Here’s something they don’t tell parents about: daylight savings. Oh boy, I never would have thought about much potential it has for screwing things up but here’s a little fact for you: babies can’t tell time. It’s led me to a theory that old people get up so damn early because of conditioning due to daylight savings time and how kids just wake up whenever they damn well please. I now know why some states don’t observe it.

Normally, six o’clock is a decent morning for Charlie to wake up. He’s pretty chipper and six means that he’s had about 11 hours of sleep total. I don’t sleep that much and neither does my wife, who is a sleepyhead most of the time. Lately we’ve had some issues with the baby gorilla waking up in the middle of the night–for a couple of reasons we think we’ve figured out—and now we’ve got this new damn variable introduced into the mix, the FU variable.

I’m pretty sure that all parents have had to deal with the FU variable, and some more than others for certain. Even those without kids can relate. The FU variable is that one little thing that gets introduced right when you think you’ve gotten things figured out, with any general problem or whatever, and you’re ready for life to return to some sense of normalcy and then, oh yeah, the FU. It turns you around and makes you watch what you thought was going to be normal nights of sleep, quiet evening on the couch or in bed, etc., get crushed with big meaty hands and then proceeds to force-feed you bits of bitter happiness until you puke.

Granted the FU variable is simply something that will take it’s toll on my wife and myself more than my son in this instance, but it’s FU for sure. To the point where previously after Charlie went to bed I had at least a good five hours to do anything. Work, read, anything. Now, thanks to the FU variable, I’m probably going to be considering bedtime around 9 because there’s a good chance that Mr. Crabbypants might visit around the ripe old time of four in the morning. Shit.

It seems the value of my FU variable in this case is not all that uncommon. Hopefully, it won’t be that big of a deal and I’m just ranting for nothing. Charlie’s a good baby and never really put us through the sleep ringer. I’ve heard stories, not pretty. On the upside, I always to look forward to this time of year, the darker the better. The benefit of up an hour early is in bed an hour early. Having not been through any of this before I don’t know what to expect but I’m becoming all to familiar with that phrase.

So, as far as drinking containers go, I’m a glass person. I’ve always preferred glass to plastic, ceramic or metal. Plus, I think it feels better to hold in your hand. With that, I took it upon myself to choose glass baby bottles over plastic and with all the anti-plastic propaganda information out there, it seemed like the responsible thing to do as a parent. Unbeknown to me, there’s something that happens to you when you become a parent. You break things. A lot.

I’ve broken more damn baby bottles in the past nine months that I care to think about and in hindsight it seems like a huge waste. The things aren’t cheap (around $17.00 for two glass bottles) and unless you want to find yourself washing bottles all day, you’re gonna need about six to keep up with a hungry baby. This week I broke my last damn bottle, I’m done, no more fucking glass bottles.

It doesn’t seem to take much to break one either. In all I’ve dispatched seven, only one I can honestly say I expected to break given the situation–a fall off of a counter. The rest were either lightly knocked over while resting on the counter or softly tapped into the side of the sink. I’ve had many more significant accidents with much thinner, fragile glass that didn’t result in breakage or even chipping. This has led me to an unfortunate theory, becoming a parent makes you a huge klutz.

I’m not a terribly oafish guy. I’m pretty aware of my surroundings and don’t have an unusual amount of accidents involving cuts, falling down or any general number of things that cause harm. I’ve always had a problem with falling while walking up stairs but it’s led to little more than embarrassment, and possibly heightened reflexes. At least while walking up stairs. So, basically, now that I’m a parent and not having tiny little shards of glass lying around on the floor for my son to encounter, I’ve developed a terminal case of the dropsies.

Really, there’s been a lot more that’s broke over the past nine months except bottles but why’s it all glass? It’s a little annoying. This leads me to rethink the practicality of having so much glassware in the kitchen. I’ve tried to be more careful, it didn’t work. However, there is the alternate theory behind glassware breakage that the more careful you are around it the more fragile it becomes, but whatever, it all just seems to break anyway.

The discovery of Dr. Brown’s plastic bottles was cool, not just because I’m feeding my son with something invented by someone named Doc Brown, but because he seems to like them a little better and they also seem to reduce gas just like they claim to do. So here I am, $60ish dollars in the hole and back to plastic, or reintroduced to plastic, or whatever. Bah. At least they were recyclable.

What’s wrong with you?
Where did you get that?
What are you eating?
Stop acting so weird.
Don’t eat the kitty.
Ow.
Please stop pulling my pants off.
Why yes, that squash is better on your head than in your mouth.
Ow.
Please don’t destroy tha … oh well, I guess I can get another one someday.
I suppose books do taste better than baby food but please, not the limited editions.
Where did THAT come from?
What’s that smell?
I need a drink.
Ow.
I need a big drink.
I have no words for what just happened.