We haven't spoken in a while. This is my fault as much as yours. I have been busy cleaning up projectile vomit and attempting to soothe my hysterical four month old, who seems to dislike your presence as much as myself.
This breakdown in communication is frankly unhealthy. I would appreciate some form of advance notice before you decide to make my child's life a living hell. Your drop in visits at 3am are pretty passive aggressive, and attacking a sleeping baby is totally unconscionable. My attempts to discreetly send you on your way have gone unnoticed. I douse you with Zantac, with Chamomilla, and yet you persist. Something needs to change.
Perhaps you're unaware of who you're messing with. This mama can get scrappy. Because seriously, GERD, I'm on like zero sleep and way too much sugar for me to take this any longer. Let me start by getting all up in your face with a little verbal assault.
GERD, you are a humongous asshole. When I finally get my exhausted hands on you, I will poke you in the eyeball with a splintered toothpick. Your whole family is ugly. You think you're so cool, but every time you leave the room everyone laughs at you. You know all that puking you cause my son to do? I'm saving that puke. In a plastic baggie tied up with an elastic band. And when I catch you, you're gonna drink it. And smile. You'll have no choice because I'll be holding a large meat cleaver to your head.
Meditate on that for a while, GERD. But keep coming on over, really. I look forward to the opportunity to put my splintered toothpicks to good use.
In the meantime, I suppose it's time to call the doctor.