Ted

Sunday means the day will begin at 10:12 a.m. The shower water needs to run for two minutes before it warms, if the handle is turned to align with the chipped tile to the left. A squirt of shampoo the size of a quarter massaged into my scalp in twenty counterclockwise circular motions cleanses my hair quite well. The bar of Irish Spring needs to be rubbed onto the washcloth six times to produce adequate suds lasting through two up-down motions over every section of my body beginning with my left arm and ending with my left leg. Drying is accomplished in the same fashion at 10:24. Then left sock, right sock, left leg, right leg, zip, head through the t-shirt, left arm, right arm. Two strokes of the comb to each of four sections of hair. Sunday means I will allow the stubble because otherwise, my skin will over dry. 10:28.

Sunday means twelve ounces of black coffee in the green mug with the picture of monkeys playing tubas. Two dots of maple syrup in every square of a whole grain Eggo, which was put through two cycles in the toaster. An egg cooked in the tiny red frying pan with the flame set to exactly six, fried for two minutes on each side. And an apple, sliced into six wedges.

…only…this Sunday….This Sunday belongs to Ted, a monster of my sister’s creation, who commands my attention while my sister is at the hospital, giving birth to the second of her creations. It is 9:43 a.m. when Ted bursts into my room, announcing the puddle of pee soaked into the bedding in the spare room. By 10:12, a load of laundry is in the washer and I am ready for Ted’s shower, rather than my own. But where is Ted? I turn the shower handle to align with the cracked tile. I have two minutes to find Ted.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I hear a crash in the kitchen. I rush in to find Ted standing on the counter. My toaster lies on the floor next to the chair he used to ascend to his lofty position. In his chubby hands, he clutches my green mug. He sees me and begins laughing. As he raises the mug, I yell, “Ted, no!” as I lunge forward. Pieces of my mug dance over the tile as Ted shrieks with joy and claps. Managing to avoid slicing my feet on any shards, I make it to the counter and grab him. We make our way to the bathroom as he smacks my face with his tiny hands and his toes kick me in the gut, while he screams, “No! Lemme go! Lemme go!” I peel off his pee soaked clothes and manage to get him into the tub. He laughs and holds his hands out to the shower. Good. Let’s just get him cleaned up. I moisten a washcloth and begin to rub Irish Spring on it–one, two, three….Still laughing, Ted begins to stomp his feet. As water splashes onto my pajamas, I continue to count–four, five— Ted waves his arms in the shower spray, directing more water towards me–my face, pajamas, and floor. The soap falls into the tub and scutters towards the drain, out of reach. By the time I manage to get Ted somewhat clean, it is 10:28. As he streaks through the hall, the painful decision is made that I will not be getting my own shower today. It is too risky.

Breakfast means Cheerios and a sippy cup of apple juice for Ted. I long for my Eggo, coffee, egg, and apple as I pour milk over my own bowl of Cheerios. I don’t dare take my eyes off of Ted long enough to cook. He sticks his hand in his bowl, ignoring the spoon I gave him. Cheerios become stuck to his chin and cheeks. They speckle the kitchen floor like random polka dots.

Sunday means going to the park to walk at 11:32. One-hundred steps to the baseball field, 108 to the bench by the boulder, 216 to the Nature Trails sign, 200 to the memorial tree, and then back again. It’s 11:32. Ted is busy pulling my alphabetized books off the shelves in my study, flinging them to the floor. And I’m just letting him do it. At least he is busy and not breaking anything.

In the kitchen, the phone begins to ring. Ted does not seem to notice as I get up and go to answer it. “Hello?” 

“Hey man, it’s Gary.” My sister's husband sounds particularly chipper. “Everything went well. Mama and baby are doing fine. I’m gonna come down now and take Ted off your hands. See you in a bit.”

All I can manage is, “Okay, thanks.” 

I hang up and return to the study to find Ted happily ripping pages out of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. I gather the rest of my books and set them on my desk.

It is 11:43. It takes thirty-seven minutes to get to the hospital, so if Gary leaves right away, by the time he arrives, it should be time for me to be planning my meals for the coming week.

Ted has finished ripping pages from my book and he plays in the crumpled collection as if they were a pile of crunchy fall leaves. Into the air, he tosses them, laughing as they fall over his head. Several times, he repeats this, before sitting in the middle and batting at them. When he tires of that, he comes over to where I sit on the couch and reaches his hands up. I pull him onto my lap. He rubs his eyes and lays his curly haired head on my chest. Motionless, I sit, almost afraid to breathe as he sleeps.

The doorbell rings and I start. Ted does not even stir. I carry him to the door and hand him to Gary.

Gary is thanking me, saying things like he hopes Ted wasn’t too much trouble. I’m vaguely aware that I should probably respond with reassuring things, like how much of an angel Ted was and that I would be willing to watch him any time. All I say is, “Glad everything went well. I’ll see you soon.” I close the door.

It is 12:40 p.m. on a Sunday. The sheets for the spare room are sitting in the dryer. The pieces of my green mug are in the trash. Cheerios and dirty dishes decorate my table and floor. My books need reorganized and I need to clean up the remains of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. I stand alone in my kitchen, in my pajamas, smelling my own body odor. I look at my hands. I’m shaking.