I wake. Breathe, breathing...Something in my throat. The alarm has not gone off, stupid alarm. 5:52 AM. I was supposed to be up at 5:40 AM - I hate that alarm clock.
The baby cries, his only language streaming wireless from a tinny speaker. My heart breaks a little each time he cries. This is the "where are you?" cry. I know his different cries and this is the one of a lost child.
The floor is cold. My joints are tight, tightness in my neck and shoulders. I stretch and crack and smell that I need a shower. Nice hot shower. Heaven is a nice long hot shower from which you never prune. I'd like to sleep levitated on air. I feel the fan buffeting small blows of air against my naked skin. I am naked. I need pants. Where? At the end of the bed.
His cry rises in volume and in sorrow.
Daddy is coming. Daddy always wants to be there for you and knows that you will fall and hurt and bleed and cry and it will be the end of the world for you, for what do you know of the world, my little version of me with some of your mother mixed in?
There is a great deal of fear involved in parenting. I protect. I serve.
My poor parents, what I put them through...
Your mother stirs from deep sleep as I nearly trip over pants. I hate pants. Pants enslave me. Muttering back from the bed where my wife lies. Can't make it out over the scream from the speaker.
Down the hall the dogs stir from low lying positions. I hear but cannot see shakes and stretches and snorts. There is no light now because there is no sun. No light from high windows showing neighbor's roof and dark blue clouds and sky. Gas giant burning and burning, yellow disc somewhere else around the world.
I tell him I'm coming but know he can't hear me over his own screams. Poor boy. Poor little one. Daddy's coming.
I flip the switch first and small light from his closet illuminates his crib in yellow.
Unlatch the crib and reach down for him, him wiggling on the mattress like a crazy glow worm, the yellow swaddle giving way under his strength and fear and rage and frustration. My wife tells me that he is definitely my child and I know this in my deepest parts. A lifetime of trying to get that strength and fear and rage and frustration under lock and key and I see it personified in my baby boy.
We are all children.
I pick him up and shush him as I give little kisses to his soft warm skin and plump, tear wet cheeks. My tears are saltier than a baby's, but that makes sense on many different levels.
Daddy's here, honey. Shuusshhhhh. It's OK. Daddy's here...
The baby cries, his only language streaming wireless from a tinny speaker. My heart breaks a little each time he cries. This is the "where are you?" cry. I know his different cries and this is the one of a lost child.
The floor is cold. My joints are tight, tightness in my neck and shoulders. I stretch and crack and smell that I need a shower. Nice hot shower. Heaven is a nice long hot shower from which you never prune. I'd like to sleep levitated on air. I feel the fan buffeting small blows of air against my naked skin. I am naked. I need pants. Where? At the end of the bed.
His cry rises in volume and in sorrow.
Daddy is coming. Daddy always wants to be there for you and knows that you will fall and hurt and bleed and cry and it will be the end of the world for you, for what do you know of the world, my little version of me with some of your mother mixed in?
There is a great deal of fear involved in parenting. I protect. I serve.
My poor parents, what I put them through...
Your mother stirs from deep sleep as I nearly trip over pants. I hate pants. Pants enslave me. Muttering back from the bed where my wife lies. Can't make it out over the scream from the speaker.
Down the hall the dogs stir from low lying positions. I hear but cannot see shakes and stretches and snorts. There is no light now because there is no sun. No light from high windows showing neighbor's roof and dark blue clouds and sky. Gas giant burning and burning, yellow disc somewhere else around the world.
I tell him I'm coming but know he can't hear me over his own screams. Poor boy. Poor little one. Daddy's coming.
I flip the switch first and small light from his closet illuminates his crib in yellow.
Unlatch the crib and reach down for him, him wiggling on the mattress like a crazy glow worm, the yellow swaddle giving way under his strength and fear and rage and frustration. My wife tells me that he is definitely my child and I know this in my deepest parts. A lifetime of trying to get that strength and fear and rage and frustration under lock and key and I see it personified in my baby boy.
We are all children.
I pick him up and shush him as I give little kisses to his soft warm skin and plump, tear wet cheeks. My tears are saltier than a baby's, but that makes sense on many different levels.
Daddy's here, honey. Shuusshhhhh. It's OK. Daddy's here...
Comments
I had to stretch the writing muscles. They are old and out of shape, but thanks.
How are you?