The last few days have been unexpectedly relaxing. It's not that I was stressed about being by myself with Simon for six days straight. I don't quite consider myself a seasoned vet at this parenting thing (I don't think you get to do that until you have teenagers in your house), but I ain't no rookie either. It's just that I didn't at all expect Ash's little vacation to be much of a vacation for me. Rather, I figured it would be a most necessary decompression for her which I would contribute to by taking care of the baby, a contribution that would later be gladly repaid through a series of no-questions-asked sexual favors.
Here babe, put on this Marge Simpson mask and let's go upstairs. Or better yet, let's go outside.
I was never alone with Henry for more than a day at a time when he was Simon's age, but taking care of him back then was a constant and desperate effort to convince him that life was not all misery and pain, that it was okay for him to be happy every now and then, that he could stop screaming and crying for perhaps a minute or two, maybe even sleep. It was gutcheck parenting, and it usually made any kind of relaxation or distraction pretty much impossible. Ultimately, I think it helped to make us better parents, but at the time, we found ourselves wondering how the species had ever advanced this far.
Simon's a tad bit easier. We've always known he was an easier baby, but interestingly enough, having Henry out of the house has thrown their differences into even starker contrast. Simon is the stoner roommate to Henry's revolutionary poet, the Bob Marley to his Henry Rollins, the bong to his crack pipe. He eats at eating time, sleeps at sleeping time, goes at go time, and quits at quitting time. It's been fun, it's been easy, it's been chill.
I hope I'm not jinxing it by blogging about it.
By the way, Ash just texted me. Henry's with the grandparents, and she's at Pat O'Brien's with her sisters getting her drink on. I think she's having fun.