Friday, March 2, 2012

Champion Baby Wrastler!



I am a champion baby wrastler. I know how to wrangle. I know how to hog tie. I know all the good tickle spots. I can hide and I can seek. I can prepare dinner with a baby in one arm and mac and cheese boiling on the stove. I have spent the last eight years learning to be a champion baby wrastler. I’ve never met more determined creatures struggling to be free in their will to explore everything safe and dangerous. It is hard work, but someone has to do it.

At 3:30 am the sound of the baby crying is the last sound I want to hear piercing my blissful silence. I pray to God he will fall back asleep, but can tell by his shrill cry, that this isn't one of those nights. I pray to God to give me strength. I completely understand why some animals eat their young and I roll out of bed glad that I am not hungry. My loving wife could sleep through Armageddon. That or she plays possum really well and pretends to snore louder when she hears the baby, in hopes that I will hear the baby and be annoyed enough to attend to the young cuss.

I put a sweatshirt on, knowing that the downstairs gets cold. I walk across the hall and enter my fourth ring of hell. He immediately stands up in bed and announces in his determined voice “Done.” I scoop him up, smell for poop, fail to be disgusted and know I have three more hours on this diaper. He knows his life is on the line so he makes sure to suck up to me with a jubilant “Da-Da!” to make sure I understand he loves me and he means no harm. In those two syllables he conveys love, adoration, appreciation, expectation and excitement to be reunited with me once again after so many ours of separation. My heart thaws a little and I decide that his cuteness and unconditional love help guarantee his survival and good health at such an ungodly hour.

We go downstairs in the dark as I do my best not to pitch headfirst down the stairs. He uses sign language to place his order for his midnight snack. He signs that he wants something to eat and some milk to drink. I load some cheerios (WHO CAN BE CHEERIOFUL AT #$%! THREE THIRTY IN THE MORNING!), and raisins in a small cup and fill a sippy cup with milk. We adjourn to the tv room where we watch season four of Top Shot on the History Channel. We sit together, Wrastled Baby eating cheerios and raisins, contentedly, both mesmerized by world champions shooting things. Thus we prove that it is possible to carve out a small piece of heaven out of seeming moments of hell.

Animals Who Eat Their Young – ZERO : My Humanity - ONE

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