Hot Seat

Hey there Steve. I went out to dinner last night with some friends. The waitress was one of those women who focuses on the table in front of her, preferring to take complete care of one set of customers before moving on to the next. One consequence of this monomania; we were in the restaurant an hour before the entree arrived.

An hour. In that time I consumed several slices of bread and a salad while I remained focused on meltdown prevention where my young son was concerned. When we made plans with this (very nice) couple the evening before, spirits were running high. We'd just begun the weekend and all sorts of delightful visions of rest and relaxation danced in our heads. By Saturday afternoon, however, I'd been worn down to a frazzle by the baby and really only wanted to go to bed. He'd done enough wiggling screaming, jumping, banging, expostulating, expectorating, regurgitating, and masticating to last me an entire weekend. I desperately wanted a nap, and got 10 minutes. I was going to have to content myself with those 10 minutes, spread them ever-so-thinly across the remainder of the day.

So when my wife and I arrived at the restaurant we did this dance around who was going to sit next to our son. She suggested I should be the one to sit next to him and I weaseled out, knowing full well that whomever ended up in the hot seat would not so much eat dinner as they would snatch huge bites of whatever was on their plate during the brief moments when they were not running interference. But then my crafty wife went to the bathroom, forcing me to move into the hot seat in order to keep the baby from one or more of the following:
a) Gumming the table
b) Cracking the glass table top with a spoon, which he'd picked up and refused to relinquish
c) Toppling water glasses
d) Screaming at the top of his lungs for no apparent reason

When my wife returned from the bathroom she quickly occupied my former seat. No discussion. So now I was in the pole position. By the time the food came I wanted more than anything to just stand up, walk away, and find a nice quiet spot under a table someplace where I could lie still. Just some cool, dark grotto where I couldn't hear babies cry, where babies had never been invented.

I have again been mystified and crushed by the baby fatigue. The Soviets used to force detainees to stand for days in one spot without rest or sleep; while this is certainly one way to do it, they might've saved time by isolating each prisoner with the infant son for a day.

No idea if I can write anything on the novel.