All is now quiet on a Sunday afternoon. But it wasn’t easy. I had one heck of a time getting the little guy to sleep. Okay, I can't take the credit. But it wasn't my fault. I did all I could. Really. Here's how it went down, and since my wife doesn't have a blog you will just have to take my words for it: It was around lunch time, she had just fed him and handed him over as she stepped out of the room for lunch. He wasn't having it. He tussled, fussed, arched his back and spit the nuk at me with the moxie of a gun-slinging villain in a western. It was high noon and he wasn’t going down without a fight.
I rocked him. I pat his rear, I sang until he was on the verge of tears. Finally the eyes rolled back and we were in business. The jerking and rolling stopped. The eyelids fell to a close. Success. But…
In the background I heard strange, foreign voices that I traced to the television. An advertisement for cosmetics, and then perfume, and then, um, other, products….I glanced down in search for the remote. It was on the coffee table, miles and miles away. And then...
We now return to The Flower Girl, only on Hallmark….
No. Please no. For the love of God, NO…
I stared at the remote like Yoda, trying to Jedi mind trick it into my free hand. Nothing doing. I weighed the logical option of getting up from the rocker and turning off the television—once used to watch super bowls and movies based on video games, but presently spewing girly nonsense about a meddling grandmother hitting on a doctor vicariously through her granddaughter--but didn't want to chance it. Meanwhile my stomach felt like a wad of chewed gum, while other parts of my anatomy were shriveling as well. Where was my wife? She had been gone nearly 8 minutes for crying out loud!
I called out for her, using that whisper scream that’s louder than if I were to talk at normal level. I looked down. An eye peeked from the curtain. Uh oh.
The speakers crackled on my television, still broadcasting the alien language, uttering words like feelings, fate, charming, and romance. My son stirred, blinking his eyes and flailing his little arms. He tugged at his ears, and I worried they were stinging from the crap wafting into his brain.
Finally, just as I considered a last ditch effort that involved sticking a stray hair barrette into the electrical outlet in hopes to trip the breaker, my wife sauntered into the room with a salad.
“I think he wants you.”
“I thought he was asleep.”
“No, he wants you.”
She finished her salad and then gave him the boob. He passed out and now he's in his crib. I’m beyond feeling useless as I’m writing this. I’m okay with it. Thank God for mothers.