A cigarette, a beer, a bucket and a hose

It was a glorious, breezy Spring afternoon in the desert. Overnight, everything morphed into full bloom (including the unforgiving bermuda weeds in my back yard), and the temperature lingered in the mid-80's. In my peripheral, my determined roommate paced back and forth in his worn jeans, clutching his cigarette and beer in one hand, and an orange bucket full of soapy water and the garden hose in the other. Seemingly, he was determined to include his beer in his car washing festivities, and who would blame him? It's Sundays like these that you really want to make the most of them. Which, also explains the mason drink dispenser full of Lipton brew he'd carefully placed in the sunny spot of our sidewalk.

Making the most of my Sunday included taking some time to recap on my eye-opening visit from my one-year old nephew, Mr. Marcus Deacon. It was a week of firsts for me, and also a week of a learned respect I now have for a little thing called raising a child. There's a solid reason it takes two individuals to produce a child.

As I was counting down the days until his arrival, my excitement could be easily paralleled to a young child awaiting Christmas morning. I had the borrowed pack-n-play set up in the corner of my bedroom, pink stroller and car seat installed and ready to go. The rented high chair was en route. I couldn't have felt more prepared. It had been about three months since I spent time with Marcus, and given his volatile age, I knew he'd be such a different little person.

And, he was. The babbling had advanced, and his mobility was shocking. The red hair was still intact, in fact, it even seemed more radiant. But he started to develop some characteristics of a person. He smiled a lot, laughed, coughed, frowned, clutched his fists... and he slapped. And let me tell you - he knew how to properly slap.

The first night, I thought it best to alleviate my sister and take the night shift. After a few hours of blissful slumber, he awoke at midnight, wailing and choking between sobs on his congestion. Swooping him up, I warmed his milk in my best single person container - a pilsner glass - and as he fussed and fidgeted, we explored the phenomenon of pushing aside curtains and seeing what lied beyond the dark windows. When the milk was warm, he sucked it down and was asleep in an instant. This was simple, I thought.

At 4:00 am, he was up again. And the smell that burned my nose was alarming. As I lifted him from his crib to my hip, I could feel the moisture settling into my clothing, and it became suddenly clear that he'd had a serious accident. We ventured into my bathroom to access the damage, and as soon s the onesie was unbuttoned, the damage was evident. Brown liquid was crusted to his legs, lower back and entire diaper. I was hesitant to remove the barrier, but when I did, became acquainted with the exact culprit for his screams. No wonder he was so pissed. He had a blowout only comparable to some sort of nuclear explosion. With watering eyes and a search inside myself so deep I hadn't realized fathomable, I removed the diaper and began to baby-wipe the ruins. When the morsel had been attended to, we went outside together to the trash, and dropped it off, hands clean and accomplished.

We warmed some milk and attempted some shuteye. After an hour of refusal, April woke up and worked her magic. Around 5:30am, Mr. Marcus passed out in the bed with both April and I, and it wasn't until 6:00am when my alarm went off that I realized how sleep deprived I really was. As I dragged myself into work, and the knowing parents addressed my bloodshot eyes with a knowing smile, I started to acknowledge that this was really what parenting was about.

The ensuing week brought similar episodes, including near-panic attacks brought on by Marcus' mealtimes, additional "accidents" on my comforter, multiple "sprays" in the face, and one notable freak-out by my sister when I refused to change Marcus' diaper one gorgeous afternoon after a day in the sun.

A few things occurred to me from this experience: the first being how fundamentally demanding child rearing is, how selfless the job itself makes sure of, the unexpected things you see, hear and smell, prevalence of nursery rhymes you get ironed to your brain, and true lack of sleep parenting guarantees.  But mostly, despite the exhaustion, there was nothing else than this little being. He was the center of what mattered, what ever should matter, and what became undeniably clear, was the precise reason that parents endure the effort. It's worth it.

As I said goodbye at the airport, I was heartbroken. Not surprisingly, I was ready for a break, but I knew that when I got home from work that afternoon, the house would seem quiet, in order, and that I would be longing for that noise - albeit demanding some sort of attention - and feel a little bit empty without it.  

And now, I find myself counting down the days, the months until I see Marcus Deacon again. I guess that's how it goes. Being an Aunt isn't always glamourous, but it's also not a job that stops. I'm anxious for the things that come in the short term, and can't wait for those things that continue to come as my nephew and I grow together as the dynamic duo. Mr Marcus - you rock, and I plan to show you just how cool life is.