Tomorrow, Doc Holiday will be four weeks old. And I must say, I like him very much. You can never tell with a stranger, whether you'll like them or not, that is. Sure, he's my baby. I knew I'd love him, but, would I like him? Would he be one of those people who cut me off mid-sentence or borrow my stuff without asking?
In casual conversation, would I find myself saying, "Sure, the baby's great, but he uses all of our plan minutes and I finally found the gin bottle that went missing from the inventory, under his bed. Honestly, Marsha...it's getting out of control."
Fortunately, he's very well-behaved and sleeps most of the time. This helps with keeping tabs on the twins and whether they've decided today will be the day they burn the house down and sew the ground with salt.
...but more on that later.
The only time the amount of time Doc sleeps is inconvenient is when I'm trying to head into a long-winded lecture or monologue. For instance, it's high time he knows exactly who he's living with. It's only fair. But it's extremely difficult to have him listen to me listen to myself talk, when he keeps falling asleep.
Last night, I did my best to explain what it would now mean for him to, not only be my son, but to be a blogger's child. I propped him up in his swing. "Now, stay awake,child. This is important. Your mother has something she wants to hear herself say. Sweetheart, if you could just try and hold your head up, that would be great. Direct eye contact shows the other person you're paying attention."
I could tell he was riveted. An interested baby is a cross-eyed baby.
"I don't know how to break this to you, but.... I blog. I'll let that settle in."
"I know. That's what everyone else usually says. But, I guess you're wondering what this means for you. And that's a fair question. First off, what's a blog? Why does it sound like a frog with a weight problem? Why am I eating the entire box of wheat thins at three in the morning? All things will be answered in good time, my son."
Doc's eyes closed and drool puddled under his fat chin, sure signs of a person processing information.
Encouraged by chugging the last of the Diet Coke directly from the bottle, I continued. "Really, the most important thing you need to know is that I'll spend the remaining years of your life chronically every single thing you do. Sounds great, huh? Unfortunately, sweetheart, your mother writes humor."
"Yeah, that's also what everyone usually says. You sure you're still listening? Anyhow, I thought about it, and the conclusion I came to was, I could either never write about anything you and your brother and sister do, or I could make sure your childhood was documented in such ridiculous detail, you probably won't want to spend holidays here when you grow up."
The clock struck four.
"Just try not to hold it against me. And know that I love you. Also, if I ever get published, you reserve the right to pretend you don't know me. Oh, and no matter what they say, I'm not trying to poison anyone with my cooking. It's just, when I heat food past room temperature, karma shows up and lights it on fire."
I think he got it. Doc Holiday, here's to a lifetime of love, happiness, and as little emotional scarring in the public eye as possible.
Until Next Time, Readers!