This fucking thing was so damn slippery, that I couldn’t hold onto it for a damn moment before the cursed little thing would shoot up and out of my arms, flung clear across the room. I’d fumbled the first time I’d held it, shot fresh from the bosom of life itself; not even that grip could hold on to the thing tight enough. The doctor had been tossing it from one hand, into the other, desperate not to let it drop, though I recall that those floor were quite clean. He then one-handedly tossed it to me, silly grin and all, with a wink and then a nod, “careful, it’s slippery.” I’d managed to hold onto the thing steady for a solid 45 seconds before it shot out of my hands and went clear across the room. All the doctors and the nurses fleshed out across the room to catch the thing, running into each other, it was a comedic act right out of vaudeville, and might have been funny, had my wife not been such a panicked mess. An orderly had caught it that first time, cleaned it of with some club soda, sprinkled on some powder, and tossed it in
a basket, which is how we’d go about transporting it from there on out.
Still, there were times when I’d had no choice but to try and hold on to the slimy little thing; a couple times, taking it from the bath. Once at the neighbors sprinklers. There was an incident at the local water park. But my wife, thank goodness for her, was always around, ready to take a dive for her perfect little parcel.
Thankfully now, that slippery little bastard has aged out of childhood, there hasn’t been much reason left to lift it into my arms, which I’m bonusly thankful for, due in no smart part that it has grown to be quite hefty. There was this one time, however, late in the eve of its 16th birthday, the thing came home sweaty and drunk, and of course, I was the winner that night that had to carry it all the way up those stairs, which took three full hours of absolute hell.
But now, finally–fuck-it, in about 12 glorious hours, this slippery little bundle of joy will have hit its mark, aging out at now 18 years, which means, I gleam a grin as wide as Wyoming, that, come tomorrow, this thing that I’ve had such trouble wrapping my fingers around, will be someone else’s responsibility. Someone else will have to keep the thing safe from shooting out of their arms, further out into this God-forsaken world.
Sorry, I need a drink; that’s it from me.