Babies Need Tummy Time-Personal Narrative

“Come down here on the floor with him.” She pats the spot next to her. I shake my head, comfortable where I am on the couch, a safe distance away. “You’re going to have to engage,” she says. “If you want to be able to do this after I leave.”

The idea of her leaving causes a sick feeling to churn in the pit of my stomach. I’m already thinking of ways to con her into staying. The thought of doing this by myself, being alone with Bubba, sends me into a state panic and cold sweats. Whether I want to admit it or not, I need this girl to be on my side, so I shift down to the floor next to her bent leg. I stretch out on my side, my head propped up by an elbow.

“Babies need tummy time,” she is saying, and I know should be paying attention, but it’s

He makes movement that I can only explain as trying to swim when there is no water. My eyes return to Cleo’s beautiful gentle eyes, and I resume our previous topic of conversation. “You said you wanted to be a teacher. Past tense. Why don’t you now?”

“I don’t know, I guess, I keep putting guys ahead of my future. I get sidetracked easily. Besides, the guys I’ve always been with aren’t that supportive. They tend to tear down rather than build up.”

“You deserve better,” I answer honestly.

“What,” she snorts, “like you. A guy that doesn’t even like his own kid?”

Ouch. Her venom stings my pride. “I like him,” I return. “I just don’t do well with, you know… with emotions…that kind of shit. And so we clear here, I never implied myself as an option. There’s decent guys out there. You should go find one.” There’s the warning. You should stay away!

“Where? I haven’t met any good guys,” says Cleo. Strands of hair fall over her eye, which she automatically tucks behind her ear. “What’s wrong with feeling?” she asks.

I blink, caught off guard. “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know how to put it in words.”

“Try.”

“You are asking the

My skin feels all prickly and tight. The urge to smoke strong. Funny. I hadn’t thought about a cigarette since I’d come back. Seems I can’t commit to anything. Not being a son. Not being a brother. Not being a father. Not even fucking smoking. I need her to some-what understand my flippancy. I pull at a string on the corner of the blanket laid out for Bubba to crawl on, anything to not have to look her in the eyes. “I’m afraid,” I admit. “I might hurt him.”

“What would make you think that?”

I don’t answer and just like that, she slams the door, all her attention returning to Bubba. Away from the bad guy with the screwed up past. “Never mind,” she says, you don’t have to tell me. It’s not like it matters.”

Her acknowledgment stings. “I just don’t do it well,” I complain. “The touchy feely shit. Girls are excellent at the crap. I’m not.”

“Crap and shit,” she mocks, scooting closer until she is right in front of me. I fight off inhaling in her scent … what is that smell anyways? I scratch a flaky spot on the knee of her jeans. “Is that baby formula?”

“Yeah. Ignore it. He spit up on me,” she says. My eyes go wide. I try hard not to crack up at her nonchalance. “Give me your hand,” she