Tied Down

Marcus and Sula's baby would not stop thrashing. It thrashed itself out of its parent's arms and onto the floor from its highchair, and too often they found it gurgling and swaying on the ground beside its crib, bathed in early morning light.

It head-butted other children at Little Tyke Bikram Yoga and consumed its wholesome organic baby food by smashing it against its cheeks until it soaked through by osmosis.

They stopped inviting their friends over for Sunday brunches and playdates, and Sula began to work from home rather than be forced to admit to the office's impossibly tall and inexplicably waxed working-mothers that her child was uncontrollable.

When Marcus arrived from work one Thursday, he found his wife hiding beneath her desk, eyes owl-wide, mouth gaping behind her manicured hands, while their baby threw itself about, knocking ceramic vases and picture frames from the oak curio cabinet inherited from Sula's stepmother.

"We have to seek help," he said, a tremble in his voice as ashtrays and potted plants shattered at his feet.

Doctor Anon looked the baby over once, then twice, then gave them his advice: "Be patient and watch your child grow out of this phase, like we all do at this age. Your only other option is to tie your baby down," he concluded with a chuckle.

Sula made sure the binds didn't cut off circulation.