Howdy,
I ain’t crying.
I told you that yesterday.
And I ain’t crying over split milk.
But I wanted to.
Because I was tired.
Because it was the middle of the night.
Like right in the middle.
And I’m not talking midnight.
More like 3:30 a.m. or something: I was foggy.
At first I did not spill the spilt milk.
And I wasn’t crying. Riah was crying, not me. He was crying out for a Ba-Ba, his bottle. In the middle of the night, as I said, but can’t be said enough. For parents of infants, young children, the middle of the night is a theme that cannot be stressed enough. And it’s not for the sleeping that should occur at that time.
Riah wanted a bottle and would have it before he would be back asleep. So he would get it. I got out of bed. My body did.
That walking, without waking, body went to the fridge (that’s often what my body on autopilot does, go to the fridge—I need to work on that) and pulled out the Costco gallon of milk—you know, the HUGE kind of gallon. Actually, the Costco container is important, because the new (like within about a year I would say) milk cartons are taller and have a screw cap as oppose to the peel- or pop-off plastic lids. Kind of weird-looking milk cartons if you haven’t seen them, but we’ve gotten used to the shape because we seem to go through about 100 gallons a month, with Riah’s bottles and all. (An aside: Doctor says sippy cup now, so he’s going to have to get used to the bottle going away! Get ready to move out, Big Boy.)
So, middle of the night. Body on feet. Milk out of refrig. Cap on the milk.
I tried to fill the suck-emptied bottle with the cap still on the milk carton.
That didn’t work. Didn’t spill. But didn’t work.
I removed the cap. And then spilled the milk.
What are you going to do?
Couldn’t pour it with the safety of the cap on, now could I? Oh, did you think I was going to say … cry?
I already told you, I didn’t cry, and I ain’t crying over split milk. Though it did spill. In the middle of the night, which wasn’t great fun. But what are you going to do? It’s spilt milk.
How can I say this? Spilt milk is just split milk; it’s not like the Wonder of making a lasagna for one.
And if I were crying—which I wasn’t but it could have been understandable—sometimes getting in a fight, a real, knockdown fistfight, looks like a good thing if you’re fighting for the right thing, for the right people, the right person. I’d be proud of that. And sometimes courage is rewarded. It makes you wonder.
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Living.
Word Count: 184,066 / On Pace: 182,600 / Year’s Goal: 200,000
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