Dusty

Most of my morning routine revolves around my ability to leave Elijah and Luca unattended. Yes, I’m bucking for “Parent of the Year.” But after the boys are fed and the cartoons are on, I have to attend to the three “S’s:” Shower, shave and…uh…sing?

Elijah is easy. As long as there are moving pictures on the TV, no force on Earth can extract him from the couch. All he needs is a six pack and a bag of Doritos and he’d be me in my mid to late twenties. And thirties.

Luca is becoming a problem. Time was, all I’d have to do is plop him down on the carpet with a handful of plastic things within arm’s reach. He’d be happy as a clam.

But now he moves.

This morning before I jumped in the shower, I tried to completely surround Luca with things to interest him. Including turning on the movie “Annie” (Diana :1, Star Wars: 100).

But before I could properly soap myself up, I heard Eli shouting from across the house.

“Daaaaaaad. Luca is crying.”

“Can you try to make him laugh?”

“Daaaaaaad. Luca is crying.”

“What does he need? Dad is rinsing off his wiener.”

“Daaaaaad. Luca is crying.”

I leapt out of the shower and walked into the living room, still soaked. Luca was nowhere to be found. Except there was the sound of a crying baby. Somewhere.

After a frantic and drippy search, I found Luca wedged between our couch and the radiator. He had backed himself into a corner, literally. I poked my head into his little prison and said, “It isn’t so bad in here. Maybe I can stick you here every morning when I shower.”

He replied by shrieking.

I dragged him out by his little arms. His lower body was completely covered in dust and dirt accumulated in the three years it’s been since we vacuumed.

Luca stopped crying and I put him back on the floor. He immediately began scooting backwards again, towards the couch-radiator prison. I contemplated spraying his knees with Lemon Pledge.