Friday, November 7, 2008

Fatherhood in the morning / Pinochle


[waking up, looking at clock]
5:44!
That's amazing!
I can't believe she let me sleep this long.
Christ, I'm going to be able to sleep past 6!
Incredible.
This is great. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I hope she's OK. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
What if she's dead?
My baby daughter's dead in the next room and I'm lying here excited about the prospect of an extra 16 minutes of sleep.
I suppose I should go check on her. . . . . . . . . .
But my night of sleep in officially over if I crawl out of this bed. . . . . . . . .
I'm sure she's fine.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I'll get up to check on her, she'll be breathing, that'll wake up the dog, which will wake up the baby, I'll still crawl back into bed for some reason, and I'll be back up again in 3 minutes, pissed off for the rest of the day.
Fuck it. I'm sleeping. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Damn it.
She might not be dead but she might be dying. She might be suffocating at this very instant. If I got up right now and checked on her I may be able to save her life. Instead I'm lying here wide awake like some asshole.
I'll end up in the papers.
Local man lets his daughter choke to death on a blanket as he tries to snooze till 6.
National media will pick it up.
They'll interview me on the 'Today Show'.
Getting peppered with questions from Matt Lauer.
"Any lessons you've learned that you'd like to share with other parents across America?"
What a dick.
What would I wear?
Probably that new black shirt I got last week.
It's pretty flattering.
Which reminds me. I have to take back those pants.
I hope I have the receipt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I totally threw out the bag last night that had the receipt in it.
Did I take out the trash?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
No but I did dump the leftovers from dinner on top of the bag.
What a fuckin mess that's going to be.
Spaghetti stained receipt. Beautiful.
God damned pants.
Like I fit in a 32.
This is fucking stupid. I'm up.
Check the kid.
Greet the day.

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