I Don't Love You Like That

To my Beth,

It's true. I don't.

Not like they say it in the movies, anyway. The mushy, gooey, lovey-dooey monologues usually beginning with a statement derived from the unexplainable "feeling inside of me."

No. Sorry. I don't love you like that.

But my hands crave yours. My eyes want to soak up your image. My nose loves to nestle in the curls of your hair. My mouth shuts down when you're around so my ears can have you all to themselves.

That's how I love you.

My brain says you're awesome. My occipital lobe sees it plain and clear. My temporal lobe will never forget you.

My arms want to hug you when you're angry. My cheeks want to let your tears roll from your face over mine. My feet want to follow you, step behind you, next to you, but never over you.

That's how I love you. It's not hard to explain.

When you laugh my heart beats. When shout my neck turns. When you stop my butt rests.

You see, I don't have many feelings to share. But I do have actions, because that's how I love you.

Happy Anniversary.

You'll always be beautiful to me. I love you.

A Bit of Scotch Tape, Please.

I woke up and it was tomorrow.

The rain splattered my windows. The shades, old and twisted rollers, were pulled down and hiding the funk outside. National Weather Service forecasts a 100 percent chance for precipitation. I wonder why they call that a chance.

Jonah grunts from his bassinet tied to the side of my queen-sized bed. The sound is bigger than him by at least two pounds and a handful of ounces. I like his chubby cheeks, his button nose. His smell, sweet and sour and as beautiful as smell can be.

In 39 hours I'll proclaim his first month of life.

Did I miss a day or two or ten? I thought just yesterday I laid his head in the crook of neck to sleep on the folding couch of our hospital's delivery room.

I'm applying scotch tape to my eyelids this very moment. I'll use three pieces just to make sure I don't blink and miss something, like the quiver of his lip when he's grumpy. Like the grey, probing eyes following shadows on the wall. Like the fountain of pee that strikes with precision at nearly every diaper change. Like the gentle cooing so closely resembling a squeaking toy.

Like the baby tears puddling on his rosy cheeks because he wants his mommy so bad.

I don't sleep as well anymore at night. Not because Jonah won't let me. I'm afraid I'll miss something. I might doze off, and when I wake up, it might just be tomorrow.

Atomic Encounters of the Third Kind

The toilet ceased flushing, as to be expected, without warning.

The clog ran deep, evading the vacuum I created while assaulting the pit of the bowl with a plunger. I crossed my fingers and pressed down the silver handle. The water gurgled, then slowly climbed to where it could lick the seat.

This sucks.

The landlord came over for a look armed with a sponge and a bucket and a razor blade and a red, metal tool box. He hunched over, putting one hand on the sink, and cursed himself for having caulked the toilet to the floor. A delicate, messy surgery was now in order.

That's why I left to put a meat lover's pizza in the oven and set my iPod to shuffle through the living room stereo. (Well, to be politically correct, it's my wife's iPod.)

I dilly-daddled for a while, at least until the minute hand on the clock had made a quarter of a revolution, then returned to the bathroom.

The aroma socked me right in the nostrils. A sweet and sour catastrophe with a hint of damp basement and sick. My landlord was wrist deep into the rear end of the constipated toilet, pulling out sludge while the rip in his purple, latex gloves widened.

All I could think was how much he looked like a plumber. Crack and all.

And that his name is Roman.

We were being serenaded by Tree of Woe's "My Tree." I left to turn it off. The lyrics are too profound for this war. I think a more appropriate soundtrack would include songs by King Missile.

At ground zero, Roman mopped up the aftermath with Clorox disinfecting wipes. Yes. There was collateral damage. That, too, was a job for Clorox, and Roman, ragged and worn, proclaimed he was retiring to his couch next door for a date with a beer.

I went and ate my pizza.

Dreams and the Rectangle Baby

This musing was copied from the Rodewald's Baby Journey blog.

I had my first baby dream.

By "I," I mean me. Adam. The husband of Beth, who has thus far conducted a solo narration of our pregnancy via this blog. Yes, I believe I am pregnant too, and so it is high time I grace the world with a male's perspective of this episode in the Rodewald Journey. And that brings me back to the start:

I had my first baby dream.

It went like this. A funky man asked if he could hold our newly born baby boy. I said "Yes."

Showing off our baby is fun.

The funky man said, "Watch, I will do a magic trick." And with a swift, but awkward movement of his hand, the funky man made our baby's head disappear.

I was angry. I punched the man in the face. Repeatedly.

The strange thing is, the baby looked funny. Underdeveloped. Or something.

Baby dreams are nothing new to our household. Beth has had many, including one recurring dream in which our baby is a rectangle.

Funny thing. If you search baby dreams under Google images you will find this:

You'll also find this: