(Hint! "Right Now" equals 1:32 a.m.)
We both fell asleep on the couch. We do that a lot. We're either very lazy about that damned flight of steps, closet narcoleptics or just hopeless drunks.
Suddenly, Jason gets up and enters the nursery. There is much stomping. Possibly some glomping. He exits, slamming the door behind him and comes back to the couch just as the first screams erupt.
I ask him what in the sam bloody hill he was doing in there.
"What?" He looks at me like I'm crazy.
I get up and enter the nursery. Noah is standing up in his crib, howling. I pat his back until he calms down. As I creep back out, I trip over Jason's shoes.
I go back to the living room and repeat my question. What in the sam bloody fucking hill was he doing in there? And what's with the shoes?
"What?" His face is all, "CRAZY TALK. GOING BACK TO SLEEP. MARRIAGE EQUALS CONSTANT STRIFE."
Noah is screaming again. I brush my teeth and wait the Ferber-approved five minutes before re-entering to comfort him again.
Jason still hasn't moved from the couch. I shake him.
"Dude. What the hell?"
I repeat my accusation (YOU ARE A CRAZY LOUD SHOE-TAKER-OFFER WHO WOKE THAT BABY AND IN SOME CULTURES THAT IS GROUNDS FOR RUNNING YOU OVER WITH A CAR OR BUS OR HORSE-DRAWN CHARIOT OF SOME KIND) several times. I hear Noah turn on his crib aquarium and finally settle down to the strains of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, as played by the Dying C Battery Orchestra.
Jason finally wakes up. I may or may not have kicked him. He starts muttering some nonsense about a contract. A customer contract. Don't argue with the contact, because he got it signed and everything.
I shake him and repeat my nagging tale of FIFTEEN WHOLE MINUTES OF CRYING BABY WOE one last time and point to his bare feet, like AH HA! LATE-NIGHT SHERLOCK STRIKES AGAIN and then I throw up my hands and go upstairs to bed.
Five minutes later, he wakes up.
"Hey." he calls up. "Where are my shoes?"