Week 32 — The Power of Daddy
Week 32 — The Power of Daddy
I didn’t think it would happen but there’s finally been a [relatively] quiet week on the baby front.
I’m genuinely struggling for something to talk about where my son’s concerned, most of his development these last few days seems to have been entirely internal. Not that that’s a bad thing, on the contrary, but for written entertainment’s sake it’s a bit naff. Perhaps it’s not that I don’t have much to experience, it’s more that I haven’t really been present for most of his time due to that stupid work thing we all have to do. Subsequently, I miss out on all the best bits of my son’s goings on, the match highlights, if you will. Although I did get a good few doses in one full day yesterday, so maybe there IS material to be discussed…
There’s more intelligence behind his eyes now. Whenever I pick him up and have him close to me I can can see the thought processes governing the mechanistic motions behind his hands reaching up to my face and stealing my pissing glasses right off my nose! I’m not joking, the kid plans this shit. I think he dreams about it at night then puts his nightmarish hypothesis to the test come morning hours.
“If I smile just right, with these new — are they called teeth? — of mine, I can get the bearded one close enough so I can steal those magic windows off his fucking face! I’m a genius.”
The smile on his face as he half-inches my viewing specs before I can react is made all the more taunting by the two little front teeth he’s got poking out the lower gums because I know that if I make the wrong move he’ll chew on me. And chewing on Daddy hurts now, what with those knives in his mouth.
For a few months I’ve not really been able to calm my son down at night time (when I say night time I mean bedtime — kids are so gullible, they’ll believe everyone’s going to bed at the same time if you tell them). It’s usually been my wife that feeds him into a comforted state, with me listening to the whining from a distance (my wife complains a lot). But lately I’ve revisited the ol’ favourite and walked him up and down when my wife’s boobs fail to conjure the sleep trick (it’s not often, her tits are magical). It’s nice knowing that the power of Daddy still exists somewhere below this once-hard, now slightly podgy exterior, that ability to take up your child and rock them to sleep after a full day, knowing that they’re safe and happy.
Of course, when he wakes up again it’s for him to be plugged in. I’m on nappy duty then.
So what I DID get to witness was one of my son’s first highchair food bomb bonanzas! I don’t know how else to describe it, the result is basically our son looking like exploded custard. We gave him this mush shit from a packet, squirted it right onto his highly sterilised highchair tray, then grated a tiny bit of cheese onto that bad boy pile of tasteless mulch. His little face LIT up, gummy smiles and fat fists flying. First thing he does? Hits the food. Slaps the living crap out of it and grabs a handful in his fingers, squeezing tight. Have you ever seen puréed food under pressure? Think of Saving Private Ryan and you’ll understand. Not only did mush go everywhere but he also managed to stuff his clothes full of grated cheese as well, so when we picked him up whole bits of cheese came out the bottom of his vest like the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. Thank god for the dog on clean-up duty.
My wife ran up to the bath with the baby and dunked him right in, with barely enough time for me to de-clothe the bugger, poor little sod.
Another thing I witnessed on the final day of this week was my son imitating a sheep. I don’t know where he got this…ability? Is that the right word?…from but it seems to be a mixture of extreme excitement and tiredness, and his expression of them both together when he can’t cope. Honestly, he rubs his eyes and grins broadly while kicking his feet, then he just fucking baas! I can’t make heads or tails of it.
So I suppose this week is more about the power Daddy has in being able to be both absent for all major events in his little boy’s life and simultaneously be present for all of it to come smashing back into his face in one gloopy handful of congealed, processed muck.