UNTITLED

UNTITLED

Copyright: 2010
Word count:
Written in response to a YCW challenge.  Also a fairly accurate description of our life in the first two years of parenthood.  The good news is that he sleeps quite well now. The bad news is that it's now my allergies that keep me up all night. :P

I want to sleep. I feel the need of it tearing at me like teeth into chicken… There are shreds of me left on the bone. He looks at me with those grey-blue eyes and grins, an invitation, just before he dives headfirst into the playpen, arms outstretched, to do a perfect tuck and roll from the open top of the pen. He bounces, grins, unhurt, his look saying what he can’t :“Aren’t I clever?!”

“Yes, yes.” I mumble, trying to detangle him from the nylon mesh and aluminum. Oh, God, I want sleep.


“Eat. Eat.” He says, and makes exaggerated chomping motions with his teeth.


“Eat. Eat. Got it.” I put him in his highchair, trying to convince the suddenly thrashing, flailing child that, yes, he really does have to sit down .Time is slowing down to watch the scene, rubbernecking ghoulishly as I try to settle my child. Finally his bottom touches down, and with the skill of a surgeon, I assemble the four straps to fasten him in safely. Two clicks. A flip of the remote, and something soothing and bright comes on the screen. A push of a button, and I slave over a hot microwave to bring sustenance for my dear one.


Thirty minutes later, his show is over, and I am picking carrots off of the floor and pulling noodles from his hair. He shifts suddenly, and the bottom pocket of his vinyl bib catches on the tray, spilling soupy remainder all over the third outfit of the day.


“Eat. Eat.” He burbles. I wipe him down with the washcloth, sort of rough and catlike. He grins again, and I grin too. I still want sleep, but he is cute. He’s always been cute. I snuggle him to me, and another magical flip of the remote, and the room is filled with soft chirps and harp music. He settles in, little hands curling and uncurling, kneading at my heart like kitten’s claws.


Those grey-blues slowly close…a wide blink between mile long lashes…and then down. He seems more solid, heavier. All innocence. All sweet. I am waiting for three more songs to make sure he’s completely out…now two…now one, nodding in time to new-age chords, trying to stay awake a little longer.


I dance now, moving slowly from the couch…twirling quietly around three of his largest, loudest,  most motion-sensitive toys…a ginger step over his rocking horse… a scuffle with a doorknob that has taken part of my shirt prisoner…frantic that I almost dropped him trying to get beyond it.


I hold my breath. Now for the trickiest part: Tiptoeing into his bedroom, trying to avoid all of the sarcastic creaking boards…to lower him into the depths of his crib.


Down…


And down….


And safe…


And out.


So tired. I retrace my obstacle course and amble to my room, to catch up on what I missed out on the two nights before. The fan whirs, the cat snuggles into the crook of my right knee. The sheet is cool… and sleep finally comes for me

As the phone rings. Its echoes have barely died away when they are replaced by the emerging wail of the once-downed child.


My stomach becomes a Gordian-knot. I can feel it happening, shifting, swirling and tight. I reach for the phone, listen to the cheerfully recorded female voice, and curse the birth of telemarketers everywhere.