Beside chronic testicular pain, there is no worse feeling than not being able to comfort my one and a half year-old. I’d say it’s mostly his fault because in this instance, he wasn’t sick. When he last had Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease, he just couldn’t get comfortable no matter who was tending to him. So he was off the hook. This time he was just needy, and he made it pretty clear he needed his mom and not me. And that pissed me off.

It was Saturday, and he was supposed to be napping for three hours like he does at daycare, but after an hour-and-a-half he was up. For you fellow parents out there, I don’t need to expound on the importance of Me! Time while your child(ren) take naps. And for those of you who don’t have children, fuck you. You don’t matter.

I think it’s a fair deal, Jake.  In exchange for giving you life, food, free cable, a talking Incredible Hulk doll that dances the Hulky Pokey, and inhaling the fecal fumes of your crotch before changing you, you give us three hours of non-expense freedom on Saturday and Sunday. We made the deal when you were one day old. I explained the terms, and you didn’t protest. You just stared at me blankly with your prune face.

My game was kicking off, and Jake violated his contract, waking from his nap. Often, we can tell if he’ll go back to sleep or not. If he’s just talking and lying down, he’ll either fade or need one of us to rock him. When he’s screaming “Momma!” and standing, Me! Time is terminated, effective immediately. Amy was showering, so I went upstairs. His face was red and full of tears, spit and snot.

“Momma!”

“What’s wrong, bud?”

“Momma!”

I picked up my son and he wiped his gooey face and pressed his hand to my jersey.

“Oh thanks bud.”

“Momma!” He screeched into my ear.

“So you’re saying you want Momma?”

“Yeah.”

“Mommy’s in the shower. Let me rock you for a minute.”

“No! Momma!”

Usually when I wake up from an hour and a half nap, I am refreshed and happy. Things like the 2000 Presidential election don’t bother me as much.

I sat on the glider with Jake in my lap.  “Jake, you need to go back to sleep, okay?”

“No!” And into my other ear, “Momma!”   Sometimes (once) when Jake is this worked up, we let him cry, and he tires himself out and falls back to sleep. I lowered Jake into his crib and he clung, as if being dropped into a volcano. I closed the door on him and his scream. Since I told you the story of my little blowup in the car, I’ve tried really hard to be more patient. I do breathing exercises to relax, and they work. Seriously.

I went back downstairs on the couch and un-paused the game. Jake continued screaming, finding a new range. My impatience began to percolate, but I breathed it away, then I returned to his room. He reacted as though Leatherface stood in the doorway. Jake’s onesie was wet with the liquid dripping from his face. I tried my best to calm him (and myself) as I carried him down the stairs. I pointed at the several pictures of him lining the wall.

“Jake, who’s that?” When he’s not melting down, he’ll smile and say, “Jick!”  You’ll never guess what he said this time.

“Mommahhhhh!”

“Jake, Mommy’s getting ready. When she’s done she’ll come and see you.”

“No!” By now Jake’s crying reached hysterics, the state where each scream is followed by quivering moans. “No! Hooo…Hooo…Wooo!”

I thought of Jake’s friend, Milk. Milk soothes Jake. In some instances, Milk can immediately distract Jake during the worst of times. I talked to my son.

“Jake, it’s okay bud,” I said, rubbing his chest. “I’m gonna pour you some milk, and you’ll feel better.”

Milk, I prayed, please shut him up. I put Jake down and poured Milk through his screams. I didn’t recognize him; his face had become a blood orange, red and dripping.

“Drink this, bud,” I said and handed him his milk. He swatted the cup away and it rolled and dribbled Milk on the floor. I snapped and smacked the kitchen counter.

“Stop it!” I yelled. Then I pointed, “Stop it!”

This is free and obvious advice: When you yell at a hysterical child, that child becomes more hysterical, and you annihilate your purpose.

Jake did not appreciate my yelling. If  I wasn’t the subject of his consternation before, I was now. And if he knew more words, he may have said, “How could you?”   Instead, he cried harder and wheezed and gasped and snorted.  “No! Hoo…Hoo…Woo!”  Amy called from upstairs that I could bring Jake to her.

“Mommahhhh!” 

I opened the child-safe gate and Jake fled. I processed. My head swelled with frustration, and I breathed, not relaxing breaths, but heavily through my nose like an angry bull. There was quiet above. Just like that, Jake saw his mom, and he was fine. Just like that, I found myself here again, in that same place of zero progress. A wasteland of frustration. I opened a beer to calm down and wanted to vomit at the cliche I was committing. It occurred to me that a greater juxtaposition couldn’t exist:  in 18 months Jake had developed into a walking, talking, feeling person, and I was a stagnating, bitter parent who couldn’t handle his crying baby.

If that wasn’t enough, my quarterback had just thrown his fourth interception of the game, and the Hurricanes were en-route to another late season collapse. I turned off the T.V. at the beginning of the second half and texted all my friends that I was done with my team, as I’ve done each of the last four years. Three minutes later, I turned the game back on.

I heard Amy walk down the stairs with Jake, and I was embarrassed to face him. His normal color had returned, and he was calm. “Blaah,” he said and began stacking his blocks. He moved on to his cement mixer and garbage truck.

“I just need a few more minutes,” Amy said and went back upstairs. Jake yelped.

“It’s okay,” Amy said. “Go play with Daddy.”  Good idea. He’d have more fun playing with pit bulls.

Amy closed the gate and went up. I feared another meltdown. What would I do? I hadn’t exactly earned Jake’s trust. Instead, Jake turned and walked to me. I put him on my lap, and he rested his head on my chest. He let me off the hook again.

And I needed that more than he could have ever imagined.

To avoid dying of exhaustion, we switch off morning duties on the weekends. Amy wakes up with Jake on Saturdays, and I take Sundays. A new disturbing trend is emerging on Saturday nights. Long after Jake is down, we’ll retire, I’ll shut my eyes and enter sleep around 11:35. At 11:39 Jake starts crying and one of us will go in, pick him up, put him down and back to sleep he falls. Which begs the question why he wakes up in the first place. The answer is pretty clear: he hates me.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Amy sighs. “He just had a nightmare. Poor baby.”

A nightmare? Really? What keeps an 18-month-old up at night? Living pay check to pay check? Applying one dollop of cream, not two, to your taint? Sorry, but this wasn’t plausible to me, especially when it happened again last Saturday.

I got comfortable in bed, cleared my mind of the usual mischigas, and drifted into sleep. A moment later, like clockwork, my son did his crying nonsense. Amy tended to him, and when she returned she tried to again play me for a fool.

“Poor baby had a nightmare.”

“No he didn’t,” I said with indignation, determined to correct her. “Babies can’t have nightmares.”

“Yes they can.”

“They’re babies. They can’t”

“I’ve read that they can and do.”

“Ooh, good for you.”

“They’re brains develop so fast. Jake is definitely capable of having nightmares.”

“Where did you read that, US Weekly?”

“You know what? Fuck you.”

After forgiving Amy the next day, I thought about Jake’s development and saw that perhaps Amy had a good point. He knows several words now, and his memory is pretty remarkable for such a young person. Maybe this creates dreams with the occasional bad one. Plus, I’m his father, and all of my dreams seem to be driven by anxiety. For example, I have hair dreams weekly, and they involve product. And whenever I dream about aggressive dogs, I always offer them my hand to bite. I decided to put myself in Jake’s shoes to better understand how he dreams. I sat down on the floor of my sanctuary next to Jake’s Radio Flyer Rocking Horse and worked myself into a meditative state to imagine Jake’s nightmare. I found myself floating above it all, witnessing with my own two eyes what has been disturbing Jake:

Jake is by himself, watching Sesame Street in our living room.

“Ovejita,” Murray calls.

Jake smiles and says,”Muhee.” Then he points to Ovejita, “Bah.”

“How do you say ‘school’ in Spanish?” Murray asks Ovejita.

“Una Escuela,” Ovejita squeeks.

“And how do you say scissors?”

“Unas tijeras.”

“Unas tijeras!” Murray yells, brandishing a pair of scissors. Then very sinister, “Unas tijeras. Unas tijeras.”

“Si,” Ovejita says softly, cowering away. Murray’s eyes glaze over, and he grabs Ovejita by the throat. Jake watches in terror.

“No!” Jake screams. “No! No! No! Beeya! Beeya! (We don’t know what this means, but he says it when he’s upset.)”

Murray starts cutting and fleeces Ovejita. He ties her up and drags her onto Cookie Monster’s set.

“Coh coh,” Jake says with hope.

“Oh what have we here?” Cookie asks.

“We have una bolsa de lana,” says Murray.

Cookie’s eyes light up. “A bag of wool? Me want wool cookie! Me want wool cookie!”

Murray empties the pink fluffy wool on the counter while Cookie rolls the dough, his googly eyes bouncing about.

“We make big, giant lamb’s wool cookie,” Cookie continues, layering the dough. Ovejita can only watch, her little pink face displaying an expression of complete resignation. Murray removes the large cookie from the oven, and smoke wafts from the burnt wool.

“La galleta de lana esta lista!” Murray announces.

“Wool cookie is ready, and Cookie is ready for wool cookie!”

“Galleta de lana,” They say together. “And that’s the word on the street.”

The two devour the cookie. Ovejita bleats. Jake cries.

I leapt out of my trance, banging into the rocking horse and took deep breaths.

Now I understood.

Monday, several co-workers asked me if Jake had a fun Halloween, and I answered in the affirmative.

Did he look cute in his turtle costume?”

“Of course.”

Did he get good candy?

What candy isn’t good? “Oh yeah. He did alright.”

Will you send pictures?

“Yes.”

I could have continued with my charade, but I am an honest man, motivated by guilt, motivated by my actions. I didn’t trick or treat with Jake. Nor did I spend the important part of Halloween with him.

“Wait,” I said to the inquirers, each honoring me with a you’re-such-an-involved-dad-smile. And the truth poured out of me, like vomit.

When I’m not unemployed, mid-January through August is a pretty peaceful time for our marriage. We’ve taken memorable vacations during those months, weekends are easy to plan and Saturdays are Saturdays. Then September, once impossibly far away, inches closer, and planning Saturdays in advance becomes taboo. You see, when it’s not mid-January through August, it’s Miami Hurricanes Football Season (though December and January have been irrelevant for UM lately). Amy doesn’t like football, and I don’t like to miss games. This is a problem. There are 12 games for Christ’s sake! 14 at worst (or best). Three usually happen on week days. That’s nine Saturdays out of the year. If I do some quick math that leaves 134 more Saturdays on the calendar for plan-making. Football’s been tough on us, especially since my wife is a planner, and game times aren’t announced until late in the week.

It makes me wonder what our Creator was thinking when he allowed things like the institutions of college football and marriage to co-exist in the first place. Good one, God. You’re a clever lad.

We’ve tried to make both work, making minimal concessions, but every year we have the same fight(s). We compromise like the Israelis and Palestinians. We come to the table with the printed football schedule and determine which Saturdays are sacred and which are not. We swear under our breath. We shake hands. Neither of us gets what we want. But there is peace. Until we break the compromise and bring the Intifada.

Some notable incidents:

First Intifada – October 28, 2006. Amy is Ariel Sharon, daring to enter the Temple Mount and schedules dinner at Carnivale, which conflicts with Miami/Georgia Tech.

Second Intifada – September 20, 2007. David suicide bombs brunch plans, forgetting to tell Amy Miami is playing UNC at 11 a.m., not 7 p.m.

Third Intifada – October 17, 2009. Miami/Clemson goes to overtime, and David watches the whole game. David and Amy are late to dinner. David is the Israeli Defense Force jeep that strikes and kills a 17-year-old Palestinian West Banker.

Which brings us back to Halloween. Miami/Wake Forest was scheduled for 2:30, and since I’d be conceding the next two games, it was fair that I could watch this one. I’d catch up with Amy and Jake later at our friend’s house. Win-win. I put on my jersey and hat and settled in. Amy took Jake for a quick round of trick or treat in our neighborhood then they left for more trick or treating with our friends. Miami was down 0-17 quickly, and a feeling began welling inside of me as I lay on the couch, 33-years-old, alone, wearing my jersey and hat, drinking my second beer. The feeling was confirmed when a boy about 10 or so, walking the neighborhood alone, rang the door bell, dressed adorably in a tux, top hat, holding a cane.

“Trick or treat,” he said.

“Are you Fred Astaire?

“No. I’m the Penguin,” he answered, accepting a handful of Baby Ruth, Snickers, Three Musketeers and Butterfinger. He caught me searching for the giveaway.

“I know,” he said. “I don’t have the proper shoes.” I wanted him to come in and watch the rest of the game with me.

“Do you know the Penguin’s real name?”

“No,” he said with a shy smile.

“Oswald Cobblepot,” I said, emptying more of the five-pound Costco candy bag into his plastic pumpkin. He laughed briefly and looked down the street at the rest of the homes he needed to visit.

“Uh, well thank you.” He turned to leave, and I smiled at the image of this young boy in a tux, wearing a top hat, walking away. He reached the end of our path and turned back. “Happy Halloween!” He said. I lingered at the door even though the game was playing behind me.

Down 13 in the fourth quarter and already 5:45, I decided I should leave. I changed, and when I came back downstairs, Miami had recovered a fumble and a second later, scored a touchdown. Maybe I should stay. My friend texted me to come over—they had the game on, and everyone was waiting for me. Great. My friends, the other husbands, were there, making me look worse. Miami got the ball back with less than three minutes to go. Impossibly, they converted on 4th and 16, and my excitement began overpowering my guilt and loneliness. Two plays later, Miami scores, up 28-27 with one minute on the clock. No way I was leaving now. A game that kicked off at 2:30 was still on past 6. Wake Forest drove, and a big play that put them in field goal range was nullified by a holding penalty. With no time left, their freshman kicker attempted a 60-yard field goal that never had a chance. I was mystified, elated. And I got the fuck in the my car and sped out of my neighborhood, talking on the phone with my brother about the game while getting cursed at by my neighbors to slow down.

I pulled into our friend’s driveway and knocked on the door, dressed as persona non grata. Amy answered, visibly exhausted. “Nice of you to come,” she said. “Jake’s downstairs,” she added, being parented by my buddy. I said hello to the other wives who simply continued their conversations with each other. As the night progressed, I assimilated and shed my costume. Later when we got home and dropped into bed, there was silence.

“I regret that I missed out on Jake’s Halloween,” I said.

“I’m glad you said that. It was really hard being there alone with him. We can’t do this again next year.”

I nodded. It will not happen again next year because Halloween falls on a Sunday.