High pitched screaming fills my
ears, letting me know it’s time to start another day.
That’s
my boy.
Most teenagers wake up to the sound
of an alarm clock. Jimmy is my alarm clock, more or less. And I have to say, I
do prefer his screams to the shrill screeches that emit from those God-awful
clocks.
While all of my former friends are
probably still asleep, not having to get up for another hour or so to get ready
for school, I’m getting ready for my long and laborious day.
I roll out of bed and groggily
wander into the next room. I find the source of all the ruckus; an extremely
ornery but beautiful 3 month old baby boy. My baby boy.
I pull him up and out of his crib
and note the wet bottom. I get him out of his pajamas and change his dirty
diaper. Thankfully, it’s just pee this time.
We eat breakfast (a bottle for him,
toast for me) and I get cleaned up for the day. This includes me dragging
Jimmy’s highchair into the tiny bathroom and taking a two minute shower with
the curtain open, so I can keep an eye on him. It’s also so that he can keep an
eye on me. If he can’t see me for more than ten seconds, he screams his head
off.
My
little man.
I exit the shower and yank on some
random clothes. I let my hair dry naturally and leave my face free of makeup.
The days of blow-drying and straightening my hair were long gone. Makeup was a
luxury I just couldn’t afford to buy.
I scoop Jimmy out of his high-chair,
snatch up his diaper bag, which also serves as my purse, and head for the door.
It’s time to go to work.
My job is depressing and can
sometimes be unbearable, but it works with my schedule and is a very short
commute for me. It’s right across the hall.
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