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Eeeeeeeh: It Won’t Be Like This For Long

June 12, 2011

It was a nice night for a drive. The moon was high and fat, clouds scudding across a sky just removed enough from the city for stars to be visible. The muggy ninety-degree temps of earlier had descended to more bearable eighties, replete with a light breeze rustling sleepy evening leaves. Aside from the occasional distant cry of a night bird, all was quiet and still, as it should be at a little past ten in the evening.

With the exception, that is, of Truitt. With no regard for the sanctity of the night, he howled. And keened.  And flat out whined. You know that scene in Dumb and Dumber, where what’s-his-face asks the other what’s-his-face, “You wanna know the most annoying sound in the world?” And then proceeds to make it? That’s Truitt, baby-style. “Eeeeeeeeeh-eeeeeeeh-eeeeeh.”  We’re talking fingers on a chalkboard. Or baby coyotes…something like that. I’ve never heard the like in nature.

And so it was after a particularly grueling four-hour interval of this “eeeeeeeeeh-eeeeeeeh-eeeeeh”  I decided to install Truitt in the car seat and take him for a drive. Maybe this lovely night would rub off on him. It couldn’t hurt, right? Nothing else was working—swaying, rocking, sitting, lying down…nada. So I loaded him up, put the windows down, cranked the radio up, and started down our winding country roads. He was out after around ten minutes. I soaked it in—the silence, the solitude—it was heaven. No one save a doe bore witness as I rolled gently through a stop sign, loathe to pause long enough for Truitt’s body to register the lack of motion.

It was as I drove, relishing the quietude and the knowledge that I had nothing pressing on me other than the clock ticking down the hours of the night that it occurred to me that this was one more episode in the chronicles of parenthood that we all share. I’ve had many such episodes recently, and thought fleetingly of putting them to paper, but they fritter swiftly away under the demands of surviving this tiny human, much like the thousand or so tiny diapers that have passed from Pampers box to bootie to trash bin in the space of hours. When I do find a moment to record, for example, the symphony that I was composing earlier as I sat in a zombie-fied stupor at three a.m., marveling at the synchronicity of my child’s wide awake gaze and Darius Rucker’s “It Won’t Be Like This For Long” on CMT, I find myself more interested in a thirty minute nap, a scream-free shower, or even a vain attempt to keep abreast of the laundry, which has suddenly doubled overnight.

So anyway…I drove. And I enjoyed my drive. I finally arrived back home sometime around eleven, secure in the hope that the baby was out. Limp like spaghetti. I made plans as I put the car in park, put the brake on, and rolled the windows up. I’d have to take care of the dog, first…if I didn’t, she’d bark, and all would be lost…

So I left the car running and Truitt inside for a minute while I opened the door and alerted the Izzy the Chihuahua that It Was Just Me, I Was Coming Inside, and She Was Not To Bark Like An Obnoxious Little Dog. She rustled inside her kennel, but obediently did not make a sound. And then, still full of cautiously optimistic hope, I turned the car off and opened Truitt’s door.

Do you know what happened then? The dome light came on.  And of course those infant car seats are rear-facing so babies are very safe and get a face-full of dome light when they’ve finally fallen asleep after four hours of “eeeeeeeeeh-eeeeeeeh-eeeeeh.”  So he started to cry. And “eeeeeeeeeh-eeeeeeeh-eeeeeh.”  And flap his arms about, and kick his legs, and it was just painfully obvious that I was not getting to bed anytime soon.

I almost started to cry and “eeeeeeeeeh-eeeeeeeh-eeeeeh,” myself.   

But instead, I had to laugh. After all, it won’t be this way for long. Soon he’ll be like Lawson, wanting to wear camouflage everything to school every day. He’ll be covered with dirt head to toe, and offering me dandelions crawling with ants. He won’t be a baby.

He’ll be a Boy.

5 Comments leave one →
  1. Anaise permalink
    June 13, 2011 6:24 am

    Oh, your perspective is humbling.

    I’m glad you skipped your shower/sleep/laundry to post. Here’s hoping the scream goes away soon–isn’t there a way to dismantle that horrible dome light?

  2. Misty Cox permalink
    June 13, 2011 12:21 pm

    oh. that was worth waiting for. truly amazing woman you are.

    yoda has spoken.

    no, but really. you are.

  3. June 13, 2011 11:28 pm

    It’s GREAT to have you back, even if it’s fleeting.
    Hope you find time for more car-rides and blogging, we enjoy hearing about your next step in life!

  4. June 17, 2011 12:17 am

    Oh! how I feel for you. My oldest was the same way. But now he is 12 and in many ways smarter than his mom. So yes, enjoy that little bundle of screetch as much as sanity and sleep will let you. I love to hear about this new chapter in your life. Keep the faith Lady, this too shall pass- all too quickly.

  5. June 18, 2011 4:15 pm

    Anaise–This child is humbling! 😉 I’m sure there is a way to turn the dome light off–I just didnt think of it in time. Next time, though…..Duane says his “eeeh eeeh eeh…” sounds like a baby rabbit, for reference. Listen to a hunting show sometime; you’ll hear it.

    Misty–awww, love you! Yoda, my hero. Shall pass, this too.

    Sarah–thank, you, girlie. I’m hoping to have much more time for writing and reading in the coming days–it’s really been like giving up a part of myself to have to set that aside, unfortunately. I’ve been keeping up with you via my feedburner, though, and was so relieved to hear that you were not right in the thick of those terrible fires. I was worried about you. I’m glad to hear that they’re subsiding somewhat. Take care, and keep those wonderful posts coming.

    Nat–it’s so great to hear from others who have been through or are going through the same insanities and have somehow made it through whole and stronger for it. Which is the theme of my next post, lol. 😉

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