This was an entry that I placed in the OS Book Club Father's Day writing contest. (I entered twice. Strength in numbers.) I welcome comments, both positive and gushing. Enjoy! (I hope.)

Paternity Test: How I Nearly Threw My Son Out the Window
 

He was just a baby. The window was quite large and inviting. It was very tempting to do it. Truth is, I never would have thought myself capable of tossing the baby out the window. I’m not a violent person, really. And I’m pretty patient. But our first son is lucky he survived his first six weeks of life. Damn lucky.

He was our first child. We had been excited and earnest expectant parents. We read pregnancy books and baby books. We went to Lamaze classes. We practiced between Lamaze classes. My wife’s OB/GYN doctor had an office near where I worked, so she scheduled most of her checkups for lunchtime, which meant I could regularly attend. We always had loads of questions for poor old JR, meaning that we filled our heads with even more information. We talked about the coming baby all the time. We walked around with smiles on our faces all the time.

Then, finally, came the big arrival: our first child. A boy. Healthy. Everything in place. Cute. No, not cute—adorable. Little puppy adorable. Bunny rabbit adorable. (Actually, he was kinda funny looking, but you know how first parents are.)

Our smiles became uber-smiles. We were incredibly happy.

He looked so sweet when we brought him home from the hospital, floating freely in his slightly large ice-cream-cone covered bunny. He was our cute, precious, little baby.

Until nighttime came. Then, he turned into a screaming, eardrum-shattering, sleep-depriving banshee. He had colic, you see. His tummy hurt. Well, let me tell you, colic is actually an acronym for Constant Overwhelmingly Loud Irritating Crying.

You see, it wasn’t just that first night that he screamed. Every night he screamed. But not just for a little while. No, no. Our little darling was a screaming champion. If screaming had been an Olympic event, he was Michael Phelps. Each night, at 10:00 or so, just as our defenses had been worn down by long days and endless diaper changes, just as we were finally settling down for what we foolishly hoped would be some rest, he would start screaming. His poor little tummy bothered him, and he wanted to let us know. And how. He cranked his cute little body into knots and launch a piercing wail. And another. And another. They rose in pitch and in volume. His adorable face contorted into a mass of pain, and he let loose with an imitation of the Army of Hell.

We were good parents, oh, yes. None of this “let him cry it out” philosophy. No “put him in his room and he’ll get over it” crap for us. No, sir. We picked him up. We held him. The poor thing, we thought, he must be terribly upset. He needs reassurance. He needs love.

But Banshee Boy kept right on screaming. For hours. Until three in the morning, at least. Every fucking night. For weeks.

We took turns with him. Each of us would hold him for a while, rocking him in the rocking chair or walking him around the living room while the other, exhausted, tried to grab a few minutes of sleep until the holder couldn’t take it any longer and ran up the stairs, frantic to hand the little monster off with a plaintive, guilt-ridden question: “Can you take him now?”A question that would accept only one answer.

It was in the midst of one of these nightly scream sessions that I nearly pitched Banshee Boy out the window. He was about six weeks old by then. We’d had about 40 nights of this. That night, I had tried rocking him and making soothing clucking sounds. He couldn’t be soothed. I had tried walking him around the room until my weary legs felt as though I had just completed a triathlon. He couldn’t be comforted. I had tried massaging his tensed up, painful little tummy. He pain couldn’t be eased. The screaming had just kept going. And I couldn’t do the handoff I desperately wanted because my wife had given me that look before going off to bed, the look that said, “No break tonight, buster.”

Holding the squirmy, squealing little demon in my arms, I . Why had we wanted a child, anyway? We had been so happy before. What had possessed us? I’m not ready to be a parent! HELP!!!

As I paced, I reached the end of room and turned to retrace my steps. That brought me closer to the window—and the evil idea of pitching the baby flashed into my depression-dazed brain. It would be so easy. Just open the window, and toss him out. Then I could go to sleep. Wouldn’t that be nice!

But something stayed my hand and steeled my nerve. It might have been a realization of the horror that such an act would be. It might have been the sobering thought that I wouldn’t really find peace, because police sirens would soon arrive. It might have been dismay at the prospect of years of prison food.

Whatever it was that stopped me, Hellboy was damn lucky.

The next morning, he woke up, cheerful as always. New day, everything’s fine: that was his attitude. I went to his crib to change his diaper. As I unbuttoned the bunny, he looked up at me. And then he smiled. It was his first smile. Ever. And I melted. How could I not love such a precious, beautiful little person? How could I ever do anything to hurt him?

That smile, and the many others that followed over the next days and weeks, were like a vaccination for my wife and me. Our sweet little baby was sneakily making us resistant to any more tempting thoughts about bodily harm. I think it’s built into babies’ genetic code. At six weeks, when parents are about to go postal on their precious ones, some self-preservation hormone starts surging through the little tykes’ bodies and reaches their faces, where it causes their dimpled little cheek muscles to open their mouths into a charming, sweet, love-inspiring smile. And we poor sucker parents are hooked.

I tell you one thing. He did it just in time.