Routine (2,500 words)
______________
"He's crying."
"Yes."
"He. Is. Crying."
"I'm getting him. Give me a second."
Tangled in three different sheets and buried beneath a comforter, I slowly start scooting off the foot of the bed. It would be a hell of a lot easier to just roll off, but she demands the outside of the bed and there isn't enough room to put the bed anywhere except against the wall. I understand it though; she's pregnant and the urge to get up and pee is constant. Just before my feet hit the floor, I slide each one into a baby blue Croc. The treads disappeared ages ago, which makes them slippery as all get out, but I'll be damned if I'm walking with bare feet on these wooden floors. Between the baby, a dog, and several different cats, there always seems to be some kind of nastiness on the floor: food particles, bits of kitty litter, tons of fur, and who knows what else.
Stumbling forward, I quickly check the phone chained to the charger on our dresser. 12:17. Sounds about right. We used to have several clocks in the house, but they have all mysteriously disappeared. I honestly have no idea where they could have gone. It's not like we ever used them anyway.
Phone goes back down and I start pulling at the door. Pull. Pull. Pull. Push? Pull again. Two hands now. Lean into it. Pull. Boof. Yeah, it's a made up word, but it's about the only thing I can use to describe the sound of that stupid door opening. There's no lock or even your typical handle mechanism in the door. It just expands and contracts and always seems to frustrate me. I'd keep the damned thing open if there weren't so many cats in the house at any one time that don't actually belong to us. Nobody wants a strange cat sleeping on their face at night. I get wanting to be a foster for abandoned animals, but don't volunteer when you're pregnant and your husband is forced to scoop a dozen litter boxes for cats he doesn't even want in the house to start with. I don't have a backbone. It's whatever.
With the door finally open, I creep into the living room and snag his bottle off the jewelry stand. He's already awake; there's no reason to creep. I take a winding path through all the kid's stuff scattered across the floor. We really need to clean up more. It's a mess. YYYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWLLLLLLLLL!!!!! Cat tail. Back to creeping.
"What the hell was that? Why is he still screaming?"
"Working on the bottle. Stepped on one of the fluffers. Go back to sleep."
Luckily, he finished off the bottle the last time he was at it, so I actually managed to get it nice and rinsed before needing to refill it due to time circumstances. I flip the light switch and immediately pop the formula lid off. One scoop. Two scoops. Meow. Meeeewwwww. Three scoops. Whimper. Three scoops. Meeeeewwww. Woof, woof, woof.
"Shut up, Hunter. It's not even close to time to get up. You've got hours left."
I peek into the kitchen to check on the cat's bowl as I'm berating the dog and see that it's nearly empty. I refill it quickly and then get back to the bottle. Three scoops? I honestly can't remember. Dump it back into the container and start again. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. 2:1 ratio on the formula/water and an eleven ounce bottle. It doesn't add up exactly, but you have to account for the rice cereal and the uneven scoops. Speaking of... I dump the remainder of the rice cereal container into the bottle. There wasn't much left, but we really only use it as filler anyway. Fills the little guy's belly and keeps him asleep through the night. Mostly.
Bottle filled and in hand, I trundle back through the plastic jungle of the living room and into the baby's lair. He's still bawling his little eyes out with his hands held tight to his ears. It's a habit he's picked up since his ear infection and makes him look so pathetic and in need of help. Incredibly adorable, but saddening at the same time. My pitiful little boy.
"It's alright, Wesley. Daddy's here with food."
I lift him up out of the crib, which stops his crying momentarily, and then place him down on his changing mat, which restarts the engine. I hand the little guy his bottle and get to work on changing his diaper (a quick smell check confirms that it is pee only). I'm glad he prefers to hold his own bottle now. Makes things easier when you have multiple baby tasks to complete at a given time. Of course, it's also hilarious seeing the bottle roll across the floor once he passes out into his little milk coma.
Fresh diaper nicely wrapped around him, I zip the little guy's jammies back up and lift his now limp, milk drunk form back into his crib. Eight ounces left in the bottle I pick up from under the rocking chair we never use now that he's able to handle his own drink. Just pee and only three ounces downed. I'm not really sure why he decided to wake up. Oh well. I turn on his aquarium lookalike soother and flop back into bed myself.
"God damn it, Charles! Are you going to deal with him or not?"
"I literally just came from his room. What are you even talking about?"
Dinga-linga-ling. Dinga-linga-ling. I can't believe it's 5 o'clock already. I slither my way back out of bed, shut off the phone alarm, burst through our broken door, and slip into Wesley's room. The smell hits the second I enter. Poop explosion. I carefully pick up the wailing shit factory by his arms and unzip his pajamas in mid-air. No point in spreading the crap further by laying him down immediately. A few quick wipes down his back (and shoulders?) and I finally set him down and get to work on the cleanup job. He just started with the table scraps recently and, man, the digestive outcome is really not a pretty sight. Sticky and aplenty.
The pajamas and crib sheet were not salvageable, so were quickly replaced. I let the boy finish off the remaining eight ounces in his bottle then put him back down for however long he was willing to sleep while I got myself ready for the day. I toss his nasty laundry into the shower for a quick rinse to get them washer-ready and then I get to cleaning myself. I shampoo all over except for the hair on my head. My hair gets extremely dry and brittle if I use shampoo daily, so I only do it every few days. After the shower, I put on my outfit- brand new pair of underwear out of the package, freshly laundered undershirt, beige polo (Wednesday means I'm no longer wearing a stuffy dress shirt for the week), socks from the dresser, and the same dress pants I've been wearing the last couple of days. My nice pants are used exclusively at work, where I do nothing strenuous at all; it's cool to reuse them, right?
Fully dressed, I slip on my real shoes and go make my lunch for the day. Assemble, not make. Saltines, frozen bottle of water, and a Tab. I picked up a 12-pack of Tab from the grocery store to try it and I have no idea why I did. It tastes like a flat, expired Coke. Oh well, I have ten more of the bastards to get through. I sneak back into my bedroom and give my wife a quick kiss on the forehead before slipping quietly out the front door. Don't want to wake up the baby after all. Pull the keys that have been sitting in my pocket since yesterday afternoon and start my sister's car. She didn't want to take it to college with her, so she left it for me to use. Score. The wife needs the car that actually belongs to us for the million and one activities, appointments, and errands she plans for herself each and every day. Some of it is important, most of it just seems like a way to cause her more stress and drain our limited bank accounts.
Five minutes into the car ride, the phone rings.
"You woke us up."
"Sorry, wasn't trying to. He shouldn't be hungry. He just finished off the rest of his bottle and pooped."
"We're still awake now."
"Well, it's morning. That's how it tends to work."
"You're coming straight home after work, right?"
"Of course."
"Just wanted to make sure you weren't stopping by your grandparent's house or anything first."
"Nope, not today. Not unless he falls or something."
"Okay. Just be quick about it."
Ten minutes later, I arrive at work and the day just starts flying by. Five hours pass in nearly complete silence outside of the few videos I check out while sitting at my desk. Study Hall monitor, the true dream job. It doesn't pay anything at all practically, but it's enough to cover the family's needs and gives me nearly absolute freedom at work to enjoy the things I like as far as entertainment products go. Games, books, movies, TV shows, and youtube videos. It's great. Well, for the first half of the day, anyway. That's when most of the teenagers are trying to catch up on their sleep and homework for the day. 5th period hits with lunch and then it's wildness from there on out. It's study hall. Just shut up. I pop open the Tab and crack the pack of saltines only to have the phone start ringing.
"You need to get your ass home right now!"
"Why?"
"What? You can't hear that? He's been screaming like this nonstop today. He didn't go down for his nap. I've tried holding him but I'm too tired to do it for more than a few minutes at a time. He's had two jars of baby food and he was chowing down on some of my apple butter and biscuits, so he's not hungry at all. I just changed him. He's screaming and he doesn't have any reason to. He's your kid, so come home and deal with him. If you had just gone and gotten those child care vouchers like I told you to, this wouldn't be a problem."
"Honey, I'm at work. I can't just leave whenever and I told you they wouldn't consider us for those vouchers because you're a stay at home mom. You shouldn't need a daycare."
"Of course, you wouldn't leave your precious job even if one of us was seriously injured."
"You know I'd be there in a minute if there was an actual emergency. We need the money. I can't leave yet. I'm coming straight home though. You know that."
I look down at the phone and am just staring at the main menu. Who knows when she actually hung up.
Whatever. I finish my lunch and await the end of the school day. Half my remaining time in class is spent walking around to individual kids and getting them to either lower the volume of their headphones or getting them to shut up. Once 2:45 hits and the last student is out the door, I shut off the lights and lock up. Clock out on my phone just as I'm about to exit the building (you really have to milk that clock to get those extra few hours each week) and then rush to the parking lot and then home.
I pull up to the house and see my little (expanding) family sitting on the porch awaiting my return.
"Here. Wesley is your responsibility for the rest of the day."
With that, she placed the baby into my arms and took off to run another one of her million errands for the day. I can't really complain though. It will let her cool off while I get some of the chores done in peace. Wesley doesn't really cry that much for me. I walk in the door, past the army of cats looking outside, and put him down to pay with his toys. As expected, he doesn't make a sound outside of talking to himself as he starts rolling his little tractor around the wooden floor. Definitely no screaming. I honestly don't see what the big problem is. He never really screams for me once his needs have been met.
With Wesley seemingly satisfied and content for the moment, I get to work on the rest of the housework for the day, while prepping the kitchen for dinner. I go grab Wesley's laundry out of the shower, put it with the rest of his dirty clothes, and then take the entire basket downstairs to the basement to wash. Once the washer gets started, I head back up and clear off the stove and the side of the sink with the garbage disposal in it. Every single day my wife completely fills both with dishes and I have no idea how she does it. It's not like she's making any big meals. I think she grabs a new plate for every little thing she eats throughout the day and then just tosses the old one into the sink for me to take care of when I get home. God, I hate dishes. I chop up some onions, peppers, tomatoes, and garlic and get them sizzling in one skillet. On the other side of the stove, I set the hamburger to brown. I heat the oven to 425*F and set out the garlic bread. Once all the food is going, I actively wash all of the day's dishes and put them in the drying rack. Two skillets become one and pile of shredded cheese gets tossed on top. I can still hear Wesley drawing his little tractor around the living room floor when the wife finally returns.
"He is never this quiet for me."
"Just need to have a little patience. Here. Dinner."
I hand her a plate of cowboy steak draped across garlic bread and we both sit down on the couch with Wesley between us. My wife turns on Netflix and starts an episode of Grey's Anatomy. This has to be the fourth (third?) time we've started the series over again. Makes excellent background noise. The two of us take turns handing Wesley food. He happily chews whatever comes his way- meat, cheese, vegetables, and bread, his favorite. We really need to invest in another dining room table now that we're going to be a family of four.
At 5:30, I change him into his jammies and put him down. At 8, the two of us drift towards our bedroom. 5 am was bedtime once.
______________
"He's crying."
"Yes."
"He. Is. Crying."
"I'm getting him. Give me a second."
Tangled in three different sheets and buried beneath a comforter, I slowly start scooting off the foot of the bed. It would be a hell of a lot easier to just roll off, but she demands the outside of the bed and there isn't enough room to put the bed anywhere except against the wall. I understand it though; she's pregnant and the urge to get up and pee is constant. Just before my feet hit the floor, I slide each one into a baby blue Croc. The treads disappeared ages ago, which makes them slippery as all get out, but I'll be damned if I'm walking with bare feet on these wooden floors. Between the baby, a dog, and several different cats, there always seems to be some kind of nastiness on the floor: food particles, bits of kitty litter, tons of fur, and who knows what else.
Stumbling forward, I quickly check the phone chained to the charger on our dresser. 12:17. Sounds about right. We used to have several clocks in the house, but they have all mysteriously disappeared. I honestly have no idea where they could have gone. It's not like we ever used them anyway.
Phone goes back down and I start pulling at the door. Pull. Pull. Pull. Push? Pull again. Two hands now. Lean into it. Pull. Boof. Yeah, it's a made up word, but it's about the only thing I can use to describe the sound of that stupid door opening. There's no lock or even your typical handle mechanism in the door. It just expands and contracts and always seems to frustrate me. I'd keep the damned thing open if there weren't so many cats in the house at any one time that don't actually belong to us. Nobody wants a strange cat sleeping on their face at night. I get wanting to be a foster for abandoned animals, but don't volunteer when you're pregnant and your husband is forced to scoop a dozen litter boxes for cats he doesn't even want in the house to start with. I don't have a backbone. It's whatever.
With the door finally open, I creep into the living room and snag his bottle off the jewelry stand. He's already awake; there's no reason to creep. I take a winding path through all the kid's stuff scattered across the floor. We really need to clean up more. It's a mess. YYYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWLLLLLLLLL!!!!! Cat tail. Back to creeping.
"What the hell was that? Why is he still screaming?"
"Working on the bottle. Stepped on one of the fluffers. Go back to sleep."
Luckily, he finished off the bottle the last time he was at it, so I actually managed to get it nice and rinsed before needing to refill it due to time circumstances. I flip the light switch and immediately pop the formula lid off. One scoop. Two scoops. Meow. Meeeewwwww. Three scoops. Whimper. Three scoops. Meeeeewwww. Woof, woof, woof.
"Shut up, Hunter. It's not even close to time to get up. You've got hours left."
I peek into the kitchen to check on the cat's bowl as I'm berating the dog and see that it's nearly empty. I refill it quickly and then get back to the bottle. Three scoops? I honestly can't remember. Dump it back into the container and start again. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. 2:1 ratio on the formula/water and an eleven ounce bottle. It doesn't add up exactly, but you have to account for the rice cereal and the uneven scoops. Speaking of... I dump the remainder of the rice cereal container into the bottle. There wasn't much left, but we really only use it as filler anyway. Fills the little guy's belly and keeps him asleep through the night. Mostly.
Bottle filled and in hand, I trundle back through the plastic jungle of the living room and into the baby's lair. He's still bawling his little eyes out with his hands held tight to his ears. It's a habit he's picked up since his ear infection and makes him look so pathetic and in need of help. Incredibly adorable, but saddening at the same time. My pitiful little boy.
"It's alright, Wesley. Daddy's here with food."
I lift him up out of the crib, which stops his crying momentarily, and then place him down on his changing mat, which restarts the engine. I hand the little guy his bottle and get to work on changing his diaper (a quick smell check confirms that it is pee only). I'm glad he prefers to hold his own bottle now. Makes things easier when you have multiple baby tasks to complete at a given time. Of course, it's also hilarious seeing the bottle roll across the floor once he passes out into his little milk coma.
Fresh diaper nicely wrapped around him, I zip the little guy's jammies back up and lift his now limp, milk drunk form back into his crib. Eight ounces left in the bottle I pick up from under the rocking chair we never use now that he's able to handle his own drink. Just pee and only three ounces downed. I'm not really sure why he decided to wake up. Oh well. I turn on his aquarium lookalike soother and flop back into bed myself.
"God damn it, Charles! Are you going to deal with him or not?"
"I literally just came from his room. What are you even talking about?"
Dinga-linga-ling. Dinga-linga-ling. I can't believe it's 5 o'clock already. I slither my way back out of bed, shut off the phone alarm, burst through our broken door, and slip into Wesley's room. The smell hits the second I enter. Poop explosion. I carefully pick up the wailing shit factory by his arms and unzip his pajamas in mid-air. No point in spreading the crap further by laying him down immediately. A few quick wipes down his back (and shoulders?) and I finally set him down and get to work on the cleanup job. He just started with the table scraps recently and, man, the digestive outcome is really not a pretty sight. Sticky and aplenty.
The pajamas and crib sheet were not salvageable, so were quickly replaced. I let the boy finish off the remaining eight ounces in his bottle then put him back down for however long he was willing to sleep while I got myself ready for the day. I toss his nasty laundry into the shower for a quick rinse to get them washer-ready and then I get to cleaning myself. I shampoo all over except for the hair on my head. My hair gets extremely dry and brittle if I use shampoo daily, so I only do it every few days. After the shower, I put on my outfit- brand new pair of underwear out of the package, freshly laundered undershirt, beige polo (Wednesday means I'm no longer wearing a stuffy dress shirt for the week), socks from the dresser, and the same dress pants I've been wearing the last couple of days. My nice pants are used exclusively at work, where I do nothing strenuous at all; it's cool to reuse them, right?
Fully dressed, I slip on my real shoes and go make my lunch for the day. Assemble, not make. Saltines, frozen bottle of water, and a Tab. I picked up a 12-pack of Tab from the grocery store to try it and I have no idea why I did. It tastes like a flat, expired Coke. Oh well, I have ten more of the bastards to get through. I sneak back into my bedroom and give my wife a quick kiss on the forehead before slipping quietly out the front door. Don't want to wake up the baby after all. Pull the keys that have been sitting in my pocket since yesterday afternoon and start my sister's car. She didn't want to take it to college with her, so she left it for me to use. Score. The wife needs the car that actually belongs to us for the million and one activities, appointments, and errands she plans for herself each and every day. Some of it is important, most of it just seems like a way to cause her more stress and drain our limited bank accounts.
Five minutes into the car ride, the phone rings.
"You woke us up."
"Sorry, wasn't trying to. He shouldn't be hungry. He just finished off the rest of his bottle and pooped."
"We're still awake now."
"Well, it's morning. That's how it tends to work."
"You're coming straight home after work, right?"
"Of course."
"Just wanted to make sure you weren't stopping by your grandparent's house or anything first."
"Nope, not today. Not unless he falls or something."
"Okay. Just be quick about it."
Ten minutes later, I arrive at work and the day just starts flying by. Five hours pass in nearly complete silence outside of the few videos I check out while sitting at my desk. Study Hall monitor, the true dream job. It doesn't pay anything at all practically, but it's enough to cover the family's needs and gives me nearly absolute freedom at work to enjoy the things I like as far as entertainment products go. Games, books, movies, TV shows, and youtube videos. It's great. Well, for the first half of the day, anyway. That's when most of the teenagers are trying to catch up on their sleep and homework for the day. 5th period hits with lunch and then it's wildness from there on out. It's study hall. Just shut up. I pop open the Tab and crack the pack of saltines only to have the phone start ringing.
"You need to get your ass home right now!"
"Why?"
"What? You can't hear that? He's been screaming like this nonstop today. He didn't go down for his nap. I've tried holding him but I'm too tired to do it for more than a few minutes at a time. He's had two jars of baby food and he was chowing down on some of my apple butter and biscuits, so he's not hungry at all. I just changed him. He's screaming and he doesn't have any reason to. He's your kid, so come home and deal with him. If you had just gone and gotten those child care vouchers like I told you to, this wouldn't be a problem."
"Honey, I'm at work. I can't just leave whenever and I told you they wouldn't consider us for those vouchers because you're a stay at home mom. You shouldn't need a daycare."
"Of course, you wouldn't leave your precious job even if one of us was seriously injured."
"You know I'd be there in a minute if there was an actual emergency. We need the money. I can't leave yet. I'm coming straight home though. You know that."
I look down at the phone and am just staring at the main menu. Who knows when she actually hung up.
Whatever. I finish my lunch and await the end of the school day. Half my remaining time in class is spent walking around to individual kids and getting them to either lower the volume of their headphones or getting them to shut up. Once 2:45 hits and the last student is out the door, I shut off the lights and lock up. Clock out on my phone just as I'm about to exit the building (you really have to milk that clock to get those extra few hours each week) and then rush to the parking lot and then home.
I pull up to the house and see my little (expanding) family sitting on the porch awaiting my return.
"Here. Wesley is your responsibility for the rest of the day."
With that, she placed the baby into my arms and took off to run another one of her million errands for the day. I can't really complain though. It will let her cool off while I get some of the chores done in peace. Wesley doesn't really cry that much for me. I walk in the door, past the army of cats looking outside, and put him down to pay with his toys. As expected, he doesn't make a sound outside of talking to himself as he starts rolling his little tractor around the wooden floor. Definitely no screaming. I honestly don't see what the big problem is. He never really screams for me once his needs have been met.
With Wesley seemingly satisfied and content for the moment, I get to work on the rest of the housework for the day, while prepping the kitchen for dinner. I go grab Wesley's laundry out of the shower, put it with the rest of his dirty clothes, and then take the entire basket downstairs to the basement to wash. Once the washer gets started, I head back up and clear off the stove and the side of the sink with the garbage disposal in it. Every single day my wife completely fills both with dishes and I have no idea how she does it. It's not like she's making any big meals. I think she grabs a new plate for every little thing she eats throughout the day and then just tosses the old one into the sink for me to take care of when I get home. God, I hate dishes. I chop up some onions, peppers, tomatoes, and garlic and get them sizzling in one skillet. On the other side of the stove, I set the hamburger to brown. I heat the oven to 425*F and set out the garlic bread. Once all the food is going, I actively wash all of the day's dishes and put them in the drying rack. Two skillets become one and pile of shredded cheese gets tossed on top. I can still hear Wesley drawing his little tractor around the living room floor when the wife finally returns.
"He is never this quiet for me."
"Just need to have a little patience. Here. Dinner."
I hand her a plate of cowboy steak draped across garlic bread and we both sit down on the couch with Wesley between us. My wife turns on Netflix and starts an episode of Grey's Anatomy. This has to be the fourth (third?) time we've started the series over again. Makes excellent background noise. The two of us take turns handing Wesley food. He happily chews whatever comes his way- meat, cheese, vegetables, and bread, his favorite. We really need to invest in another dining room table now that we're going to be a family of four.
At 5:30, I change him into his jammies and put him down. At 8, the two of us drift towards our bedroom. 5 am was bedtime once.