Two Dogs and a Baby

The doorbell rings. Daughter Annie’s two dogs, a whippet and a terrier mix, erupt in high-pitched aggressive barks and growls. Annie restrains the dogs as I open the door. Two men wearing Brink’s Security uniforms smile and greet me. The closest one tells me that my neighbors have been very happy with their service, that they’re running a special promotion. Can’t hear much of the terms as the dogs continue to voice objections to the strangers’ presence on the porch. I cut the man off and say, “We’re not going to buy.” The second man grins as our current alarm system begs at high decibels to be released: interlopers must be chased off the premises.

Annie and Ava

Two days later, Annie decides to replace the tires on her car. Judy and I agree to babysit. Baby Ava sleeps contentedly in a light swaddle in a crib in the back room. I wash dishes and begin chopping vegetables for a pot of chicken soup, our supper dish. Ava wakes with a start, cries tentatively. She’s not distressed but wants to let us know that she might be heading there.

When I stand over her crib, she beams wide-open-eyed with an expectant look on her face. She’s not going back to sleep any time soon. I unfold layers of cloth that encase her like mummy-wrap. She seems pleased. Judy enters, asks if the diaper needs changing. “Oh no,” I tell myself. I haven’t changed one in nearly thirty years. Ava protests briefly when a wipe contacts her skin. I struggle with a plastic diaper trying to remember which side goes where. I tell Judy, “I think I’ve got it backwards.” Judy says, “No, it’s right. Wait. I think it’s backwards.” I fumble around until Ava is properly rediapered.

Her skin looks a bit red, so Judy suggests that we open a few windows to cool down house and baby. I open the front door so that fresh air can flood past the screened door.

Ava’s sits on Grandma’s lap and looks around contentedly for a few minutes. Then, her face scrunches up in abject despair. She cries bitter tears as Judy and I come to the conclusion that baby’s hungry. Judy says, “Look in the refrigerator door. Annie left a bottle.” I can’t find it. A car passes by and the terrier barks at it. I call out over the barks, “It’s not there!” Judy yells, “Look in the door, behind the mayonnaise!” I shout back (the terrier is barking now at two girls walking down the street), “I’m standing here looking at the mayonnaise. There’s no bottle. But there’s an old bottle on the counter.”

Judy hands me Ava, who now cries louder than the terrier can bark. Judy checks the bottle and says, ‘It’s still cold. Annie must have forgotten to put it in the fridge.” She heats water to warm the bottle.

I walk Ava to the front door, shut it, and order the still-barking terrier to desist. He retreats to the sofa and grumps. He was only doing his job. What’s the old guy’s problem?

Judy feeds Ava while I return to cooking supper. I warn her that we might have to eat late. Judy doesn’t care as long as she’s got a baby to hold.

Judy and Ava

Judy eventually needs a break. The soup bubbles in a pot. All I have to do is make biscuits. I take Ava. She rubs her eyes and yawns. Nap time? Judy rejoins me as I struggle to rewrap her in the swaddle. Ava doesn’t approve of my clumsy technique. “Keep her arms down!” “Her arms are down!” “Not any more!”

Ava cries after we leave her behind in her crib haphazardly swaddled. She usually fusses for a few minutes then drifts off to sleep. Not this time.

We unwrap her and put her in a onesie. I take her outside. Ava stops crying immediately, stares at fluttering leaves on the magnolia as a light breeze puffs past. Clouds dim the sunset light to create a golden glow. I see a flock of ibis pecking around on a lawn up the street. I walk Ava toward them so that she can take a good look.

My back starts to complain. I’m not used to carrying a baby around. I give Ava back to Judy and retreat to the kitchen to bake. We take turns eating supper as we rediscover, much too late, that we can’t manage to sip soup while holding a wiggly baby.

Annie returns after a two-hour wait at the tire shop. Judy and I slump with relief-fatigue. We’re not in babysitting shape. Our skills are rusty. But Ava is a sweetheart, so we’re willing to retrain.

Lazy Days

I had ambitions for Spring Break at Valencia College. I planned to weed trouble spots in the yard, paint the underside of the porch roof, take my car to the garage, and work on a stalled novel. Instead, I slept late, read, drew and painted a bit, gave classes at Crealde, and put extra effort into cooking meals. Bidens continue to infest the kitchen garden, the tire pressure light (liar) still glows yellow on the dashboard, hanging chips dangle down from the porch roof, and not a word has been added or subtracted from “Stitches”. Built-up fatigue leapt on me afternoons and after supper in the form of deep naps, the ones where you wake up an hour later and can’t remember who and where you are.

I may have given myself permission to take a few lazy days in anticipation of my next break. My work load this summer should be lighter, and I fully intend to conquer myriad household jobs such as painting the living room, grouting every surface that comes in contact with water, hiring a company to replace windows, trimming branches off the front yard magnolia, finishing the stalled novel, completing 5-6 paintings, attending art openings, and taking short trips with Judy.

I will spring forward the day after I turn in final grades to attack my job list with unmatched fervor. I won’t take time to sit under a tree to read, smoke a cigar and sip whiskey. I won’t take daily naps in a comfortable recliner. I’ll never indulge in pleasant pastimes while work remains to be done…if I can locate my doppelganger and offer him terms.