The Cries of Taft

Let me tell you a story, gentle readers.

This is the story of a little 16 month old boy I am related to. Let’s call him William Howard Taft.

So William Howard Taft happens to be an early riser. Rather than waste the day away in his crib, he likes to get up and get cracking around 5:20 each morning. In a way, I admire William Howard Taft for his industriousness. But in another, more accurate way, I hate the fact that I have to trudge downstairs to lift William Howard Taft out of his crib and begin my day beleagured and blearly-eyed. Since when does living with a toddler require sacrifice? If I had known this, I’d have just started homeschooling the cats.

We know all the parenting tips about how we should put William Howard Taft to bed earlier (or later) and just let him cry (or don’t), and we’ve tried all those things. The wife and I have now to come to terms with the fact that we must wake up at the dirty anus of dawn, and there’s not much we can do about it. To compensate, we just to go to bed at 8:30pm, like a pair of lobotomy patients who got into the cough syrup.

In fact, I am writing these very words in the early hours morning after responding to the cries of William Howard Taft. Perhaps my exhaustion will help explain the flabby and unoriginal nature of what you’re reading. Or perhaps this reduced quality of output is all I’m capable of anymore, like how Kent Hrbek’s sweet swing went sluggish sometime after his 10,000th Pabst. Either way, this entire ignoble post is little more than some weak wordplay and veiled criticism of my son. This is the sort of father I am, it appears.

William Howard Taft, if you’re reading this sometime in the future, I’m sorry. I hope that you have become a better man than Kent Hrbek and I. I should never have despaired when you woke me up so early every morning. Perhaps I should have used that time more constructively: by completing schoolwork, starting my day in prayer, or making a mixtape for my boss. Instead, I wrote this.

Do not follow in my footsteps, sweet baby Taft. You are too jolly and fat and mustachioed for that.

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5 Responses to The Cries of Taft

  1. Tim Hopps says:

    Not only did you sacrifice your precious sleep to attend to Taft, you also bestowed this post upon your readers. That’s why you’re our hero.

    An actual recent conversation with a co-worker of mine:
    New Dad: “My new son’s been keeping me up all night.”
    Me: “Yeah, but I’ll bet he’s a great little guy, eh?”
    New Dad: “He’s an a**hole.”

  2. John says:

    I find it hard to understand why a blog which regularly features facts and lies about presidents doesn’t have a president’s day post. I mean, I don’t even like presidents and I am going to name all 40-some of my children after them.

  3. Tim Hopps says:

    John, I missed the irony of that. Maybe Peter’s still in New York looking for an Arby’s. Or for some of the kids he lost on the subway.

  4. John says:

    Tim, I always thought Peter’s use of Arby’s was just a loose metaphor for his recreational drug needs.

  5. Jessi says:

    Dear Sir,
    Your website link is often forwarded to me in reference to some hilarity or nonsense you have put forth on the table. Today you have hit a homerun in my heart.
    Liam’s Mama

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