One Cricket and a Pinky Finger

June slipped out tonight to pick up a prescription.  She fed Maggie, wrapped her up tight, and ushered her off to sleep before heading out.  "No worries," I said, despite grave misgivings.  I wanted to be supportive, and not look or feel like a helpless %&#ing child when it comes to taking care of my own.  She was gone fifteen minutes when the crying began.  It started with a restless shift, and escalated to a whimper almost instantaneously, and then ripped into a full blown I-want-my-boob wail before I could manage a sigh.

I bounced, and I walked, and I snuck downstairs where the wails might be muffled a little and not wake her big sister (who if woken, would hardly slip back into slumber). I tried re-wrapping her, but the wail increased in intensity.  I didn't dare change her, or venture to check if she needed just that.  Anything that wasn't up-close and personal wasn't what she was interested in.  She wanted a boob, and it's of little surprise that aside from my useless male mammaries, there was none.  The one that she wanted was at the drug store.

I knew it would happen.  I had that feeling...that this-is-gonna-bite-me-in-the-ass feeling, because I remember it way too well from Zed.  It's the cruelest joke mother nature is capable of playing.  Only one of the two of us can feed her.  Dad doesn't get that privilege, or tool.  If you choose to breast-feed, as we have done on both occasions, Dad is as useful as a floor tile...maybe less.  I hate that...I mean, I hate with an urgency that makes me look mad.  Mom can fix everything.  Dad can offer up his pride, masculinity, confidence, and connection, and simply hold her while her world collapses in a tempest of thirst and anger.  Sound dramatic?  Find yourself without a tit, desperate to keep one child asleep, no concept of when any sort of rescue might occur, and unequivocally male.  Buggered.

Fortunate for me, I have a pinky finger that typically does a poor job posing as a nipple, but in this case, managed something wonderful, and also to my surprise, a cricket had snuck into the house.  Each time the cricket sang the powerful Maggie Simpson suck stopped and she listened. Oh did she listen.  I prayed for that cricket to keep on singing.  I actually prayed to a God, what one I'm not sure, that this cricket sang until those engorged breasts got home.  It worked.  Between my very likely filthy finger, and that unabashed cricket, we calmed down... her eyes drooped, and her breathing slowed.  She looked as though she might trust me.  She refused to fall asleep, however, and knew damn well that my finger was not a nipple, but it seemed good enough for the time being, and all I really wanted was to stumble through the ordeal until June got home.

We managed.

One cricket and a pinky finger. You very likely wouldn't lean your life up on those kind of odds but I snuck out unscathed because of two of the most arcane things on the planet.  The lesson here?  Don't ever underestimate even the most ridiculous plan of attack, and also, never let the source of comfort and food get too far away.  You'll regret it.

Thank you cricket...wherever you are.