mistress in my house

A lady came to my house, and Britton invited her in lickity-split, to share puffs and applesauce and her blocks. See, this lady isn't an invited guest. In this house, she is a mistress. A mistress whom I can't stand, who shows up inconveniently at all hours of the day and night, who thinks it's funny to make Britton cranky and ornery and downright pissy.

This mistress displays her power by getting every single freaking bottle of baby ibuprofen recalled and yanked from the shelves. "Ha!" she says. "You can't beat me! I OWN YOU!" She's not a pretty, Lifetime-movie-esque mistress, no. This lady is ugly, gross, devoid of bodily cleanliness, and has a hairy mole problem. Her teeth are begging for a metal file and an orbital sander. She is mean for the sake of being mean. She is a bully. And she can't get through a joke without messing up the punch line, so help me.

She has no redeeming qualities, as far as I can see. Well, maybe one redeeming quality. She leaves my baby with little pearls in her mouth. And, as of today, a need to stick her tongue out of her mouth at all times. Ah, Mistress Teething, lady of the enamel, you have been an unfair adversary. But tomorrow is another day.