Apr 8, 2009
The Broken Barista
His face will forever haunt me. The sunken cheeks. The bags under his eyes. Skin so pale, I could see the web of veins on his visage.
“Congratulations,” the normally upbeat Starbucks barista muttered, my tall latte practically falling from his hands onto the counter. “Heard you say you’re pregnant. Have a four-week-old at home, myself.”
“That’s wonderful,” I exclaimed, thrilled to have an opportunity to talk about all things baby. “Boy or a girl?”
“Girl,” he yawned.
“That’s what we’re having!” I squealed. His lips attempted to move upward.
“Great.”
I nodded awkwardly. Not the excited new daddy/mommy-to-be chatter I was expecting. In fact, his eyes appeared to be disappearing under increasingly heavy eyelids. Lifting the skim milk had robbed him of every ounce of his will to stay awake.
“So… it’s rough, huh? The first month?”
Finally. He perked up. Relieved that someone understood — or, at least, had bothered to ask.
“REALLY rough.”
I took a good, hard look at his fatigue-ravaged face. I knew what I had to do. I strode out of the store, walking past the Target where I’d planned to return a god-awful, impulse-buy shirt and continued all the way home, brushing past my computer, past the brownies in the pantry calling my name, to finally reach the bedroom… where I promptly took a long, quiet mid-morning NAP.
Might as well enjoy the luxury while I can. Nay, it is my DUTY to do so.
Rebecca
says:
That’s very true. As soon as my hairdresser and his lady got a baby boy, I had to switch salons
He would just nod off during cutting and I would end up with a 2-inch difference in length on each side. Luckily after 18 months everything was back to the ordinary and bad hair happens no more.
April 9th, 2009 at 1:23 am -Gina from Oregon
says:
The first three months are harder than you can ever imagine!! New parents def. shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery or scissors.
April 9th, 2009 at 3:25 pm -Rebecca
says:
Until the baby starts teething
April 9th, 2009 at 9:58 pm -Sam
says:
ALL four of mine were amazing and quiet as infants, they slept well, ate well, they were pure bliss. Oh but the toddler years, and my youngest is there now… Sometimes I have no will left to exist… My epitaph will be “NO! Put that down! Stop that! Please don’t stab her. Come out from under/on top of there! Don’t trow that! Please stop screaming/kicking/stomping. No, that is NOT yours, nor is that and that and that. Food doesn’t go there! Bedtime means sleep time, please, PLEASE!?!…”
April 10th, 2009 at 2:54 pm -