Page 5 of A Very Grumpy Father's Day
But it isn’t.
The next thing I hear is the sound of our baby crying through the monitor.
“Shit,” Maddie whispers.
“Give me one minute,” I grit out to my wife.
But our baby doesn’t want to give me one minute. She is full-on wailing now.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Maddie covers her face and stands up straight.
This isn’t happening. “Fuck.”
“Shit. I’m sorry,” Maddie says. “It sounds like a poopie cry.”
“I know.”
She fumbles around for her shirt and puts it back on. “I have to. I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
She gives me an apologetic kiss on the cheek. “Go take care of yourself in the shower,” she warmly suggests. “I’ll make you a sandwich.” It’s one of the wifiest things she’s ever said to me.
I want to bash my head against the wall, but it makes me happy nonetheless.
* * *
When I’m out of the shower, I still feel dirty and hungover and frustrated, but I’m a little less tense.
I pull on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt and unplug my phone. There’s a series of texts from my illustrious cousins. I don’t want to read them, but I also can’t not read them.
BILLY: Hey, what’s up, Manhattan? Get enough beauty sleep, ya big pussy? Come meet us for brunch. We’re going to Sliders in Prospect Park and then we’re hitting up St. Mark’s Grill over in Williamsburg, then back over the bridge to Bar Larchmont in Harlem.
NOLAN: Jesus. There is no “us” for him to meet, ya gobshite. You and I are doing nothing of the sort. I am at home with my wife and children, and here is where I will stay.
BILLY: Aw, come on. You said you were on for brunch.
NOLAN: With my family. I meant I was having brunch with my family. How did you not comprehend this, you feckin’ eejit? And what kind of insane plan is that anyway? Three restaurants in two different boroughs?
BILLY: Well, I guess I’m coming to your place, then, Irish.
BILLY: Brunch is at Nolan and Cora’s. Bring the whole family, Manhattan. We’re gonna start without you.
BILLY: Hey, Manhattan. Where you at?
BILLY: You missed brunch, Cannavale. Come meet us for dinner.
NOLAN: There is no “us” to meet for dinner, cretin. It’s closing time. You don’t have to go home to Boston, Billy, but ya can’t stay here.
BILLY: Not my fault your kids love me so much. Come to Galentine in Hell’s Kitchen for supper. I know the guy who owns it. Then we’re gonna hit up a sushi place over on West 35th. I forget the name. Then I gotta head home, but you’re all invited to have a drink with me at JFK. Don’t leave me hanging, nerds.
I’m not responding to that.
Ever.
