|Our own Dad-like Hell!|
I’ll keep this one brief because the past few days, my spare time is like my sex life: It doesn’t exist. And when it does, it consists of me panting for breath, wiping the sweat from my brow, and weeping silently. You see, my wife has been put on permanent bed rest until the baby is born, which essentially means I have to take care of her, my 3 year old son, as well as cook, clean, do laundry, and make daily visits to her doctor’s office. I don’t need to tell you that I’m failing miserably. Already, the laundry is beginning to pile into a giant amorphous beast. I think it has developed sentience. We need to keep the door locked to prevent it from absorbing my son. And I’m pretty sure it raided the fridge last night.
My Wife has it pretty bad too. I have to admit that. Her body is serving up the eviction papers as we speak. My daughter will have to vacate, because my wife has had enough: Back spasms, high blood pressure, nausea, discomfort, pain, and about eighty more symptoms that she likes to remind me of every… 2 minutes or so. I told her that’s how I feel when I go to the gym. Now she has a sore fist to add to that list.
So there’s a high likelihood that I’ll have a daughter the next time I post – that could be when she goes to college, at this rate. Maybe I’ll get her to guest post. Hopefully she’ll settle down quickly, and her and my son will keep each other entertained, and perhaps they’ll tire one another out and sleep 16 hours a day, and my wife and I will have all the time in the world to rekindle our pre-baby magic. I know this is just fantasy, and I’ll spend most of the next three years in a sleepless fog of screaming kids and shitty diapers. But a man can hope. After all, “once you choose hope, anything’s possible.” Christopher Reeve said that… before he died… from severe complications from his quadriplegia. Hmm…
I do want to point something out. I would happily murder the person who coined the phrase “sleeps like a baby!” Babies don’t fucking sleep. A baby’s sole, single solitary goal in life is to deprive his/her parents of as much sleep as possible, while still managing to survive. It’s like a game of Russian roulette for the wrinkly little Benjamin Buttons`. “Let’s try to drive our parents to the point of insanity, without them abandoning us by jumping in front of the nearest passing train!”
The problem is, it doesn’t end with the newborns. Tonight, my son (whom I’ve spent every waking hour with over the past five days) decided I’d misjudged his bedtime tonight. “Hey Dad,” I imagined him say, “it’s Saturday night. Let’s stay up for two more hours.” Well, son… believe it or not, I had a game on the DVR I wanted to watch. Maybe you should just go to sleep and climb in to our bed around midnight, like you do… Every… Fucking… Night! Nope. It’s 10.30 now and the little Beelzebub has literally just fallen asleep 10 minutes ago (To note: I began writing this post 12 hours ago).
So yeah… the uncle, or aunt (‘cause it wasn’t a Mommy, or Daddy), who coined the phrase “sleeping like a baby” is more than welcome to spend the evening putting my son to bed. Sleep like a baby? Yeah right! Should be ”sleep like the parent’s of a baby… any fucking chance they get!!!”