the highest art form I know.”
As I closed my eyes and let him kiss me again, I reminded myself never to let Mitzi know that those baby magazines she left on my desk had had any effect on me whatsoever.
Tuesday, March 2
The idealistic baby fantasy lasted almost twenty-four hours. Then Kim asked us if we’d watch Wesley while they went out for dinner and discussed the “you-know-what” issue.
I know why they didn’t want Wesley along while they were trying to decide if they should have another child. Wesley—precocious, beautiful, intelligent, gifted, spoiled Wesley—is the finest form of birth control ever invented.
He marched into our house on chubby BabyGap jean-clad legs, pulling a little wheeled suitcase. He shrugged off his denim jean jacket, ruffled his pale blond curls, opened his big baby blues in an expression of vast innocence and said authoritatively, “Disney-dot-com.”
“Wes, you know Aunt Whitney doesn’t let you play on her computer,” Kim chided.
“Sorry, buddy. The dot-com era bit the dust. Didn’t you hear? According to the Wall Street Journal, it’s still in recovery mode.”
He stared at me, his lower lip wobbling tremulously, a single perfect tear forming on the center of each of his lower eyelids, giving me an opportunity to relent and stop the floodgates of misery and mayhem about to erupt.
I, like a fool, didn’t bite.
In slow motion, Wesley’s world, and even Wesley himself, crumbled. He fell to the ground, opened his mouth and let out a wail that shattered all my crystal in the dining-room buffet, scared Scram and Mr. Tibble off the couch and into the bedroom and put a slight crack in the picture tube of my television.
Okay, I’m exaggerating a little. The television was not damaged.
“What’s this about?” I yelled to Kim over the din.
“He’s in a phase. Just ignore him.”
“It would be quieter in here if my house were sitting in the middle of an airport landing strip.”
“He’s had separation anxiety lately. His supper is in his little suitcase. You know what a fussy eater he is.” Kim smiled weakly. “If we do have another baby, I don’t think we’ll indulge him or her quite so much.”
“Good idea.” I picked Wesley up by the armpits and made a wet, noisy raspberry sound on his bare belly. He quit crying out of sheer surprise, waved goodbye to his mother and demanded ice cream. So much for separation issues.
Chase walked upstairs from the basement. “Who’s being murdered up here?”
“Say hi to our houseguest.”
“Hey, buddy.” He and Wesley high-fived. “How about some smoked oysters and a little football?”
Wesley chortled and lunged out of my arms toward Chase.
And so much for the fussy-eater thing.
Tonight was different from the other times Wes has stayed with us. I kept imagining him as my own little boy, with us not for a few hours, but for a lifetime.
As the evening progressed, I tallied in my head all the wonderful—and not-so-wonderful—aspects of being a parent. Clearly there are glorious things about having a child.
1) The way a baby smells after a bath—soap, lotion, powder and that natural fragrance of sweet breath and fresh skin.
2) Baby toes.
3) Baby kisses.
4) Watching him suck his thumb as he soothes himself to sleep.
5) The kittenlike snore that reminds me of a purr and signals he’s no longer messing with my mind and is really, truly, asleep.
6) Pink, full lips relaxed in an innocent smile.
7) The comical way Wesley holds my face in his and turns it toward his own when he wants my attention.
8) Long, fine eyelashes that delicately fringe sleepy eyes.
There are, however, some not-so-blissful things about having a little one around, too.
1) The way a baby smells after depositing a large treasure in his training pants.
2) Baby toes—when they are uncovered because said baby has flushed his shoes down the toilet.
3) Baby kisses—when they are open-mouthed and that same mouth has recently been eating smoked oysters and crackers.
4) Watching him suck his thumb, biding his time, waiting for me to turn my back on him so he can wreak more havoc in my household.
5) The strange sounds children make in their sleep—the snuffles and grunts that make me leap to my feet to check on said child every few minutes.
6) Full, rosy lips screwed up into a pout.
7) The way a child can manage a vise grip on your face so tight that it feels like he might screw your head off to get your attention.
8) Long, fine lashes through which he can turn a glare into a full-scale emotional assault. With a look, Wesley can make me feel guilty for everything I’ve ever done to him, including administering vitamins, combing his hair, stopping him from putting his finger in a light socket and preventing him from pulling off my cat’s tail without anesthetic.
9) Potty training—and little boys with very bad aim.
10) Stubborn refusal to wear “big boy” pull-ups to bed. Changing bedding. Twice. In three hours…
Sometimes it’s best not to record everything in one’s journal. It makes reality too clear and, well, too much of a reality.
Chase, of course, loved every minute of the evening—me getting soaked when Wesley splashed in the bathtub; me standing on my head trying to get him to eat green peas; me setting off a crying jag by suggesting that Wesley might sleep better if his pajamas weren’t on backward.
It appears that as long as I serve smoked oysters with crackers to them as they sit on the couch watching men in ridiculous outfits try to injure each other over a bit of pigskin and a pumpful of air, everything will be fine. Maybe it’s a guy thing, but Chase came down on Wesley’s side of every issue.
About toilet training: “Little boys need the practice. Don’t worry, the floor can be washed.” By who, I wonder?
About flushing: “I’m sure Kim and Kurt have lots of other shoes he can wear.”
About pet care: “Don’t worry, Scram will grow another tail.”
“Chase, are you going to be one of those indulgent fathers who thinks everything his son does is cute?”
“It will be, won’t it?”
“What
