I can’t adequately explain how amped I was to see my daughter at 05:30am, central standard time, Sunday morning. I was out to dinner the night before with a friend who is basically the Rain Man of wine. When you go to a BYO restaurant with him, he does not show up with a magnum of Barefoot Chardonnay. Oh no. He comes loaded for bear with three different bottles of wine in some sort of carrying case, and his own glasses. His own fucking wine glasses. “Here are your glasses……oh, did you bring your own?” Yes, we came in hot with our own beverage service, now fuck off will you. Add his three bottles to the one I brought, and I think you are starting to get the picture. Apparently, based on limited field research on the subject, baby hominids–or Homo sapiens if you’d prefer–do not drink to excess nor do they give a shit either way if you have. They will be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at whatever hour their own internal clock tells them to flip the ON switch (and hopefully your own flicks theirs at much later hours than our little angel has chosen to her entire. fucking. life.), making sure that you are well aware that Abby of Sesame Street fame is flying in whatever God-awful song she is said to be flying in on the suicide-inducing album that we listen to between 4 and 27 times daily. And just in case it isn’t sinking into your wine-soaked morning brain, she’ll fly Abby herself around and directly into your skull a dozen times as visual reinforcement.
I made a semi-valiant effort in ignoring her and pretending to still be asleep because I felt as though I was viewing and listening to everything going on in the bedroom from beneath approximately 12-16 inches of water. This is as pointless an endeavor as one can pursue given the child will not tire of telling/showing you the adventures of Abby, which combined with the aggressive storming about and turning on of lights by the wife in protest to your lack of assistance in child rearing during your self-inflicted Irish Flu condition, is a potent 1-2 punch of morning coffee, let me assure you.
Once up you know that to attempt to focus on something, anything, actual physical coffee will be required, which is not the ideal time to realize that you are freshly out of beans. As I kept opening and closing various cabinets in the kitchen that coffee has never been kept in at any point during the 6 years we’ve lived there, the baby began in no uncertain terms demanding “ABC’s. ABC’s. ABC’s. ABC’s.” This is her way of informing us that we will all be listening to the aforementioned Sesame Street album which has an “ABC’s” song until our brains slowly ooze out of our ears and we go on a killing spree. It was at this point when my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and I decided to fly. Although I knew the treadmill at the gym would present its own torments in my present condition, they paled in comparison to the Sesame Street rendition of “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain” with a guest spot by “Polly Darton” which is their cheap knock-off of Dolly Parton. As I labored through 5 miles at a fat person’s pace and choked back puke burps for 45 minutes I was never more sure that I’d made the right decision. If someone out there, anywhere, has found a way to translate the following to a 1-year-old, please advise: “DaDa consumed too much strong drink last night and feels like your shitty diapers look. Please play by yourself, both quietly and safely, in another room, and I’ll be with you in 4-6 hours. Thanks sweetie.”