Sunday, December 13, 2009
It's 11:32. We're relaxing on a Sunday night. Brooke is watching that movie about the guy who loses his arms and legs in the war and somehow remains conscious in the hospital, and I'm doing some writing. And then all hell breaks lose. "Wahhhhhh! Wahhhhhh! Wahhhhh!"
Brooke jumped up first and stormed our bedroom, (the Bean's room), to see what was the matter. The Bean was sweating and crying and squirming and Brooke didn't know what was wrong. That's the worst part of being a parent is not knowing how to help your baby.
So while the baby was crying her head off, the usual questions popped up in our new parenthood heads: "Is she wet?" "Is she hungry?" "Is she too hot?" Brooke yelled, "Bruce, can you get some milk?" So I ran like a lunatic to get some organic milk from the purple container in the refrigerator with the Elvis magnets on it and I headed back to Brooke. I even scooped up a pacifier while I was at it. "Brooke, do you want me to stay?" I asked. "No, it's okay." So I left the room and I left my beautiful wife, the mother of our beautiful daughter, to do her mommy magic.
It's 11:56 now, twenty-four minutes later from the initial outburst, and aside for some whimpering, and a little Dr. Seuss in the background, all seems well from where I sit. On the other side of the door—documenting. But Brooke still hasn't returned.
Although, all seems well, the hardest part isn't calming down the Bean. It's placing her in the crib and then tearing ass out of there without getting her upset. Or else you're in for a long night of hell. As I said, Brooke is not back yet.
Happy Sunday night. Oh wait, it's Monday morning - Bruce