Every day she doesn't get a pony, her powers only grow stronger
August 23, 2007 (1:15 a.m.)
My wife's been away on a business trip for the last four days, which means I've been taking care of the little one on my own. She's a happy baby, though, who sleeps through the night and who only fusses when she's tired or hungry -- pretty much like her dad.
So it's been a few days of strolling her around the woods when she gets cranky, taking really short showers with my head practically out the door listening for any noises of distress she might make, and enjoying my time with her, but admitting I'll be glad when her mom got home.
My mom's been helping out, keeping Lil' M a couple of days. My mom has also decided that without my wife here to cook for me, that I'll apparently starve. She's a devout member of the Reformed Church of the Southern Cook. "Southern" in that she thankfully still uses butter like its use was ordained in a missing 11th Commandment, but "Reformed" in that she might bake something now instead of frying it like she used to. In a two-day span, I got cubed steak, meat loaf, green beans, black-eyed peas, macaroni n' cheese, broccoli casserole, chicken casserole, chicken-and-ham casserole, sweet potato, and banana pudding. Yum, yum! She's a great mom, and apparently keeping the little one has had some restorative properties on her ailing back. Apparently, the stretching and lifting is making her feel better, so it's all good.
To show you how my mind works, though, here's what was passing through my mind the first night I was in the house alone with my baby: what if my little girl is a changeling child or an evil prodigy, and she's just been waiting for this chance to take me out? She does this thing at night where she lifts her legs and drops them back down on the mattress of her crib, and it was only a short stretch of imagination to hear that sound as her little footie-pajama'd feet hitting the carpet. I envisioned being in bed, half asleep, and lifting my head up to see her standing there in the doorway, backlit by the nightlight in the hall, staring at me with those old-soul eyes. I couldn't decide if she'd silently advance on me, or say something (the Doors' "The End" -- the part where it goes, "Father ... I'm going to kill you..." kept going through my head). Would she advance slowly, or would she spring on me -- maybe even fly? I lay there listening to the noises she was making and mulling this over in my head, creeping myself out pretty good even though I didn't think for a second this was a remote possibility. But I stayed vigilant, in case, you know, she actually did come toddling into the room, buoyed by some dark supernatural power.
At which point, if one of the cats had wandered by the doorway, I would have probably peed myself.
Hey, the house makes different noises when you're there by yourself. The mind wanders.
One thing's for sure: when she gets older, if her hair continues to come in looking
red, I'm going to see her standing in the doorway one night and I'll start screaming,
convinced the leprechauns are coming to get me.
I mentioned this tale to a friend over lunch today, and he started talking about how his twins are nearly old enough to start getting out of the crib or bed on their own. He started rattling off these nightmarish scenarios -- what if one gets up, what if they both get up, what if they start fighting, what if they get up and go in opposite directions, what if one gets up but the other wakes up when he's being put back in bed, etc. My friend was staring into a dozen alternate universes at once, and I wasn't sure he'd come back in one piece. It sounded like that great scene in Raising Arizona, when Nicholas Cage's character is trying to track down all the babies that have gotten out of the crib.
I took her to see my Dad yesterday, which was a good break in the day. On the way, I stopped off at a famous fast food chain known for its spicy chicken sandwiches. I don't really eat fast food anymore, probably haven't in years -- well, let me amend that. I eat better fast food now: Mexican restaurants, deli sandwiches, etc. It's a better quality of slow-killing fat. Anyway, I order this chicken sandwich, and I get this ... this shingle of breading that might, under some cosmic coincidence, have actually touched a fleck of chicken in its travels. A coarse slab of fried gravel that's been sandblasted with about a pound of some cut-rate chili powder. It was awful. As I drove, with my baby cooing to herself in the carseat behind me, I took bite after rage-filled bite. Four dollars for this ... this piece of seasoned tree bark. How did I ever eat that crap back in the day? Was it always this way? Are they cutting costs that much now? I mean, it's not like I'm asking for KFC's newest rumored horror, the Megaleg, but I'd like a little meat in my sandwich, please. Especially for four dollars.
Or else I'll send my changeling baby after you.