The Upstairs Baby has been absent for a delightfully long while. I couldn't say for sure how long. Ten days? Two weeks? Long enough for me to relax into the perfection that is my apartment without him. The mornings when he doesn't wake me. The evenings when my meals aren't uninterrupted by his. The totally lack of screaming. The total lack of crashing. Nothing but the occasional footsteps of his father who was still up there and who, frankly, didn't seem too broken up about his absence either. It has been idyllic. It went on for such a long time that I began to fantasize that the Upstairs Baby's parents had gone through a tragic divorce. Generally speaking, I'm not hopeful that parents of babies are getting divorced because, let's face it, that's terrible. I am only hopeful that babies that live over my head might be relocated. I can't really be bothered about the circumstances. It's not my baby, after all. Indeed, I think maybe there should be a rule that if a baby is going to wake you up, it has to be your own baby. Preferably a baby that you totally signed up to have, fully aware that it would be waking you up for years to come.
And if you are thinking that I am a terrible person, I am thinking that you haven't lived in an apartment in a long time.
Yesterday, even before I even got all the way up the front stairs, I knew the jig was up. (An expression that, now that I've written it, I am dubious even exists.) There was a crumpled Air France luggage tag on the landing that told me all I needed to know. The Upstairs Baby is back. And lo. This morning did suck. As, verily, all mornings must henceforth suck until the Upstairs Baby is 15 years old and does not wake up until noon.
Do you have a lovely, well-insulated upstairs flat? Are you also secretly in love with me and uninterested in procreating? We should talk.