No Rest for the Wicked

The clock dings one. Two little eyes stare at me over the end of his bottle. That empty stare burns a hole right through me. A small stream of milk drips down his glutenous chin.

He finishes his bottle. I think to myself, ok a quick burp then back to bed. However, he has other plans. He gives me a sly smile and then soils himself. Damn, I carry him into the other room to the changing table. Step one, containment, step two, clean up.

The clock dings two. With my enemy fresh and dry we make our way to the rocking chair. I have a full arsenal of weapons. The glider, the Pink Floyd lullaby CD, and the proper swaddle blanket. All of these tools would prove useless against his resolve. He stares at me as if to say “where the hell do you think you going? You’re on my time now bitch.”

Ten minutes passes by, twenty minutes, and not event a blink. He could never sleep again for all I know. I can’t show him my weakness, I can’t crack under the pressure. But it’s too late. YAWN.  He saw my weakness. He knew I was tired and he had broken me.

The clock dings three before he shows signs of weakness. Slowly his eyelids get heavy and close. His breathing changes and his body relaxes. I creep back into my bedroom and place him in his bassinet ever so carefully. He lays calmly with his arms above his head victoriously. As I crawl into bed and shut my eyes I think I hear him whisper “see you in three hours slave”.

The front is calm for now, but the battle is far from over and I fear I may lose the war.

Pat Lemieux

About Pat Lemieux

Pat has it all, family, big old house, dogs, a newborn son and a quarter-life crisis. He blogs about trying to be who he has always been and be who he now needs to be. He enjoys 90's grunge metal, tasty local brews and the outdoors.