I'd slept in this morning while Tracey supervised the zoo feeding at our dining table. Eventually, Miss0 decided I'd had enough nap time and stood staring daggers at me from the cot, screaming at the top of her lungs.
"I've got her," I called back to Trace, picking up our big little bundle of sometimes, but not right now, joy. As I talked and cooed, Miss0 screamed even louder and began clawing my face and trying to throw herself out of my arms.
"I don't know what's wrong with her," I said to Tracey when I walked in with Miss0 still going feral. "How did she sleep last night?"
It's a bone of contention I even have to ask, but the fact is I don't hear her. Or, as my wife sees it, I ignore her.
"Maybe she's teething," suggested Tracey, taking Miss0 out of my hands so I could go for a shower.
"Maybe," I said, vaguely registering that Tracey had suddenly starting behaving a little oddly, lifting each of her feet and checking out the soles of her shoes.
"I think I've stepped in something," she mumbled. Even as she was looking around, Miss0 had settled considerably.
But I didn't hang around for the details. I'd offloaded the screaming baby and was free. I headed for the bathroom with a skip in my step.
But just as I was about to step into the shower Tracey stood outside the bathroom door and yelled, "I think I know why the baby's crying!"
I opened the bathroom door and Tracey gave me with that disgusted, loving look I've come to expect and, like Miss0, turned her head away from me.
"Yep," she said. "You're really gonna need to brush your teeth while you're in there."
This morning, apparently, I was bypassing my lungs entirely and breathing with my bowel.
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