Summary:
One morning in November, Tony's honeymoon ends: Morgan hits her "no" phase. And as it turns out, navigating discipline is far more difficult than Tony's audiobooks make it out to be — especially when you have daddy issues a mile wide.
-*-
3
A few hours later, Tony stood in front of his pantry, staring at the brand new box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and cursing his own weakness.
Yes, he’d given in. Yes, he knew it was The One Thing He Should Never Do. Yes, he knew allowing himself to be swayed by a tantrum would only cause more mischief later. But he couldn’t help thinking about that dinner party back in 1974.
It was one of Tony’s earliest memories — and the first time he was included in such an event.
Granted, at the start of the evening, it was thrilling to finally get a taste of what his parents did on other nights after Jarvis ushered him to bed. And he did experience a frisson of pride each time he was asked to show off that he could already read and multiply very large numbers.
But before too long, that excitement faded, replaced by growing agitation and discomfort. The suit he wore itched, for one. But even worse were the stares of strange, assessing eyes — and the constant reminders that his etiquette was somehow lacking. “Sit up straight, Tony. Show ‘em you’ve got iron in your backbone.” “Look at Mrs. Braverman when she speaks to you.” “Don’t slurp, boy. That’s disgusting.” “The outside fork, Tony. You weren’t raised in a barn.”
The straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back was the snap peas. Back then (and even now, if he was perfectly honest), Tony loathed snap peas with a fiery passion. The taste, the texture — the entire detestable package made him gag. So when snap peas were served with the main course, he covered them up with his napkin and prayed Howard wouldn’t notice.
No such luck. As Tony would come to learn over time, Howard never missed a detail. Not when it came to his son.
“Eat your vegetables, Tony. You think I didn’t see you hide them?”
Something broke inside of Tony at that moment — something fundamental. He was tired, he was over-stimulated, and his four-year-old mind clamored desperately for a chance to assert that he’d had it — that he just wanted to fling off his jacket and tie, run to the kitchen, and find Jarvis (and his lollies). So he dug in: “No, thank you, sir. May I be excused?”
“Perhaps we should let him go, Howard,” said his mother. “It’s a special night. And Tony has been on his best behavior.”
“Contradicting me in front of our guests is not what would call ‘best behavior,’ Maria,” Howard replied, stern and unyielding. “Tony, you will stay at this table until you clear your plate. You understand?”
So Tony was stuck there for another hour as he slowly choked down every last pea. And then, in the middle of the dining room, he upchucked in front of God and everyone, ruining his expensive new shirt. He was humiliated, Howard was livid, and the rest of the party — seemed sympathetic but reluctant to intervene.
Tony didn’t want that for Morgan. He didn’t want her to feel that nothing she did was good enough. He didn’t want her to feel like she couldn’t have preferences — or that she couldn’t be herself. If she wanted to wear a Spiderman t-shirt, a tutu, and galoshes to her “Daddy and Me” movement class, Tony was going to let her if only to stick it to Howard and his exacting, oppressive standards.
Plus, hadn’t Tony heard somewhere that it was best to let the inconsequential things slide?
Okay, he was rationalizing. Nutrition wasn’t inconsequential. At some point, he’d have to enforce healthy eating habits — whether he liked it or not.
Sighing for the hundredth time that day, Tony pushed the no-no cereal as far back on the shelf as he could and moved the Cheerios front and center. Maybe Morgan would forget they had Cinnamon Toast Crunch if he just never mentioned it again.
-*-
By the end of Morgan’s afternoon nap, Tony was gutting his way through a migraine.
It came on suddenly while he was attempting to fix the sink. The loss of his left visual field was one thing. But when he realized, with horror, that he’d totally forgotten how to put the faucet back together, he was forced to abandon his honey-do list entirely and retreat to his blacked-out bedroom to vomit — and then lie down with a washcloth over his eyes until his medication took at least some of the edge off.
He was still in bed, curled up in the fetal position and moaning slightly, when FRIDAY pinged his smart watch. “Morgan is awake — and has climbed out of her crib.” she declared, thankfully keeping her volume down.
Tony sat up — and was immediately hit with an attack of vertigo. “Ugh.” He swallowed convulsively and pressed his palms against his forehead. “Has she gotten a hold of any matches or sharp implements?”
Oddly, FRIDAY hesitated. “No. She is not in imminent danger —”
“Peachy,” Tony mumbled, interrupting the AI before she could finish her sentence. “Do me a favor, FRI, and activate the Babysitter Protocol. I’ll be there in a bit. I just — need ten minutes to get my stomach back in place.”
“As you wish, Boss.” And the room fell silent once more.
The Babysitter Protocol was a stop-gap — a way to keep responsible eyes on Morgan if, for any reason, Tony couldn’t respond to a page right away. Once online, said protocol switched off several of FRIDAY’s background applications so more of her processing power could be focused on Morgan and her physical well-being. And if Morgan did indeed stumble into potentially mortal peril? Babysitter enabled FRIDAY to commandeer Baby’s First Drone, a recently-created bot/toy who spent the day’s down times parked in his dock in the nursery closet.
It was a program Tony rarely used. Because he kept his own work hours, he generally had no trouble dropping everything to see to Morgan’s needs. But let’s face it: it would hardly do to try to rush down the hall when he could barely walk a straight line. No: better to take his time. To spend a few minutes drawing in some deep cleansing breaths. To visit the bathroom again to preemptively puke and then wash his face. To wait until he was feeling at least marginally functional so he wouldn’t accidentally fuck up the almost-certainly-needed diaper change.
It was a delay he’d presently come to regret — for when Tony at last lurched into Morgan’s room, hands on the door jamb to steady himself before he tipped over, the sight that met his eyes was so surreal - so shocking - that he nearly passed out.
There was baby powder everywhere — literally everywhere, like an ersatz blizzard coating each surface in a film of white. And in the middle of it all stood his daughter, innocent and unassuming.
“How — what the hell did you just do?” Tony thundered, his already frayed self-control unraveling completely under the strain.
And Morgan started to cry — frightened because this was the first time in her brief life that her safe and snuggly daddy had ever raised his voice.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Tony slid down the wall until his ass hit the carpet, his face falling into his hands, nausea eating up his gut for reasons that had nothing to do with the pounding behind his eyes.
Now you’ve gone and done it, Tony. You’re just like him.
No comments:
Post a Comment