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“I’ll be back in a second,” I promise as I whip off my shirt.
I dash to the laundry room, throw my t-shirt in the washing machine, and start a new cycle. It’s considered sacrilege to do a load of wash with less than a full load of laundry in the machine in Winter Falls – it’s not environmentally friendly – but I’m making an exception for t-shirts covered in baby spit-up.
By the time I return to the living room, the baby and the dogs are making an awful racket. I pick Robin up and settle her on my hip.
“I’m here, baby girl. There’s no reason to cry.”
I sway her from side to side as I humSweet Child O’ Mine. She continues to wail.
“Not a Guns N’ Roses fan? What kind of music do you prefer?”
“How about an oldie but a goodie?” I ask and begin to humMy Girl.
Robin is not impressed. It can’t be with my humming. I’m an excellent hummer. Wait. That sounds bad. No, not a hummer. I’m excellent at humming a tune.
“Maybe you’re not into music. We’ll work on it. How about a joke instead?”
I bounce her up and down as I pace around the living room trying to think of an age appropriate joke.
“Do you know what a baby computer calls his old man?” I waggle my eyebrows at Robin. “Data!”
“Not funny?” I ask when she doesn’t stop crying. “How about this one? What do you do when you find a baby spinning in circles? Stop laughing and untie him from the ceiling fan.”
“I agree,” I tell the crying baby girl in my arms. “I shouldn’t tell Uncle Brody about the last one. I wouldn’t want to inspire the prankster.”
I’m officially out of ideas. “Let’s ask Google how to get you to stop crying. Google knows everything.”
I dig my phone out of my pocket and unlock it with one hand. I try to type with one hand, too, but it’s impossible. “Can I let you down while I consult The Google?”
Robin’s little fists flail in response. “I’ll take your response as a no.”
I look around for a solution but there isn’t anyone wandering around with an extra hand for me to use. How annoying. I guess I’m learning how to use my phone one-handed. How hard can it be? All the young kids do it.
I click on my internet browser. So far, so good. I’m typing ‘how to calm a crying baby’ when Robin kicks her leg out and connects with my phone. It goes flying across the room.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I try to catch it. The phone clatters to the floor and I reach down to pick it up. Fortunately, it didn’t break but Googling is not going to work.
“I don’t see any other option,” I tell Robin before I make the call.
The doorbell rings five minutes later and Robin screeches in response. And here I thought she couldn’t get any louder. Lesson learned. There is no sound limit on a small baby.
“I’m here,” Mom announces when I answer the door.
“She means we,” Clementine says and Mom whirls around to confront Peace’s mom.
“Were you spying on me?” Mom asks.
“Naturally.”
“Why?”
“I’ve always wanted a baby girl.”
“Join the line,” Mom says. “I had five boys. The one time I tried to dress them in pink tops, Miller had an absolute fit. He threw off the adorable matching t-shirts I had made and threatened to flush it down the toilet.” She purses her lips. “My boys and their obsession with flushing things down the toilet.”
She snatches Robin from my hands. “What have you done to this poor girl?”
She marches inside with Clementine hot on her heels. I chase after them.
