Your typical night starts at seven in the evening, just after you’ve had your nightly bath. You are engaged in the hassle and tussle of cooking for a family of five. To some, that’s not exactly a large family, but what yours lacks in numbers they make up for by being rowdy. You’ve always been a solitary creature, so you find it irritating to be around people twenty hours a day, all week. But you are not alone. They find you irritating too.
Dinner is served by nine, and then begins the stress of feeding a two-year-old. This one will eat anything and everything—except what you just spent two hours cooking. She will fight. She will cry. You will fight. You will smile. But eventually, she will win. Just like she always does. And so, you work out a compromise of sorts.
Naturally, what goes in must come out. And so begins the task of waiting for her to poop. If surgeons think the anatomy of an adult is interesting, they should investigate that of a child. Her body does things to food you wouldn’t think possible. Nasty things. Things that should be fed to those who won’t see heaven.
When that ordeal is done, it’s time to get her back into warm clothing. She runs away as soon as she sees you carrying a trouser. Or a onesie. Or anything that constitutes warmth. This one doesn’t like being warm, but she shouldn’t be cold either. Your eyes meet. She sticks her tongue out at you defiantly. She can’t speak legibly, but the message is clear. Again, you fight. Again, you compromise.
After that workout, she is thirsty. She sips water before pouring it all over you. You give her milk, and she feeds it to the floor. You know what she wants. But more importantly, she knows what she wants. You made a mistake one time. You were tired, so naturally, you went for coffee. And like an idiot, you left it within her reach. Henceforth, it’s been, “Offie! Offie!” But you can’t give a two-year-old coffee. And especially not at night. So, she drinks tea.
For a while, all is well. That is, until she realizes the house is peaceful, and you are wicked. By now, most of everyone has gone to bed, leaving just the two of you. She doesn’t know TV yet, but she knows how to operate your phone. You don’t want to give it to her. Sometimes, it stings when you look at it, remembering the broken screen and how much it cost to replace.
But she was, and still is, only a child. So, you relent after much persuasion. And by persuasion, you mean her threatening to cry till Jesus comes.
You watch her with one eye, the other browsing movies on the TV. The movie is just beginning when you realize it’s quiet. Too quiet. Your blood freezes. Where is she?
You find her under the table. Your phone is being used as a chopping board. But there’s nothing to chop and nothing to chop with. She’s thinking, one finger under her chin, just the way she sees you do. Soon after, your phone is soaked with chai. Thankfully, there is no permanent damage. For now, anyway.
She rubs her eyes. Finally. You grab her, cradle her against your chest, drape a blanket over her, and start singing. She’s drifting off to sleep. So, you stop singing. She wakes up immediately, crying. You start singing again. By the time she is properly asleep, your voice is rougher than a toad’s. You want your mother.
It is three in the morning. Tomorrow—or is it today?—the cycle begins anew.
