Epiphanies from the week leading up to Father’s day:
Three AM, not sure which morning, and I’m feeding Zane: his butt parked on my leg with left hand grasping shoulders and steading his head. On some feedings he’ll be still and eat in silence, other times he grunts and flails his arms like a badly programmed robot. This was a robot morning. In robot mode once you put the bottle in his mouth it’s like hitting a master override switch, the hands and feet stop and freeze in position. Pull bottle out and away they go!
I’d just taken the bottle out and his arms and head are all over the place, dancing to some rock ‘n’ roll only he can hear. I was trying to lean him forward a bit, to rest his chin on my right hand for burping but the dance was making it tough. “Slow down a bit, buddy!” I tell him, while in my head I’m thinking to myself “Boy, these people’s kid is whacked out.”
Later that day, maybe the next, it’s afternoon and I’m warming up a bottle with Zane in a football hold and he starts revving up for a hungry cry. I tilt him up to look in his worried eyes and am about to say something when I catch myself and instead say, “Hey, I’m not your Uncle!”