Toddler Grayson Douglas was having a great day playing, snacking, and napping. As he alternated between tumbling about the living room and dropping Cheerios, he’d occasionally look in the direction of the screams coming from his parent’s bedroom, he’d quickly get back to finger painting the walls with saliva.
As Grayson continued to ignore the complications of his mother’s 13-hour home birth, he also got to hang with his Uncle Bobby who was allowed to “…just let him do whatever he wants.” Despite his sister’s constant wails, Uncle Bobby let Grayson play with the remotes, eat a cookie, dismantle and destroy his favorite toy truck.
It appeared that nothing could ruin Grayson’s day. Not the appearance of his father, breathing in and out of a brown paper bag, wondering aloud, “I don’t know if she’s gonna make it through this one. Why aren’t we at the goddamn hospital for this.” Grayson then laughed as his father closed his eyes and fell to the floor, spitting milk on his shirt at the same time.
By the end of the day Grayson’s mother finally left the bedroom, red and sweaty, to which Grayson smiled and said, “stinky!” She held out a reddish squishy object to him wrapped up in a blanket. When his mother said, “Grayson, meet your little sister, Alice.” Grayson replied, “I not hungy.”
