THE TABERNACLE OF DOMESTICATED WONDERS
I ask Husband if he feels it, and he says he thinks he does, and then he says he wishes I would call him Gary again, and I tell him not to think that kind of thing out loud. I’m asking him if he feels Ennobled, Enlightened. Because I think I am, too, and I know I’m not always very good at this.
The Baby is perfectly balanced on the blanket. The numeral 1 rests to The Baby’s right at a respectable but safe distance.
I tell Husband to give me the camera, I will do it, he is taking too long. Husband says he wants to get it just right. I tell him The Baby will fuss. Husband tells me I should not say that kind of thing out loud, and asks me to remember that even if The Baby fusses it is a Good Thing.
There is so much to remember.
As I’m reminded when one of the other Congregants, Daphne, sends me a sharply worded note within seconds of my posting of The Pic.
“Specificity is key,” she writes. “Does that 1 mean one day, one week, one month, or one year? Do not assume we know.”
I look at The Baby. The Baby is chewing on the numeral. Well, of course The Baby is not a day old. But should I have taken a Pic then? The Baby is certainly not one year old. That event, when it comes, will be accompanied by a flurry of Markings of Occasions, all of which I will be prepared to follow. I hope.
The Baby chews on the 1, and seems happy. I call Husband, tell him, and ask him what I should do.
“Take The Pic,” he says.
“But shouldn’t I take the thing out of Its mouth?” I ask.
“And run the risk of being told that such a move is actually a sign of disapproval, of punishment?”
“But suppose the thing makes it sick? Is it better not to post anything at all, to let this moment go by without comment, despite its Cuteness Ratio?”
Husband grumbles about having to do everything around here, and I feel ashamed, as I know he’s got his hands full arranging The Food and, if possible, posting something about The Pet at the same time.
When Farrah visits me on the weekend, I ask her how she and her Man are holding up. The Child is with her, of course, because The Child is not scheduled for anything for a few hours, and I hear it stomping through the kitchen and family room, ostensibly terrorizing The Pet.
“Better, now,” Farrah says. “The Husband and I still don’t have much occasion to visit A Restaurant these days, but he’s become so adept at choosing the flashiest recipes and plopping them on the slickest crockery that sometimes we just say we are out somewhere.”
“But isn’t that against the Commandments?” I ask. I am actually surprised I say it, because it sounds like such a smart idea, and right away I feel shame at admitting to myself that it is a smart idea, because of course it is against a Commandment.
“We ask for Strength,” Farrah says, and I tell her it is her time with The Baby. I hand her The Baby and we spend the next hour finding the sunniest and softest spots of The House, me taking Pics and she cradling the sleeping Baby.
Something that sounds like it was once heavy and made of glass crashes in the next room.
We listen for wails from The Child.
We hear The Child running the hell away.
I look at Farrah. I know the dilemma. Hollering at The Child for the destruction of one of my possessions could be characterized as a Limitation of Exploration or a Curbing of Freedom or a Culpability For Accidents That Can’t Be Helped.
Husband cannot investigate. He is trapped in the upstairs Family Room, cemented to the couch because The Pet made Itself comfortable on him three hours ago and hasn’t moved. Husband is Documenting.
By the end of the next week, I am at last granted several brief but approbative comments about my Postings of the Venezuelan London Broil with Fingerling Kokoro Yams and Balsamic Extrapolation, as I have artfully combined these with Postings of The Baby which, at the time, was firmly clamped to my left tit.
My brother calls, in tears. His Pet, moments before, perished at the wheels of one of the village’s emergency vehicles. He asks me if I know the proper periods of Posting, Lamentation, Nostalgia, and Purchasing New Pet.
I tell him I don’t, and feel ashamed. “I’m new at this,” I tell him.
The Baby burbles in its clear crib. I Post. Questions flow.
“Is that The Nursery Works Vetro crib?” Yes.
“Is that acrylic non-toxic and one hundred percent recyclable?” Yes.
“Is that laser-etched construction?” Oh yes.
“Is that JPMA certified to meet and exceed USA and Canadian safety standards?” Yes, and oui.
Husband takes turns with me, responding and confirming and scolding and oohing and aahing.
I think The Baby has grown too fast in too short a time (since dinner) because I think I hear it shattering its clear acrylic crib and coming for us. I can’t say anything because I shouldn’t say anything because anything I say could be a This or a That and be misunderstood as negative.
But there is something in this house, something coming for us, and Husband could hear me if I only knew how to make him understand without misunderstanding.
Because I want us to feel Ennobled and Exemplary. I want us to feel this Naturally. I want to Know that all innocent things are Good and therefore demanding of our Unconditional Attention, and we must make this known to everyone.
Of course, The Baby has not turned into a hulking, ogresque Weapon of Destruction; The Baby is nestled in its $4,500 manger. The Food has been praised and recorded and shared and consumed. The Pet is cute with its legs in the air.
The air that I am finding heavy.
“Sylvana,” Husband calls. What does he notice?
“Sylvana,” Husband calls again.
I do not answer, because that is no longer my Name.