Page 18 - WTP Vol.X #8

Nanny State (continued from preceding page)
herself. Her husband assured her that his salary could support them in the condo for several years. He said her position at the bank was a job, not a career, so she could go back anytime. That she could try something different if she wanted. So now she makes baby food, purees, lightly steamed vegetables, nourishment cut into small bites.
“Torpedo!” her husband calls. He lies on his back, the baby balanced off the ground on his knees, no hands holding him in place.
The baby laughs wildly, and strains upward, toward the ceiling, as if he could take flight. Her husband plays rougher than she likes, but the baby enjoys
it. He loves hanging upside down, swooping through the air, rolling around on the ground. Even so young, the baby has shown his preference for speed, for excitement.
She sees it in his eyes sometimes, a tiny burning desire for more. She does not care for such play herself, does not like even the swings on the playground. If she allows herself to think about it, this quality in the baby terrifies her. She thinks of what it can lead to—reckless skateboarding, driving too fast, bone-crushing sports, joining the military. She wants to warn the baby. To reach inside him and pull this desire from his chest.
But she says nothing. She does not want to be seen as overly cautious, as anxious, hyper-vigilant. More than anything she does want to transfer her fear into his heart.
“Here we go,” her husband says, titling his legs to let the baby fall forward onto his chest, “Rock slide!”
The baby lands hard enough to push the air from her husband’s chest in a gust. They both laugh. They have more in common with each other, than either one does with her. The baby wrangles around until he sits on her husband’s stomach and can push up with his knees to bounce.
Her husband enjoys playing as much as the baby does. His devotion to their son was a pleasant sur- prise. While her husband had claimed to want the baby, had in fact pushed for him, she had not been sure that the reality would please him as much as
the idea. But from the beginning, he was smitten. He changed diapers with serious intent, leapt out of bed at the first whimper in the dark morning hours. Given the least excuse, he forces people to look at a series of
photos on his phone. He has given up his old hobbies, his video games, watching sports all day, without an apparent sense of loss.
Every magazine she read, every mom blog online, had warned her of the opposite, that her husband would feel excluded, abandoned. She had been cautioned to include her husband in her interactions with their baby. To help him bond. To thank him, to remind him how important he is by making time to focus on their adult relationship.
“Hey,” she calls to her husband from the kitchen, as he reverses position and flips the baby onto his back. He pulls the baby’s shirt up and exhales against his stomach in a loud raspberry. The baby flings his arms out in supplication, and laughs.
“Honey?” she tries again, louder.
Her husband’s shoulder hitches up to show he heard, as he blows against the baby’s stomach again.
“My sister said she could watch him tonight, if you want to come with me?”
“Oh,” her husband looks over at her. He is going to say no, she can tell. He has no interest in the violin recital of the girl she used to babysit.
“I wanted to spend more time with the chief,” he says. “So let’s save your sister for sometime when you
and I can go out alone. On a date.” He wiggles his eyebrows at her, in a cartoon version of flirtation.
The baby grabs his chin and pulls, wanting more of the game. Her husband allows the baby to take his attention. The way he declined her invitation was kind, complimentary, reflects well on him.
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