I feel like I neglect this section of the site. It's easy to write about my crazy thoughts, but a lot harder to write about parenting. For one thing, I'm very blunt and to the point. I don't want things to be misread as unhappy with the baby. Second, I have a very "interesting" sense of humor. I don't want people calling Child Services over a joke that is mistaken as serious. But if I am to evolve as a writer, I guess I have to write what's close to my heart so...
Baby for sale!
For sale is a slightly worn black baby. Approximately 2 feet tall by .5 foot wide and .33 foot deep. Has slight scratches from her long fingernails.
This baby is insane. I often write about how she doubles as a human coupon because most cashiers wanna talk to her, play with her and either make mistakes on my charge or give me a discount. There are some dark sides to the story too though. I'm just now strong enough within myself to write about them.
For one, the baby beats me. Those little fingers are strong and, when she curls them up into a fist and starts swinging in protest of being put in the stroller/car seat, I have to remind myself that it's a child hitting me and not give into the reflex that tells me to bop and weave. Those tiger legs are nothing to sleep on either. Changing a diaper can be life and death some days. If I miss "nail clipping day" then those little toe nails are like talons or something. I have no doubt that, if she needed to, my daughter could easily catch a salmon swimming upstream with her bare feet.
Shit.
No explanation really needed with that one. The baby shits as if there's money in it for her. In her mind, there is a contest where prizes are given based on who can shit through their clothes at the most inopportune times. Nothing breaks you into parenthood like having to change a diaper and a set of clothes on a packed (and stalled) subway car and then scoop watery shit out of the stroller seat with a makeshift glove made up of diaper wipes and an old newspaper. 200 extra points are awarded to the baby for spraying you while you're doing it. 500 points are deducted from the assholes who stare at you like, "Is he really doing that...here?" No, I'm going to let my child stew in her own excrement for the next thirty minutes while Metro figures out how to get the train moving again.
Crying.
My daughter has singing in her future and I have the Joe Jackson school of managing to attend. She cries as though it's the last breath of life she'll ever get. You can literally hear her down the hall and around the corner from my apartment. It's the kind of cry that pierces your soul. You keep telling yourself that there is nothing wrong with her. She's been fed, changed, burped, she's passed gas, and her body temp is fine. She's just being an ass. Then you look over to assert yourself as the alpha dog and she looks up at you with watery eyes and before you know it, she's mind fucked you into picking her up and singing the same stupid song from Sesame Street four times in a row because it makes her smile.
Suffice to say, the baby has made me her bitch. But, it's a job that I'm willing to take. Now some people annoy the hell out of me when they give me that cliched "my kids are my life" crap. I want to say, go do something with yourself. But then I find myself thinking the same thing.
Here is a person who doesn't work, doesn't contribute in any way. She doesn't wash dishes, she doesn't let me know when my show comes back from commercial or anything. She cries whenever she isn't pleased, makes noise through all of the punch lines of the tv shows and decides to shit through her clothes just as the team gets to the red zone. I have to plan my trips around her and everything that made being a man cool is now gone. I can't just pick up and go when I want. I have to make sure I have bottles and the bottle cooler. Is there ice in it? Is there at least one room temperature bottle? Has she been changed? Did she go again? Is that just gas? Do I have at least one of her toys to tether to the car seat? Where is her other sock? Do I have enough bibs? Is this outfit warm enough for the walk to and from the car yet cool enough and breathable for the ride inside the car?
And after fifteen minutes...now we can go. Then she shits on the walk to the elevator.
You go through all of this every single day. You never get a break and just when you're ready to sit alone in a four cornered room staring at candles...she laughs or does something like she did yesterday where I laid on the floor beside her chanting "please go to sleep" and she rolled over onto her stomach, crawled clockwise in a circle until her face was lined up with mine put all her weight on one arm and lifted the other one up enough to touch my face and she smiled a big toothless grin with one little drop of slobber hanging out the side of her mouth and she held her hand there for about five seconds just staring into my eyes and then calmly put her hand back down, crawled counter clockwise so that she could see the tv again and went back into her own little world while I sat there dumbfounded as I realized that those cooks are on to something. This little girl really is my entire world.
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