up and lactate.
Me: The consternation you're experiencing is not dissimilar to what your myriad brothers and sisters have experienced in their own times. I will get that bottle.
Baby: You have not been given leave to depart. If you do so, I will raise a hue and cry and wake my mother.
Baby: You have not been given leave to depart. If you do so, I will raise a hue and cry and wake my mother.
Me: I am deeply saddened to note this, but the hue and cry will proceed if you continue, because you have no other way to express the rage currently turning your face a delicate shade of maroon.
Baby: This is not, in fact, lactating, Father. Correct your error and shut up.
Baby: This is not, in fact, lactating, Father. Correct your error and shut up.
Me: Let me offer a compromise. I will make funny faces, coo at you while nevertheless speaking in coherent English, and make rude noises at random intervals. This will amuse you.
Baby: Nothing in what you just said or would do tastes like milk.
Baby: Nothing in what you just said or would do tastes like milk.
Me: Look: I have made the bottle full of warm formula, which granted is a second-best option, but is nevertheless food. I will feed it to you now.
Baby: Very well; but understand I will spit at least some up upon you anon.
Me: You'd not be one of mine if you didn't.
Baby: Very well; but understand I will spit at least some up upon you anon.
Me: You'd not be one of mine if you didn't.
