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February 15, 2003

R.E.M. Ngnat just woke up


Ngnat just woke up crying. It took ten minutes to console her, laying down beside her on my old single bed while she sucked her thumb and calmed down, the tracks of her tears slowly drying up as she tossed and turned. I stared up at the ceiling. She kicked me in the stomach, repeatedly. Not hard, though not particularly soft, either. I imagine it felt something like what the Sainted Wife used to complain about when fetus Ngnat would brace against her ribcage and stretch.

She was assuring herself that I was still there on the bed beside her, extending a foot just to make contact every few seconds, as if I could just levitate away without her noticing, in the blink of an eye. If a kick missed, then she opened her eyes and looked around, making sure I was still there. Fifteen seconds later they started again.

Thanks to beverages like the Baron, which I'm having more than one of tonight, she didn't miss often. No, I don't know what the site I linked to is actually saying about the beer. For all I know, it could be "This is the stuff we scrape off the bathroom floor to sell to the American yuppies. They pay eight dollars a sixpack to taste Yongo's flop sweat!"

If so, then more power to Yongo. This is some tasty effluvia.* I can tell you that the beer namesake was Chamberlain to the Austrian Emperor Ferdinand I, but Google failed me afterwards. Or I failed it. I've had the feeling for a while now that all human knowledge is accessible through Google, and the only secret is how to phrase your search.

That's what I think about while Ngnat kicks, there in the dark. Eventually the kicks slow down to one every thirty seconds, then one every minute, then she falls back asleep and I get up, ever so slowly. I can testify, as can the wife, that the kicks never stop entirely. Every night that she has slept with us is punctuated by feet. We move farther apart, and she goes horizontal in response, straining to make contact, until the morning, when we wake as the letter H; a parent hanging off each end of the bed, and a fully extended toddler in the middle, occasionally kicking one parent, then punching the other. It was a pretty regular practice until the SW reached her current state of gravidity. Now bad dreams are dealt with in situ, and we retreat to our bed afterwards.

And that's what it was, though she never said what it was about. She never does. I'd like to know, even if the knowledge would only depress me, for who can guard their daughter's dreams? It's not monsters, I know that. She'd absolutely love seeing Sully and Mike, or any of their ilk. I hope it's not me she dreams of, when she has bad dreams. There's no reason she should. But I spoke rather sharply to her earlier in the evening when she stuck her hand in the kitty litter, and who knows what that could turn into?

*Good beer, though not a lot of head on the three that I've had. It's a dark lager, which I've always thought is a great way to lure people into drinking the darker beers and ales. It's not as thick as they expect, so the mouth feel is reassuringly normal, and the taste is on the pleasant side of exotic for someone used to American macro brews. The Baron in particular has a nice overtone of spices to it. I won't call it spicy, to me that implies a heat that isn't found is this beer. I also won't go on any further; I'd just be making it up.

Posted by Bigwig at February 15, 2003 12:48 AM | TrackBack
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