The Pulse Of My Heart

In what I hope is a sign of new and better days on the horizon, I received a nice text message from Trey's Dad yesterday. It was a sort of olive branch affair; a digital, cellular peace pipe. In it, he asked if Brittany and I would like to take Trey out for dinner one night this week, so that we could see him before he goes out of town, on vacation with Dad. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity and thanked him immediately. I'm truly keeping my fingers crossed and casting ancient runes in the cardinal directions in the hope that things are getting better.

I can't wait for the anger and bitterness on both sides to finally dissolve into numb nothingness, because regardless of why who-does-what, it is Trey who loses, in the end. No child benefits from playing as the rope in a game of Tug-Of-War, with one parent grabbing either arm to pull and rip twist him in two equal pieces. Bisected down the middle, split in twain and cut apart in The Solomon Solution is no fun for anyone, especially the baby. I look forward to the day when the relationship between the two families is amicable. Maybe not friendly, perhaps not terribly associative, but amicable. Workable. Mutual respect in the best interest of the child, sort of thing. I would like to get to a place where the custody rules and regulations serve simply as guidelines, as a kind of legal safety-net against the threat of future change. I want to arrive in a near-future, where Brittany's ex can call us up if he and his girlfriend want to have a night out, and ask if we'd like to watch Trey for them. I want to be able to do the same with them. Who needs babysitters when you have parents?

Speaking of Trey, I find myself missing him more and more each day, rather than growing accustomed to his absence. It's little things I miss most, that make the house feel empty and big. In the morning, for example, waking up and getting ready for the day without him standing next to me and mimicking my actions like a tiny, upright monkey is a hollow endeavor. I remember the first time he wanted to shave with me. He was standing next to me by the sink, using his training potty as a stepping stool and looking at me with curious, wonder-filled eyes. I told him I was shaving, and asked him if he'd like to shave, too. I found an old razor, ejected the cartridge, and handed it to him. Seconds later, he was puffing out his lips and contorting his face as he tried to mirror the arcane facial ticks each man develops over years of raking thin and dangerous metal across sensitive skin. He now demands to shave every day.

After the shaving, we brush our teeth and wash our hands. He has a little Spider-Man toothbrush and Thomas The Tank Engine training toothpaste, although he enjoys the spitting so much, I'm not sure he'll need the safe-to-swallow stuff too much longer. We wash our hands with the bright and odoriferous purple foam of Kandoo kid's soap. It reeks of some sort of berry-scented concoction, and assaults the nasal passages with its syrupy high notes of grape and mango and kiwi. I'm not sure exactly what it's supposed to smell like, but the effect is somewhat akin to walking into a tropical garden to detonate a small, concealed explosive in the nearest hollowed-out pineapple, then running madly away at top speed before the whole thing explodes in a curious melange of viciously repellant odors. Then again, maybe that's exactly what the tropics smell like. I wouldn't know. I avoid brightly-lit areas on account of the sun trying to kill me.

Nothing cleans better than fluorescent, purple frog spit!

In other news, Brittany stole my last cold Coke from the refrigerator on her way out of the house this morning. I know this, because I specifically remember there being one final can left when I grabbed one for myself last night. I didn't run to the store in a panic at the time, naturally, because I knew there would be a single, beautiful can waiting for me in the morning. I was wrong. To add insult to injury, she didn't remove the box from the fridge, either. She just left it in there, sitting innocuously on the top shelf, inviting me to reach inside for the tasty joy of a refreshing beverage, only to stare at me in quiet mockery when I withdrew an empty fist from its lying, cardboard body. I threw it away immediately.

She also hid the car keys from me. This wouldn't normally be a very bad thing, except that I was craving the warm deliciousness of a Chick-N-Mini breakfast meal from Chick-Fil-A. I was waking up and watching the clock, calculating how much time I had remaining before I had to snap myself into gear and start getting ready, before the accursed restaurant would tyrannically withdraw the offering from their menu at precisely 10:30 a.m., and thinking that I had plenty of time. So, I lazily got up around 10:00 and started getting dressed and brushing my teeth and, as Trey and I do in the mornings, making my hair pretty. (After brushing his hair, he demands a self-check in the mirror. If his coiffure is not yet styled to his exact specifications, he will demand an immediate do-over until, finally, he decides that it looks pretty. His words.) After doing all of this, I still had an easy fifteen minutes before the dictatorial and grammatically-challenged cows that run the Chick-Fil-A pulled the breakfast items from the daily menu. I could make it, no problem. Unless, of course, someone had hidden the keys...

I eventually found them, tucked away in a remote spot of the house. (In point of fact, they were simply placed upon one end of the dining room table - but let's not dwell on technicalities.) Unfortunately, the hunt that went on for ten minutes whilst I pillaged every corner of my home (the dining room table is not in a corner) for those damnable keys meant that I now had roughly five minutes to make the ten-minute drive to the temporally oppressive fast-food joint. I didn't make it.

So I'm sitting here now, at around 3:00 in the afternoon, typing this essay while my stomach makes offensive noises and curses my name. I know I could just go out and grab something right now, but Brittany will be home in a couple of hours, and we'll go get food then, anyway. In the meantime, I'll just sit here with my shaven face and pretty hair, and quietly suffer the unforgiving pangs of hunger that mercilessly rack my body every few minutes. Oh, one more thing. You would think that I could always go into the kitchen and make myself a sandwich to stem these awful tides of hunger and wanting - but we're out of bread. Guess who ate the last slice?*

*The above essay in no way reflects actual reality, since I am the man in the relationship and am, consequently, eternally wrong. Therefore, no furious and terrible consequences should be visited upon me by anyone who takes offense to what I have said.

Especially not if her name is Brittany.

And, especially not if she's had a bad day.

And, especially especially not if she's been working on her right hook.

Don't hurt me, Brittany. You know I can't find anything without you.

A chuisle mo chroí!

 

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