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Sev stares at my face when I untangle her, blinking slowly. “You not know what it’s like to be trapped.”
I stare at her, blinking slowly like she did. “Oh, but Ido.”
She has no idea what I’m talking about. Smiling, I haul her over the top of me. With little feet scrambling, Sev runs to the bathroom. I’m thankful she’s potty trained because I’m over the diaper days. I hated them.
“Did you flush the toilet?” I ask, helping her up into the bed.
“No.” Of course not. Back in the bed, she sniffs, rubbing her nose. “I can’t breathe.”
Rolling my eyes, I tuck her back in, only to have her toss the blanket off again like it’s a personal insult. “Breathe through your mouth, Sev.”
“I can’t,” she cries again. This drama queen spends a lot of time crying. “My body not work like that.” She sniffs dramatically to prove her point. “I breathe wif my nose.”
The sad part is she honestly believes this. She also thinks she has two throats. One for eating, one for talking. I haven’t corrected her yet.
She holds my hand in hers. “Sleep, Daddy.”
There’s that cute pout I was telling you about.
I sigh because that translates to me sleeping with her, which I do about three nights a week. Never, ever let them sleep in your bed. You’ll never get them out of it. Did that for a year, and I decided they’d taken over every other part of my life, I needed one place I had to myself. My bed. And let me tell you, there hasn’t been a girl in that room in a long time.
You know those parents who say—and I was one of them—that said “oh, I can’t wait until my baby can do more things. They’ll be more independent.” Keep fucking dreaming. It willneverhappen. Sure, they’re independent in the sense that they sit up without falling over and you don’t have to wipe their ass quite as much, but when they want something, they will pull out that cute pout and make you feel like if you don’t give in, your heart will break in two. Toddlers are the ultimate con artists, and the art of manipulation is a quality they possess.
My advice to anyone thinking of having kids?
Wear a condom.
Youarewelcome. Best damn advice you’ve ever gotten, huh?
Don’t believe me? Look at my six-foot frame squeezed into the bottom bunk with a poster of Marilyn Manson taped to the top bunk staring down at me. Yep, you heard me right. Marilyn fucking Manson.
“Go to sleep,” I tell Sev when she starts trying to sing in my ear.
“I can’t,” she whispers, her voice a growl. We call it her monster voice, and it’s about as creepy as the poster. “I’m not tired.” Rolling over, she flops half her body on mine. I can feel her eyes on me before the question pops out. “Where did I come from?”
Not this again.I turn my head from the poster to Sev. “We’ve been over this,” I whisper. “From your mom’s tummy.” I shift in the bed, noticing it’s damp. “Is your sippy cup in the bed again?” Those damn cups say leakproof, but they lie. “Your bed is wet.”
Ignoring my question, she asks again, “Why?”
“Why what?”
She sighs as if this is exhausting to her.Welcome to my world, kid.“Why I in her tummy?”
“Because you were.” I run my fingertips over her cheeks, my eyes heavy.
She blinks, bright-eyed. “Why?”
“You’re making me question why I helped you out of your blanket burrito.”
She sighs, rubbing her stuffed up nose. “I haves water?”
“No.”
“Why?”
As you can tell, “why” is her favorite word. Groaning, I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Because. You’ll pee the bed.”
She smiles, sneaky and kinda creepy. “Too late.”