The other day, as I browsed inside a bathroom emporium at Dufferin and Lawrence, scrutinizing a shiny array of chrome rainheads, I overheard a man hit rock bottom. It sounded like this: "Baby Chef, Baby Chef, cooking is a lot of fun / Baby Chef, Baby Chef, fun for everyone."
Instinctively, I grabbed him by the shoulders. "Hey," I whispered. "You are in public. Your children are not here. The theme song from Baby Chef should not be tumbling from your lips. Pull yourself together, man."
Actually, that's a lie. The truth is, I avoided eye contact with the poor bastard and wept on the inside as a part of me died right there, next to the Aqua Brass display. We were strangers. Yet we were brothers in the disorienting parallel universe that is Baby TV.
For those of you who haven't experienced the joys of parenthood yet; be warned by the above tale. Also take comfort. When it happens to you, no, you're not crazy.
"We're not too big, and we're not that tough. But when we work together we've got the right stuff."
"Can we build it?" "Yes we can!"
"They're two they're four they're six they're eight.."
GAHHH!! Make it stop!