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Alicia Zimmermann loves her son. She really does. She loves him in all his strange, lumpy, bug-eyed glory. She would, and almost had, fight anyone for calling him any of those things to her face. Alicia loves her son, but right now, she 110% does not like him.
Jack has been crying for the last hour and a half. Alicia has tried feeding him, changing him, swaddling him in case he’s cold, stripping him to his diaper in case he’s hot, and every combination of bouncing, rocking, or swinging she can muster. She’s put him in his bouncy chair and in his crib, on the couch and in the car seat. She has sung at least seven English lullabies to him, and three French ones she’s picked up from Bob in the first months of this screaming monster’s life. Jack. is still. crying.
Alicia throws a blanket on the floor of the living room and sets her son down gently. She may feel like she’s bleeding from her eardrums, but she’s not a bad mother, no matter how much she feels like it.
“No single human should have the right to make this much noise,” she mutters, sinking into Bob’s squashy green armchair. Jack doesn’t acknowledge her complaint and Alicia slumps deeper into the upholstery, staring in defeat. It’s a long, noisy three minutes before Jack’s cries are broken up by the sound of the door opening.
Bob stops halfway in the door, brown eyes widening as he takes in the sight of his son screaming in the middle of the floor. When he sees the mop of blonde hair draped over the back of his chair, it spurs him back into motion. He tosses his gym bag next to the couch, spilling a pair of shoes and a puck onto the carpet.
“Shit, babe. How long?” He places a hand gently on Alicia’s head. The only answer he gets is a defeated shrug.
***
Bob Zimmermann loves his son. He loves his wife. He would do anything for either of them, but right now, he has absolutely no idea what in the hell anything actually means.
He’s been home for twenty minutes, and his son is still crying. Alicia has stirred just enough to mutter a few sentences about how “nothing works” and “convinced me kids were fun” and finally, just “helllllllp”. He shoos her into the master bathroom, pulls out a bottle of her favorite bubble bath, and reassures her that he’s got it handled.
After making funny faces does nothing to stem the tears, Bob decides that it’s time for the parade of Jack’s favorite toys. Five more minutes and the infant is surrounded by an assortment of rejected bears, lions, and other animals, most gifts from various overly-wealthy, prone-to-spoiling, self-proclaimed hockey “uncles”. Even Stanley the Penguin has been unceremoniously flung aside.
Bob’s starting to mentally prep for the next round of change-feed-rock-sing-joinbabyincrying when Jack’s angry flailing sends him flopping onto his stomach facing the door. It happens so fast that Bob doesn’t realize for a moment what’s happened. In the few seconds before it dawns on him that Jack is quiet, the baby has scooched to Bob’s forgotten bag and grabbed at the object lying next to it.
“Your mother is going to murder me.”
***
Alicia Zimmermann loves her husband and son. But when she comes out of the bath to find her baby happily gnawing on a hockey puck while Bob takes pictures, she can’t stop herself from exclaiming “Oh, god not another one!” and breaking down into exhaustion- and laughter-induced tears.
