Here’s the thing about babies. I’m an expert after having
one live with us in the house for a week.
They’re a LOT of damn work!
Ruth had to be with Wilder 24/7. Every minute, every hour.
He needed to nurse, to eat stuff put on his tray, to reject all offers to eat,
to play, to refuse to play, to be pushed around the neighborhood in his
stroller, to be entertained, bathed several times a day and to be put down to
sleep, or not sleep.
None of it lasts very long.
The baby monitor buzzes with the sound of his distress as
poor Ruth sits down to eat her own dinner, but rushes in to calm the Wild one
instead.
It’s unending.
Ruth put the baby on the floor of the great room, nestled on
a clean blanket surrounded by baby stuff. Mostly he paid no attention to the
baby toys designed to attract and occupy his attention. It turns out that
Wilder prefers soup ladles from the kitchen drawer. Three different plastic
ones with deep cup dippers that he tried very hard to fit entirely into his
mouth. Ruth said that she needed to use the restroom and asked me to watch him
for a minute.
Even though she came right back, it was stressful. I’m sure
that I couldn’t even handle a full five minutes by myself, much less the hours,
days, weeks and months that are necessary.
It’s exhausting. Why do mothers even keep them?
Ruth changed his diapers throughout the day, often having to
put on new outfits when the diapers leaked, or when the food on his tray was
used more for throwing, dropping, or rubbing in his hair, than for actual
consumption.
The dogs quickly learned that hanging out under Wilder’s
highchair at feeding time was a good place for them to be.
Did you know that there are organic baby foods, pureed and
extruded from a tube that looks like a double size Crest toothpaste? They’re
the 2019 version of astronaut chow.
Remember to carry several of those everywhere you go. Always
carry a huge backpack full of stuff. Don’t forget to bring the car seat and
stroller, the baby wipes, extra diapers and outfits. Bring water, the white
noise machine to slip down by the pillow under his head if he starts to look
sleepy, a baby hat, and a reverse back pack to carry him around in when the
stroller just won’t do.
So. Much. Stuff.
I popped into the guest bedroom when the Wildman was being
changed. Ruth took his shitty diaper off and put it to one side. At his age,
when Wilder gets changed, he tries to do a quick Alligator roll across the bed
to avoid any kind of clothing. As I watched his diaper avoidance moves, he
managed to flip his hand into the shitty diaper that had just come off of him,
scoop up a handful of poop puree, and quickly sling it around on himself, the
clean bed, his clean outfit, his face, and Ruth’s hair.
Nice.
It was so wonderful for me to be able to back out of the
room, quietly shutting the door.
Although I’ve always believed women to be the stronger
gender, my respect is multiplied tenfold for mothers.
Why you don’t conveniently “forget” that you left the baby
in the produce isle next to the carrots and simply go home, free, free at
last…I don’t understand.
Why women don’t more frequently “Bobbittize” their husbands
is a mystery.
But I soon started to get it when after a day of bonding,
every time Wilder would get up from a nap and see me, he lit up like a light
bulb. A smile ear to ear for his Grandpa. I was so flattered and charmed.
That’s when I saw him give the same toothless grin to either
one of the dogs when they came close. It didn’t matter which one.
I'm as special as a smelly black mutt that licks Wilder's
face, not so much out of affection but more like a kid licking the beater used
for cake batter. Lots of flavor hanging out there.
Oh well, I'll take it anyway.
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When I got up around three am, the house was too quiet. No baby monitor hissing
in the kitchen.
Knowing that Ruth and Wilder were now 2,122 miles away, back
home, our house felt empty and pointless.
I felt pointless.
Sitting on the couch in the dark, next to an abandoned high
chair with broccoli soup stains on the tray, I cried for the first time in many
years.
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