I call the big one Bitey.
When you are hungry, you scream at me. When you are tired, you scream at me. When you are happy and fed, you scream at me. Like some robot out of the future, your high pitched frequency sets me to work. “Must mash carrots. Must make bottle. Must change diaper. Your wish is my command.”
You didn’t come with directions. I mean, we bought a couple books and we sort of poked through them but they were really boring so we quit. We try not to feed you after midnight. We try not to expose you to light and never, under ANY circumstance, do we get you wet……no, wait. That was something else. Two of those are true but we actually do try to bathe you occasionally.
Are you crawling, either of you, in the technical sense? No. Do you sometimes find the strength to pull yourselves across the ground like a lost G.I. in Vietnam escaping enemy fire? Yes. Toys will inspire you to move. Clementine will inspire you to move and sometimes my big toe will inspire you to move.
You’re also flying now. Not in the traditional, “I’m a vampire bat” sort of way but in the more acceptable, “I’m taking my private jet to the Keyes this weekend” sort of way……only replace “private jet” with “airplane, coach seating” and replace “Keyes” with “patch of dirt in South Dakota”. For the longest time I thought coach was the lowest seating you could get on an airplane. I thought they were the smallest, most uncomfortable seats around. They have no leg room, no arm room, too much head room. I can’t reach my Diet Coke on my tray table directly in front of me without bumping the passenger beside me. No, coach seating is NOT the most uncomfortable seat on the plane. Directly below coach seating is “Coach Seating with a Punching and Growling Nymph on Your Lap”.
Me, “Hey, Jade. Could you pass me that bottle, please? I think Rory is hungry”.
Jade, “Oh, sure honey. Here you go.”
Rory, “rrrrrrrRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH GAGAGAGAGA!!!!!!!”
This noise is not a baby cry. It is a battle cry. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard William Wallace shout it directly before decapitating someone.
Meanwhile, Quinn is staring out the window and watching clouds. She’ll probably play a kettle drum on a Jamaican beach someday or make potato art.
Someone just screamed. Was it mine? Was the scream mine? Did it belong to a baby that belongs to me? My red warning lights aren’t going off. I don’t find myself automatically drifting to the kitchen to make food for someone and none for myself. All is still. It must have been a neighbor kid. Ah yes, there’s the mother, hands outstretched like a zombie, slowly drifting past the window to feed little Damien, who will undoubtedly knock the bottle from her hands indignantly and make her pick it up three times before he submits to dinner.
Long live the King, whoever that may be.