“Come here, honey, I think you can feel the Freeloader.”
That’s how it starts every night. There I am, bundled like an Eskimo on a fishing boat in the Artic Circle because my nuts have been freezing to my inner thigh during the latest cold spell here in the Valley of the Sun, knowing if I leave my blanketed cocoon of warmth I could lose some extremities to frostbite. But I trudge over to her side of the couch anyway, lay my hand on her tummy and wait for the kid to paw back.
“No, you have to push harder.”
Push harder? I ask myself. “If I push harder, the kid it’ll get shoved out the other exit,” I tell her, believing it sound logic. If you push too hard on my gut I guarantee you’ll get a present, too. That’s just physics.
“OK, well it stopped moving around.”
“Uh-huh,” I try not to sound skeptical, but you can only piss on my leg for so long before I realize it’s not raining.
Don’t get me wrong, I can’t wait to feel the freeloader squirming around like a sea cucumber in my hands. However, as things stand today I can’t help but feel like a visitor at the zoo – every time I come by an exhibit a creature is sleeping of just sitting placidly looking at us curious homo sapiens, and when I’m not around the creatures are doing everything you’d expect them, from fighting with each other to humping like sex-starved humans. That’s how this kid is, it just waits until I’m gone before turning back into John Travolta or Uma Thurman and dancing the twist inside Wife’s belly.
It’s to the point now where I think it might be a conspiracy between Mom and Freeloader. “When he gets over here, you go back to sleep,” Wife likely tells her tummy. Freeloader flutters and kicks in agreement. I come over, and the Disco Inferno shuts down as if I was a cop called to stop a high school party.
“No, no, come back, it’s moving again,” she says, keeping her little joke going between her and fetus.
If I was more perceptive I would pick up Wife’s sly smile or maybe a wink she passes down to the freeloader. But I’m a dude, which means if you want my attention you better smack me in the melon with a ball-peen hammer.
I’m not asking for much. I don’t need the freeloader to grab my hand and yank me through the uteran wall. Maybe just a nudge, a series of taps to say “hey, I’m in here working on my curve ball and studying pitch recognition charts.”
Is that too much to ask?
Just as long as I don’t see this molded against the skin of Wife’s baby-holder:
That’s how it starts every night. There I am, bundled like an Eskimo on a fishing boat in the Artic Circle because my nuts have been freezing to my inner thigh during the latest cold spell here in the Valley of the Sun, knowing if I leave my blanketed cocoon of warmth I could lose some extremities to frostbite. But I trudge over to her side of the couch anyway, lay my hand on her tummy and wait for the kid to paw back.
“No, you have to push harder.”
Push harder? I ask myself. “If I push harder, the kid it’ll get shoved out the other exit,” I tell her, believing it sound logic. If you push too hard on my gut I guarantee you’ll get a present, too. That’s just physics.
“OK, well it stopped moving around.”
“Uh-huh,” I try not to sound skeptical, but you can only piss on my leg for so long before I realize it’s not raining.
Don’t get me wrong, I can’t wait to feel the freeloader squirming around like a sea cucumber in my hands. However, as things stand today I can’t help but feel like a visitor at the zoo – every time I come by an exhibit a creature is sleeping of just sitting placidly looking at us curious homo sapiens, and when I’m not around the creatures are doing everything you’d expect them, from fighting with each other to humping like sex-starved humans. That’s how this kid is, it just waits until I’m gone before turning back into John Travolta or Uma Thurman and dancing the twist inside Wife’s belly.
It’s to the point now where I think it might be a conspiracy between Mom and Freeloader. “When he gets over here, you go back to sleep,” Wife likely tells her tummy. Freeloader flutters and kicks in agreement. I come over, and the Disco Inferno shuts down as if I was a cop called to stop a high school party.
“No, no, come back, it’s moving again,” she says, keeping her little joke going between her and fetus.
If I was more perceptive I would pick up Wife’s sly smile or maybe a wink she passes down to the freeloader. But I’m a dude, which means if you want my attention you better smack me in the melon with a ball-peen hammer.
I’m not asking for much. I don’t need the freeloader to grab my hand and yank me through the uteran wall. Maybe just a nudge, a series of taps to say “hey, I’m in here working on my curve ball and studying pitch recognition charts.”
Is that too much to ask?
Just as long as I don’t see this molded against the skin of Wife’s baby-holder:
2 comments:
Alright... The Freeloader and I will give up our little game!
(But it sure was fun to fool you.)
The Freeloader is just setting you up for later in life. You think you feel shunned now, just wait until that kid is a year old and wriggles and crys to get out of your arms so it can get back to the comfort of mommy's arms. Jon's only consolation is he knows once Molly's 2 or 3, she's all his since that's the age "Daddy's Little Girl" syndrome usually kicks in.
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