SHE CRIES ALL THE TIME

Thaddeus Rutkowski

She cries all the time, but why? Does she want to be played with?
What is her notion of play? Does she want me to eat paper with her?
Switch the CD player off and on just to hear the whirring of its wheels?
Does she want me to help her stand, so she can balance on one heel
and one set of toes, rocking at the pelvis like Elvis? Or does she want
me to talk to her in her language, say "Dada," "Mama" and "Bye-bye"
as if these words have meaning, when we both know they don’t? Should
I line up my books neatly on the shelf so she can pull them down one by
one and fling them over her shoulder? Should we boot up the computer
so she can type at random for a million years, or however long it takes
for her to produce the complete works of Shakespeare? Should we
take a trip to the changing table? Will she twist and shout so that I
have to pin her down before I pin her up? Would she like a sink bath, complete with slapping washcloth? Would that cool her hot head? How about a new bottle of formula to replace the sickening one? Is there any way I can prevent her relentless head banging? A little back-and-forth
in the rocker? Would that stop the sobs, tears and nose drips? A
close hold next to the vest? Would that quell the whimpers, wails and
lip droops? I don’t know. But I know one thing: I can’t forget her for a
second. I can’t turn off my infant radar, shirk my fatherly duty, turn a blind eye to baby doo-doo, or buy a one-way ticket out of town. The
longer I ignore her, the louder she gets.
c. 2002