The Baby Doesn't Like The Chair

The baby chair is blue plastic, with a padded back. It does not look comfortable. The baby chair straps into the adult chair. The baby straps into the baby chair. We can feed her from this position. I feed her the bottle. Two ounces of nursery water, warmed for twenty seconds in the microwave, four scoops of formula, shaken not stirred. The baby plays with the straps. She tries to hold the bottle, pushes it out of her mouth. She fusses. I return the bottle. She still fusses, bleating around the rubber nipple. I stop giving her the bottle. She still fusses. I unstrap her. I lift her from the chair. The crease at the back of her ankle catches on the plastic lip. She screams. I am ashamed. "That chair is evil," I say to my wife. To the baby's mother. "Is the cut deep?" she asks. "It looks deep," she says. The baby continues screaming as we administer: the soap and water, the neosporin, the band-aid. "What are you doing?" I ask. "Don't touch the band-aid there," I say. The baby screams. "It's okay," my wife says. The baby's mother says. "It's okay." It's not okay. Later it will be okay. Right now the baby is screaming and I am ashamed.

Been reading a lot of flash fiction. It actually didn't go down quite like this. Anyhow, we're all fine now. How are you?