Page 35 of Love Notes & Lifelines
Seriously,what the fuckdoesn’t cover it. I have to piss so badly sweat is beading down my back. Spinning in a circle, I look for something, anything that will help me understand the complete and utter chaos that is my house right now.
I find nothing.
Dancing around on my tiptoes like a toddler, I aggressively try not to cup myself, but I’m in danger of peeing my pants for the first time in over thirty years.
Groaning, I pull back the shower curtain.
Last night I had to take a hammer to the child lock on the pantry before I figured out there was a magnetic key. Is there one in here too?
Ruby laughs, and I swear it’s at my expense—she’s a little devil, this one.
I shake the lid harder. I don’t care if it breaks, it has to open. I slide two fingers under the lid and lift like a bodybuilder. The first crack sounds like relief. The second crack happens just before the plastic lock dislodges and the lid opens with a deafening snap.
Thank God.
Now I’m faced with a mirror that runs from the vanity across the wall to where I’m standing, and Ruby sees everything through her drool and squeals of delight. She would think this is funny.
“You can’t watch me piss, Ruby. How the hell do people do this shit?” I’m starting to miss those first few weeks of ignorant bliss—the ones before I knew you couldn’t leave a one-year-old in the care of a four-year-old for thirty seconds while you pissed for the first time in twelve hours.
Now I know better, which means I wear Ruby whenever possible.
She doesn’t reply, but my bladder is in an all-out war and I’m out of options.
“Okay, kiddo. Desperate times and all that.” I place a hand over her eyes with my left hand, unzip myself with my right, and I’m pissing before I’ve even grabbed ahold of myself.
Please let me hit the bowl…please let me hit the bowl.
I glance down, but all I see is Ruby. I can’t even see my feet. Is this what it’s like to be pregnant?
“If I have to clean up my own piss, I’m pretty sure it’ll push me over the edge. A man can only handle so much shit, Ruby.”
The little girl beats her tiny fists against the fabric of the baby carrier while I relieve myself.
Today I’ve hit an all-time low.
I close the lid without looking. If there’s a mess, I’ll deal with it later. I wash my hands, then exit the bathroom without looking back.
Please don’t let all the toilets be locked down.
“Emmy, are you ready for dinner?” I call down the hall. She exits her room a second later with Daisie Dog beside her, and we walk to the kitchen without speaking. Emmy closes the gate behind us. It’s quickly becoming a habit because if we don’t, Ruby will find a way to escape.
At least I can walk over the baby gates. The cabinets, drawers, and now toilet seats are a different story.
Who the hell comes up with this stuff? Emmy sits on the floor with her head resting on Daisie Dog while I reheat last night’s pasta.
“Okay, girls. Let’s get you into your seats,” I say, placing bowls with suction cups on the bottom of them on the table. These I approve of. Especially after I learned Ruby’s penchant for tossing bowls overboard.
I lift Emmy first, and she slides into her booster without a fuss—she hasn’t been talking much the last few days. It’s been weighing heavily on me, and the hippie-dippie doctor’s advice was less than helpful.
“Taking them home will give them a sense of security they’re lacking right now.”
Is it possible Quackburg’s right?
Ruby’s next, and getting her out of the carrier is worse than wrestling a pig in mud. She wiggles and bites and then laughs about it all. By the time I buckle her in, I’m breathing heavily.
“Will she grow out of biting soon?” I ask Emmy, who shrugs and focuses on her bowl of pasta. Her downturned lips and empty gaze are so sad it kills me.
Would she have been better off with Danica?
