We should have named him Harold. Or Frank. Frank sounds like he would be a good sleeper, right? And Harold, well--Harold would never throw his toys at your face. Tim. Tim's a nice name, a nice guy. Tim doesn't dump a bag of Goldfish crackers into your cart at Target, Tim doesn't chew his cake pop and then let it fall slowly from his mouth and onto the floor the minute a stranger says how cute he is.
Tell you what else is hackneyed--because when he gives me a hug I fucking love him so much. I love him even before he hugs me, love him even as the chewed up cake pop falls down his shirt like a wet piece of poo and the stranger backs away with that small, horrified smile. I love him.
Though I will say this, not unrelated: I have been perfecting my 80's punk Pandora station. The Clash, Suicidal Tendencies, Bad Brains, Violent Femmes with a little New Wave and Ska to soften the blow--Talking Heads, The Specials. This is what I listen to on my headphones when I am at work now, partly to keep me awake and partly because I am an emotional, exhausted mess just jonesing for a mosh pit were it not for my fear of touching sweaty people I do not know + the possibility of getting hurt divided by the square root of my ballet flats. God, how I am tired.