My Diaper Is Full, Dammit!: Life From the Perspective of Baby Johnson

Chapter Seven: Whiskey and Adventures in Babysitting

WHISKEY:

Man, this walking thing is wayy better than crawling. Now my hands are free to roam wherever they like and I can get into all sorts of places now. Just the other day I had climbed into this cubby called a dryer. Linda flipped her shit of course, but I was enjoying my time in there.

Walking now gave me the freedom to run to the sandbox at my own speed instead of Linda's slow trot. But, all good things have some negative effect. In my case, the good thing was walking and the bad thing was teething.

These little white things known as teeth that also filled Linda's mouth, were starting to fill mine. They were small and slightly round when they starting poking through my gums. And they hurt like a bitch. I would say that I've never felt such pain in my life, but spraying perfume in your eyes just doesn't compare to the pain in my mouth. At least with the perfume Linda could wash the pain away--with the teething there was nothing she could do besides give me one of those stupid plastic rings that she put in the freezer.

I've tried those plastic rings and that's all they are--plastic rings. They don't soothe the ache of teething at all. I'd even tried gnawing on that nasty leather shoe again, but nothing was helping. I am making a small rope to hang myself when Harold saves me.

"Don't tell Mommy about this, okay?" He whispers as if she can actually understand my language. I have yet to speak theirs and they have yet to mine. 

Harold dips a Q tip in some brown liquid in a glass bottle and rubs it on my gums. "There. You should be feeling better in no time," He says as he picks me and puts me at a safe playing distance from Linda.

The brown liquid starts working almost immediately. The ache is gone and replaced with a fuzzy euphoria, much like they one I had when I drunk that apple juice, but better.

I play with my toys as the images bend and distort and have no awareness of my surroundings. I could be in the Sahara desert and not notice a thing.

By the end of the week, I was getting extremely dependant on the brown liquid to provide my pain relief. Usually, harold can interpret my whimpers, but this evening he was sound asleep on the couch and I knew nothing I was capable of was going to wake him.

I took measures into my own hands and pull up a chair next to the counter. The brown liquid resides in the top cabinet that thankfully had a glass window so i could see where it was located. 

I manage to climb up the chair, get onto the counter, and open the cabinet with ease. The real challenge begins when I try to grab the actual bottle. It's just out my reach. My fingers brush past it and it teeters on the edge of the shelf dangerously. 

In painfully sow motion, it crashes to the ground and of course, Linda comes running. I can actually hear Harold snort awake and he joins the scene of the crime also. 

The image of me standing on the counter next to the open cabinet next to the broken bottle of brown liquid definitely didn't make this situation look any better.

""Oh, my god Johnson, what did you do?" She side-steps the mess of glass and brown liquid to remove me from the counter.

"I'll go get a mop," Harold rushes out. Linda continues to scold me as she fixes the chair and cabinet. Meanwhile, I'm dabbing into what's left of the brown liquid to soothe my gums. Linda catches me, mid rub, and all hell breaks loose all over again.

"No! Bad Johnson! That is not for babies!," She picks me up again and this time puts me in the play prison where I have a good view of the shit that's about to go down.

"How did he even know about the whiskey?" Linda questions Harold when he returns with mop. Harold focuses all his attention on mopping as he explains how he had been rubbing whiskey on my gums for the past few days and that's probably how I knew about it.