Barney.

There was a time not so long ago when 3 a.m. feedings seemed like torture. Now I'm not so sure. Give me a starving, screaming, inconsolable infant any day over this nonsense.

Back to back, repeat after repeat. Every single day. I barely get two gulps of coffee down my throat and I already hear that terrifying theme music. No joke, I'd put good money down that Barney "Red, Yellow, Blue" could turn even a super mild-mannered person into a homicidal maniac. And hearing from other parents that this Barney obsession (seriously, let's call it what it is) lasts only a short while is no consolation to me.

My husband just stares at the screen in disbelief and says the same thing every time: I just don't want my kid to turn out like those little freak kids. I can't say that I disagree. Totally creepy creep.

Anyway, I'm sure that this fad will end just in time for Bratz, Miley or Disney Pixar to take its place.

That's it, I'm moving. To the moon.

I'd love to be able to leave it right there but ahhhh geez. The look on Sophia's face. It's just pure joy. Like seeing a dear old friend, she is just so darn happy. And the way my girl dances makes me melt. It's so joyful and all-consuming. I watch her bopping along to Bahh-nee and for a moment - at the most two - I don't feel like ripping the hair from my head or throwing a clog at the TV screen. It doesn't last long, this lovefest, but how can I possibly deny my dear little one such utter bliss?

So I say (gulp): Thanks, Barney.

Arghhhh.