…he’d probably be a lot like me.
Like the other night, fearing that I’d dropped my handkerchief in baby’s crib as I’d laid her down, I went through the worst case scenario routine in my head. If her little hands find the hankie and it gets over head and mouth and then…This is why I crept back in her room an hour after she’d drifted off and tried to delicately feel around her crib for said hankie. Only this woke her up and thus followed nearly two hours of trying to feed and soothe her so she’d go back down. All the while my dead tired husband was just praying to be able to sleep himself.
And would Monk be able to take a feeding of the highly stainable mix of apple, banana and blueberry? I sometimes hold one of her hands so she won’t dip it in the jar and get the purple mixture on her clothes, hair, face…And as I spoon it in I see it go all around her mouth so have to keep using the spoon to “clean” up. And then there’s fruit gunk on the spoon handle from having dipped it too far into the jar, and oh, it’s a clean-freak wannabe’s nightmare.
And I’m pretty sure Monk would have called the baby soap customer service line, too. Because I saw a drop of her concentrated bath gel fall onto her tongue as I was pouring it into my own hands to lather her up. And though she seemed just fine I decided a call to the toll-free number wouldn’t hurt. And I’m sure the kind lady on the phone has heard even crazier stuff anyway.
Yes, if Monk were a dad, he’d be a lot like me- a nervous wreck.