When my wife looks out the window of our Victorian terraced house and sobs while the rain beats down, it’s because she says our baby doesn’t recognize her anymore, because she’s an alien now, a glowing oval-headed monstrosity tucked into a maternity dress.
“Yes, it’s true,” I sigh, “you’ve put on some weight. But it’s only because of the breastfeeding, and it doesn’t mean anything. You’re still his mother and he’s just a baby.”
“You’re a bay-bay!” she mocks.
So, I hide in the loft, chew on the rind of my mobile phone cover, and play Texas Hold’em with dead spiders. When the spiders begin to tactically outclass me and the lights in the building are low, I crawl down to the kitchen and slip some cobwebs into the baby formula. Then I seek shelter in my neighbor’s dog kennel. I don’t know quite why I do any of these things but I’m always lashing out, always hiding.
In the morning, I hear my wife wandering about barefoot on our street calling my name. She’s holding the baby upside down by the ankles and swinging it like a baseball bat. She likes to do that.
“I know you’re out here,” she calls.
I don’t have much time, so I say a prayer to my designated god, similar to a designated driver, in that it doesn’t have much choice and it’s more sober than anyone else. I hope my god communicates with men like me, men who hide from their wife and child in a dog kennel.
When my wife finally finds me (it doesn’t take long, I’ve been here before), she accuses me of killing Kenny, the earless limping labradoodle whose kennel I’m in.
“Why is everything so fucking morbid with you?” I yell. “Ever since the baby was born you’ve been such a downer; you slice a tomato, you cry; you draw the curtains, you cry; you brush your teeth, you cry. It never ends.”
She plonks the baby down on the pavement next to a dehydrated slug. The baby begins to crawl happily into the street, but neither of us are particularly bothered.
“I have postpartum depression, okay? It’s a real thing. You’re a psychopathic narcissist. That’s a real thing, too. Okay?”
“Sometimes,” I say, “it’s hard to look at you because your head is just so fat. I wouldn’t mind so much but you keep telling me about it every day and now I can’t help but see your skull on a stick like a shamanic totem. But I realize that you’re right, and we’re both to blame, we’re both going insane and we need psychiatric help. Soon. Immediately. But, nevertheless, the truth is I still love you and I love our child, more than ever, and I believe we can get through this. Please forgive me and let’s move on. Together.”
My wife drags the baby from oncoming traffic and dangles it by the ankles once again. The baby smiles then pukes a little.
My wife shakes her bulbous head with derision and says, “You killed Kenny, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I say, “yes, I did.”
