Colder Than Ourselves.
Batman and Robin
Wednesday mornings.
They’re always the same as every other morning; I’ve had the same routine for ages.
I’m awoken at five by the sounds of my daughter jumping up and down in her crib, begging for something to eat.
“Daddy!!!” Bandit squeals in delight, jumping on the bed even more as I come into the room and switch the light on. Even though I’m tired, a smile makes its way across my face as I pick her up out of her crib. My little dark eyed beauty, three years old – it seems like only just yesterday that I was still carrying her around in a basket, but life goes on.
I kiss her on the forehead before she starts squirming in my arms, wanting to be let down. Upon being set down on the floor, she takes off out of her room and heads to the kitchen. By the time I’ve made my way to the kitchen and turned that light on, Bandit has already sat herself in her chair at the table patiently awaiting her breakfast.
We play the same game every morning. Sometimes I change it up, but Bandit enjoys it so I usually stick to the routine.
I walk over to the cabinet that holds all of our boxed food, while keeping eye contact with her.
“Do you want… this one?” I say pulling out a box of generic Frosted Flakes. She shakes her head and sticks out her tongue, making me laugh.
I put it back and pull out a box of macaroni noodles, “How about… this one?”
“Noo! The yellow one, yellow!” she bounces in her chair pointing to the box that’s right beside the macaroni.
“Oh… You want this one?” I pull out the yellow box of generic Cheerios and she squeals with delight as I pour a little bit of the cereal into a bowl and place it in front of her.
Everything is seemingly perfect until my wife walks in the room. It never fails, the sun isn’t even up and the girl already has a stick up her ass.
“Gerard, how many times do I have to tell you to put the toilet seat down?” she scowls at me.
“I forgot” I mumble, trying to ignore her.
“What? Speak up louder and quit your fucking mumbling.”
“I said I’m fucking sorry, I forgot!”
I don’t mean to yell in front of Bandit. I really don’t. She doesn’t need to be in this kind of environment - parents at each other’s throats all the time. When I married Lindsey I thought her bitchiness would improve, but I was wrong – it only got worse over time. The only reason why we’re still together is because of our daughter, but sometimes I wonder how much longer I can keep holding on to that excuse.
I listened to Lindsey talk trash at me until Bandit finished what little cereal I gave her, then hoisted her out of her chair to get her dressed. The sooner I got her ready, the sooner I could get ready, and the sooner I could get her out of the house and down to our safe haven – the shop.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Lindsey stood blocking the front door, defensive mode.
I held my daughter tight against my chest, “I’m going to the shop, if you don’t mind moving.”
She glanced over at the clock; I really screwed myself by having so many damned clocks in the house, “it’s six in the morning, Gerard. Your precious comics can wait; no sane person would come in and buy comics this early anyways.” She thought she had me defeated.
“Businessmen who hide Batman in their briefcases do. And don’t insult my job.” I said, shoving past her and out the door, slamming it behind me.
They’re always the same as every other morning; I’ve had the same routine for ages.
I’m awoken at five by the sounds of my daughter jumping up and down in her crib, begging for something to eat.
“Daddy!!!” Bandit squeals in delight, jumping on the bed even more as I come into the room and switch the light on. Even though I’m tired, a smile makes its way across my face as I pick her up out of her crib. My little dark eyed beauty, three years old – it seems like only just yesterday that I was still carrying her around in a basket, but life goes on.
I kiss her on the forehead before she starts squirming in my arms, wanting to be let down. Upon being set down on the floor, she takes off out of her room and heads to the kitchen. By the time I’ve made my way to the kitchen and turned that light on, Bandit has already sat herself in her chair at the table patiently awaiting her breakfast.
We play the same game every morning. Sometimes I change it up, but Bandit enjoys it so I usually stick to the routine.
I walk over to the cabinet that holds all of our boxed food, while keeping eye contact with her.
“Do you want… this one?” I say pulling out a box of generic Frosted Flakes. She shakes her head and sticks out her tongue, making me laugh.
I put it back and pull out a box of macaroni noodles, “How about… this one?”
“Noo! The yellow one, yellow!” she bounces in her chair pointing to the box that’s right beside the macaroni.
“Oh… You want this one?” I pull out the yellow box of generic Cheerios and she squeals with delight as I pour a little bit of the cereal into a bowl and place it in front of her.
Everything is seemingly perfect until my wife walks in the room. It never fails, the sun isn’t even up and the girl already has a stick up her ass.
“Gerard, how many times do I have to tell you to put the toilet seat down?” she scowls at me.
“I forgot” I mumble, trying to ignore her.
“What? Speak up louder and quit your fucking mumbling.”
“I said I’m fucking sorry, I forgot!”
I don’t mean to yell in front of Bandit. I really don’t. She doesn’t need to be in this kind of environment - parents at each other’s throats all the time. When I married Lindsey I thought her bitchiness would improve, but I was wrong – it only got worse over time. The only reason why we’re still together is because of our daughter, but sometimes I wonder how much longer I can keep holding on to that excuse.
I listened to Lindsey talk trash at me until Bandit finished what little cereal I gave her, then hoisted her out of her chair to get her dressed. The sooner I got her ready, the sooner I could get ready, and the sooner I could get her out of the house and down to our safe haven – the shop.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Lindsey stood blocking the front door, defensive mode.
I held my daughter tight against my chest, “I’m going to the shop, if you don’t mind moving.”
She glanced over at the clock; I really screwed myself by having so many damned clocks in the house, “it’s six in the morning, Gerard. Your precious comics can wait; no sane person would come in and buy comics this early anyways.” She thought she had me defeated.
“Businessmen who hide Batman in their briefcases do. And don’t insult my job.” I said, shoving past her and out the door, slamming it behind me.
♠ ♠ ♠
Batman and his little Robin :3<3