I choose to ignore the inhuman screams from the bathroom and continue on to the bedroom.
“I’ve found it love.”
“Found what?” My wife answers with seasoned patience aware, no doubt, that a period of communication consisting entirely of swear words and conspiracy theories is about to begin.
“The fucking invisible cord attached to my leg. The one that starts pulling the moment I walk away from them and jerks out of their back as soon as I get somewhere close to where I need to be so they can yell DAAAAAAAAAAD or wail like fucking banshees. Basically our children are operated by an invisible mechanism not unlike the one used to get Woody to talk in Toy Story but without the humour or charm.”
“Keep your voice down.”
One is a poem.
One is a 100 word story.
I think you can work out which is which.
Sunday. Click. Monday
The overriding sense that
A change is needed.
I heard her calling out in her sleep. On instinct I felt the cold rush of anger at my train of thought being broken even as I got up from the chair.
Or maybe it was frustration at there being no train to derail.
She had turned through a full one hundred and eighty degrees in her cot and was lying on her dummies. Mummy had been the call and she stared at me confused through puffy, sleep-filled eyes. I gave her both dummies and watched her taste each in turn as she always does, before settling on the pink one. As she always does.