The beads of sweat are forming faster than I can dispatch them. My soon-to-be one-year-old son lies limp in my arms, finally asleep as I achingly pull myself up off the couch balancing all 290 lardy pounds augmented by his 22 (and 1 ounce!) on the edge of a razor.
Any abruptness will bring the pain as red eyes force their way past closed eyelids, sending the necessary commands to the mouth via the brain: “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.” No sir, this has got to be smoother than silk which means slow, slow, slow. And up I rise as he thankfully continues his unconscious ride and, standing, I survey the territory ahead.
A panic briefly tickles the nerves, where is that cat? The one thing that could derail this operation was nowhere to be seen. I know this because Cessna, the last of the Mohicans as I like to call her, has indeed been the cause of much discomfort in our household in re my little monkey: a well-placed swat, a belching meow, the old Dead Cat Draw where she suddenly falls in your path forcing a decision either to step on her or last-minute, find a way to change the rhythm of your footfall appropriately. These weren’t her most effective tactics however. No, that was the Thread The Needle tactic. With each step, she would, slinky-like, attempt to weave in and out of your advancing feet, all the while employing that infernal meow.
Thankfully, she was occupied somewhere else so the only other thing that could derail moving Freddie from the couch to his crib was the terrain itself: a cataclysm of strewn toys, bottles, clothes, cups, and “binkies”. A quick calculation, a wet finger extended into the air stream and I was off. Empty bottle approaching at Flight Level 350, Mach 2, sidestepped. A posse of binkies rendezvousing at 3 O’ clock, dodged no problem. Around the couch, past the Christmas Tree, enter the hallway, scan ahead, no bogeys and here comes his door.
“Uhoh,” I thought, realizing I didn’t have the use of my hands employed as they were in ye olde cradle manoeuver so if that door ahead was locked I’d be in doodoo, the deep kind. Luckily, I saw the sliver of daylight that indicated the door wasn’t locked or shut. Extending a foot, I pushed past it and entered the lair where I could just make out in the humid gloom (“this humidifier works a treat!”) the hulking mass of crib and goal.
The last and oh so finally sweet step now lay ahead: working the transfer from arm cradle to crib cradle. I heard the voice of the Wise One (AKA Mom) who had done this a million, trillion times: “it never goes the same way twice, my old Paduwan. Never!” I gulp down the fear and start forward, the yawning mouth the crib waiting to take its load, but that mattress down below seemed like it was on the other side of the Universe.
I decide speed was of the essence: if I was quick enough, I could drop him on to the mattress without arousing him but if something went wrong, I could make my escape like the Millennium Falcon did in Star Wars. I was pretty sure that tired as he was, he wouldn’t cry for long. I steeled myself, extending either foot out in the ‘Straddle the horse’ Kung Fu stance I’d learned almost two decades ago.
My upper arms flexed to take the extra gravitational pull of 22 (and 1 ounce!) in motion while my hands nimbly shifted the supine body into position. The lower back muscle infrastructure fired off to take the load as I lowered him gingerly downwards, speed just right to offset any jarring effects of the manoeuver. Monitoring his eyelids as they descended provided the feedback I needed: the little monkey was still fast asleep.
Load deposited, light blanket draped over, the slow egress operation proceeds first by taking two steps backwards while continuing the observation then a quick snap-roll to the right then big, padded steps in less than three steps through the open door.
As I turn around to grab the handle, one look tells me all is well and as I pull the door shut, I spy the black tail of The Mohican disappear into the gloom.
“Damn!”
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