I lift weights. Don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s just what I do.
Fortunately, there’s a gym near my apartment that has a creche. What’s a creche, you ask? Well, I don’t know, but it seems to be a place where you leave your child to be taken care of while you do other things.
This was the first time I had ever left my little miracle baby with strangers, unless you consider my wife’s friends strangers, which you might, since you probably haven’t met them. But I had a limited time to exercise, so I couldn’t think about how deeply he was being scarred or how worried I would be. I just had to do it.
The carer seemed sweet and attentive enough. She had a hairstyle that said to me, “I do this a lot and I promise not to snap. Yet.”
But the other children were another story. First of all, they were a lot bigger than my baby. One of them looked almost 16-years-old and was doing one-arm push-ups in the corner while she smoked a cigarette. Another one had a beard. If my baby looked at any of these kids sideways, they surely would have cleaned his clock.
But I had no choice. I had to work out. It’s how I roll. So I left him. God help me, I left him.
When I went back for him a half hour later, the sweet lady told me that he had been crying a fair bit, but that it was normal behavior for a first-timer. He looked at me and tears of joy welled up in his sad, sad eyes as if all he wanted to know was, “Why did you leave me?”
As difficult as it was, I used my own eyes to communicate a response: “Daddy needs to work out because he’s got a little vanity problem, son.”
Then he said, “Babababa.”
He’s such a little miracle.