So there I was at 3am with my son, trying to wean him off the wee hours feed so I could return to the concept known as a night of uninterrupted sleep. I was informed by somebody – I can’t remember who, but it was somebody who at the time seemed to be the supreme advice-giver of all things weaning as I read his or her book with heavy eyelids – that your little bundle of joy may cry a little. A little? I immediately turned to the glossary to see if there was a definition for “a little”. No such luck. I turned back to the weaning page, which stated that with cries, said bundle is only responding to a change in routine and isn’t really hungry.
Unbearable as it was trying to sleep with my son crying next to me for what seemed like a few lifetimes, I started imagining he’d wake up in a few hours looking completely emaciated. I convinced myself that he was starving. After all, I’ve been known to wake up at 3am, in desperate need of chocolate or craving a stone-baked pizza. Who’s to say he wasn’t ravenous.
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I must’ve inherited it from my mom – this thing for orderliness. She arranged cans in the cupboard so that all the fronts of the labels faced you as you opened it a la Sleeping with the Enemy. And on the spectrum of calm to fanatical, she was probably at about over-the-top zealous when it came to preventing glass rings. If there was a box labelled “Christmas” or “Halloween”, you’d better believe that there would never mistakenly be a snowman or stocking in the Halloween box or a pumpkin or bat in the Christmas box. This would be total anarchy in her world.
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It all started with a purple and green crayon drawing on the wall. After telling my son what a beautiful stegosaurus he had drawn and suggesting he draw it in his notebook the next time around, I panicked knowing that my one friend who has a curious obsession with clean walls was coming over in the next few minutes. I eyed the baby wipes, decided to give ‘em a go and am now faced with an unhealthy fascination with the wee cloths. There was not a single trace of any pigmented wax having ever touched the wall.
Since this eye-opening experience, I have considered adopting the role of Premier Advocate of the Rectangular Moist Cloth. The next day involved a chocolate incident. Although it is difficult for me to bring myself to return to the scene of the crime, I can say that even the CSI folks would have difficulty knowing that a Green & Blacks bar temporarily resided in our home.
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