so all in all, the first day flying solo was a smashing success. of course, by "smashing success" i mean "a success with such hair-straightening caveats that, if i were nasa, would lead me to ground my entire fleet for all eternity."
the successes: the child eventually napped. 20 minutes of sleep here, 15 there, a half-hour of solid ululating, some smiles and, finally, she took a good solid two-hour nap just seconds before i would have succumbed to the gas in the oven where i had placed my head. not used to the bottle, she didn't eat much all day. by about 6 pm, though, she was exhausted, bathed, changed, had been for a walk, and so she ate like a FUCKING TOUR DE FRANCE CHAMPION. great, right? right? WRONG!
the failures: the child ate, yes, but not until it was too late. mrs nice guy returned from the office with, oddly, an F-cup bra size. she had left her pump, which she hadn't employed since noon, at the office, banking on the fact that her child would be famished and obligingly drain her copious breasts. well, her child had indeed been famished, which is precisely why i fed her child 10 minutes before she walked in the door. do you think mrs nice guy said "why thank you, good husband, for washing the baby, doing the laundry, making the bed, running errands, remaining sane and not burning down the apartment today"? do you!? i would look pretty silly right now if she did! (ok, fine. fuck. full disclosure: i had sent her an e-mail at 5:30 asking if i should feed the child or wait for mrs nice guy to bring her breasts home. i never did receive the reply e-mail. or the reply voicemail at home. or the reply voicemail on my cell. all of which she somehow managed to leave simultaneously, emphasizing how detrimental to my health it would be were i to feed the daughter, for surely she would avenge her breasticular explosion.) no. needless to say, she was less than pleased to find that her daughter had been fed.
she was apoplectic. her eyes turned the color of the river styx, overflowing with the carrion of slaughtered husbands. she began speaking an otherworldly tongue understood only by the immortals ... and by wives reaching nirvana-like levels of ecstatic rage. you see, the child was asleep for the night. as it was she was depressed to be returning to work. she had not held her precious tiny daughter since 7:30 am and her mom-arms were as empty and dry as her mom-mamms were full and sloshy. she is miserable. i too am miserable: my wife has not spoken more than six words since returning home this evening, and four of those were "assface."
the cats, however, are quite happy: tonight they had the rare delightful treat of dining on nice guy testicle souffle.