An Open Letter to Our Baby Monitor

Dearest Moloch,

I fear it my soon be time for us to part ways. It isn’t just that our son recently turned three and I’m itching to get your base station out of his room so that I won’t feel like I’m slowly turning into my mother, who for some bizarre reason insisted upon keeping my sister’s baby monitor in her room until she was in middle school — the reasons are far more prosaic than whatever twisted familial psychodrama may be playing itself out in my head at the moment.

The reason I want you out really just has everything to do with the simple fact that things fall apart, the center cannot hold, blah, blah, blah. We all get old, start losing a step here and there and begin say “huh?!” in response to every other word shouted at us. The same is true for narrowband radio receivers such as yourself.

You’ve been getting increasingly erratic, and maybe a little senile, over the course of the last year. Perhaps you haven’t noticed it yourself, but almost every time we turn you on, we have to cover up your speaker with a hand to prevent an ear=splitting burst of static that’s guaranteed to wake the kid up, thereby defeating the whole purpose of having a baby monitor.

But it isn’t just that. You’ve also become increasingly less likely to broadcast sound from our child’s room than you are to pick up pieces of cordless and cellular phone conversations from around our neighborhood.

Have you ever heard the sound of your kid avoiding taking a nap by playing with his talking Sesame Street kitchen set, interrupted by what seems to be one end of a phone sex conversation, interspersed with the voice of grouchy old Mabel down the street haranguing some poor schmuck for getting the wrong size sack of onions? Of course you haven’t, because you were busy transmitting it! It’s like listening to a Psychic TV album, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, provided that’s what you actually want to be hearing at the time.

The only thing that could have made the whole scene weirder is if there’d been company over while it was going on:

OH, Me oven hot! / So hot! / That many onions?! How can I / Oh, yeah!! / Is it soup yet? / Keep doing it, and / Is THAT supposed to be soup? / Oughta knock you upside / Right there, yeah / In here, as far as you / Lick / Yum yum food, yeah!

[Sheepish grin] “So, anyway, welcome to the neighborhood, Reverend!”

As you can see, perhaps the time has come for us to explore other options. Please don’t take it personally. This hurts us more than it hurts you.


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One Response to “An Open Letter to Our Baby Monitor”

  1. thypolarlife Says:

    Way too funny. Love it!

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