…until Ian, the most repugnant experience I’d had was cleaning cat vomit from the livingroom carpet.
Misdirected right hooks are a thing of the past. Head-butts are still a significant danger.
His clothes were a magician’s scarf; an endless tangle of bits of clothing, until all that’s left is David Copperfield in his underwear.
Suddenly it felt as if the kid next door had come over to play and found the Lite-Brite I’d left, neglected, at the bottom of my closet.
…at 2:56 in the morning, I’m hating him.
They should have sent us home from the hospital with handi-wipes. Or at least ponchos.
Wow. I can’t thank you enough. I thought babies preferred lounging naked in chill winds. Until you happend along, I was thinking of seeing just how long he could go without food. You know, as an experiment. I guess I should’ve more closely read my Daddy Manual’s disclaimer, ‘You are inept. What exactly do you think you’re doing? Give him back to mommy, the real parent’…
Rising above Ian’s crib is a friendly, yellow and orange piebald sun. Below him, across rolling green hills, marches a troupe of cavorting ladybugs, ants, and butterflies. They follow a path from Ian’s window, which winds along his crib and trails behind his changing table. Leading this band of merry arthropods is a bright red ladybug…