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“I’m going to change her.” This I can do.
As I’m changing her diaper, I gain the self-confidence to get through tonight. What’s the difference between this and when I watch Cecilia while Beth’s sleeping most Saturdays? Nothing. Except she’s usually down the hall. But that’s okay. We can do this.
I pick her back up and she cries again. Beth said she just ate, so I’ll try to burp her. Maybe she’s gassy.
Enzo sits on a breakfast stool as though he’s about a minute away from fleeing and leaving me here by myself. I notice he hasn’t taken off his shoes yet.
I bounce her, patting her lightly on the back as she rests on my shoulder.
“She’s getting a weird look,” Enzo chimes in from his nosebleed seats.
“Like what?”
“Like Carm does when he’s about to throw up.”
I stop all movement. A huge belch comes out of her, followed by a trickle of something warm down my back.
“Oh fuck!” Enzo gags.
I circle around to find her throw-up on the floor. Enzo runs to the sink, continuing to dry heave.
“Man up, Enzo.”
“I’m not made for this.” His shoulders still rise and fall.
“You’re going to have to take her. I have to clean up.”
He crosses his arms, resting his body by the sink just in case. “I don’t know how to hold a baby. Want me to call my ma?”
“No. Come here and I’ll put her in your arms.”
“I don’t want to break her. Your sister will definitely cut off my balls and put them in a blender if I break her baby.”
My patience has grown thin. I get that this isn’t Enzo’s gig, but he needs to suck it up. “Please, Enzo?”
“No. Don’t use those two words right now.” He shakes his head like a disappointed ten-year-old.
“What is wrong with saying ‘please, Enzo’?”
“You know I like that in the bedroom, and now the next time you say it to me, I’m going to be thinking about throw up all over your back instead of you begging to come.” He chokes again.
For heaven’s sake. I spot her swing and figure she can sit in there while I clean up. When I place her down, she screams as I latch the straps.
“Read the instructions Beth left.” I hear him pick up the paper. “It says don’t put her in the swing. She hates the swing.”
I glare at him, and he points at the writing on the letter. Enzo’s worried about my sister, but it might be me cutting off his balls and putting them in the blender.
“It says she likes the bouncy. What’s a bouncy?” he asks.
“Why don’t you help me find it?”
He walks around as though there’re bombs on the floor, tiptoeing around everything. I spot the bouncy chair and put her in it. She instantly calms.
“Thank God,” I say, then head to the kitchen to grab the paper towels and cleaning supplies. I’m more annoyed by Enzo than anything Cecilia’s done. “Can you at least sit on the couch and watch her?”
He sits on the edge of the sofa, staring at the baby. Her eyes are shut, but her face is still flushed from crying.
“I have to go change. Want to strip this off me?” I joke.
