sitting in a dark hallway, surrounded by glass, water reflecting on our skin. tiny fingers pointing, tiny eyes open wide. the perfect laughter of my child echoing in my ears, bouncing off the smoky walls in crystal prisms. sharks and turtles and coral, stingrays and fish and all the things he’s never seen, infinite wonder waiting just below the surface. running in the dark, back lit by a wall of blue, of swimming shadows.
…lips stained red from a bottle of wine.
B unpacking flamingos / laughing in the bathtub / snuggling with Captain Matt in front of our fireplace / day 1 of pacifier weaning / IKEA ice cream / sitting in his laundry basket / bathtub reflection / first crayon masterpiece / playing in the grass / leaving toys in my shower / about to tackle mommy / getting into his jeep / typing away / I have no idea / sassy pants / face scratch / sneaky baby / record player / chicks laying eggs. finally / staring out the window / reading the newspaper / mopping / playing in the toy box / basketball shorts / destroying his bedroom.
On Sunday night, I was giving B a bath. So he’s slinging water at me and growling at his rubber ducks when I look over and see something all over the white vanity and cabinet doors. I squint, thinking it’s just the shitty lighting playing tricks on me. No. No it was not. The counter, sink, and cabinets were covered in bloody fingerprints. Big ones. I knew it wasn’t me. And I knew it wasn’t Brigs. And it definitely wasn’t Alex. B was still playing, so there was an awkward moment of silence while I contemplated who, exactly, was in my house bleeding all over the place, and settle on the fact that it was a bloody Hep C positive vagrant. Or a poltergeist and I just don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. I texted Madre since they had been over earlier (the only people who had been to the house in days). “Hi. Did you or padre cut your hand today and touch the bathroom sink?”
“Nope. Wasn’t us.”
Well, then.
I send her a video of the blood smears.
“I used the bathroom when I first came over and that wasn’t there.”
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
B was still playing and I kind of start to panic because SOME STRANGER/BLOOD DEMON WAS BLEEDING IN MY HOUSE.
After a few minutes we mutually decide it was Padre because (1) he had removed and sanded down the bathroom door for me earlier, so was clearly in the bathroom (2) he’s always bleeding, like…90% of the time and doesn’t even realize it (3) I found the door bolt pin things under the sink so I know he had to touch the cabinets.
Crisis averted, I think, but it was a very tense 10 minutes.
B has been sleeping just fine for the last week – 12 straight hours at night just like normal. Except Saturday. Saturday he woke up around 4 freaking the hell out. So I waited a few minutes to see if he would fall back asleep. Um, no. So I held him until he calmed down, gave him a kiss and put him back in his crib. More screaming. I wait 10 more minutes. I go back in. I pick him up, check his crib, rock him until he settles, lay him back down. More screaming. We do this for an HOUR when around 5 he finally falls back asleep. Not a huge deal. So we’re playing in his room the next day and something in the white fur rug next to his crib catches my eye. It’s big….really really big. And whatever it is, it’s half dead. I poke it with a baby wipe. It’s a mother-effing spider. Not one where it’s just all leggy and gross and misleadingly large…one of the big bastards with an abdomen the size of a ping pong ball and spots and big legs and devil fangs. I step on it and there is actually an audible pop – I’m not even lying it was that big. I get it out of his room, tear his crib apart making sure there aren’t more (because obviously there’s a family of them and they’re after my baby), search through all his stuff and behind all his furniture until I’m mildly satisfied there are no more spiders. And then I start to feel really sick. Throw up sick. I strip B down and check for bites (none) and have this disgusting, nagging feeling that that beast of a spider was in his crib last night and that’s why he woke up crying. And so I kind of hold him for a minute, rocking back and forth, and try not to puke everywhere. And then I bought fumigators.
The end.
