Kim V brought her child to see me at work today. Her child is four weeks old, but technically, should only be like two days old because he was a little early. This makes him very adorable, tiny and wrinkly, much like a delicate Faberge egg which needs ironing. Oh, I know that one mustn’t iron Faberge eggs. Or babies either, for that matter. Stop looking at me like that, silly.
And the child had the audacity to be sweet and quiet and sleep within my arms like a gentle smelling bundle of wonder. My uterus contracted with the beat of my biological clock. Why could he not have been screaming? Why wasn’t he demanding my car keys or he’d pop a cap in my ass? No. Instead, someone had to remove his socks so he could hypnotize me with his adorable toes. Those babies…. they look all innocent, but they’ve got this whole agenda to propagate the species.
Afterward, I actually listened to a discussion with two women about their various labor, adding information about Mo’s labor so I could participate, as I have no labor stories of my own. Oh, I could have told them about dislocating my shoulder, or perhaps my furious blood poisoning incident, but it really didn’t qualify. Not when talking to people who’ve had other human beings inside their bodies.
I now have this incredible urge to organize a bake sale and sew a ladybug costume, grumbling about how I’m not the only person who lives in this house and shouldn’t be the only one who picks things up. So… essentially, the only thing that would be different would be the bake sale.
Dang, that was a cute baby though.
I think I shall embark upon a craft project. I have a hankering to make some more cards, mostly for the sole reason that I have been a bad Weetabix and have yet to send out the prizes to the winners of the Weetabix Quiz, thus, I will make them each a card as penance.
Oh, and I further tore apart the house, looking for that damn weasel poem. I found an enormous cache of writing, another notebook which mostly had stuff from a Psychology and Counseling class, about 82 copies of a couple of poems, and the scribbled upon workshop copies that I had mentioned yesterday. And no weasel poem.
Need I even tell you that the weasel poem has gotten better in my mind. That mofo is an award winner now. I’m taking this loss as though I’d just seen a Van Gogh go up in flames. Even though I remember that my advisor, the state’s poet laureate, told me it wasn’t my best work, in my mind, this thing is up there with Allan Ginsberg’s “Howl”.
Esteban put up with my pouting with much patience but finally he said “You know, you could probably write a much better poem now…. you’re a better writer now.” which had the lovey quality of not only putting it into perspective but also gently reminding me that I do know how to actually write as well. You’ve just got to love it when someone says exactly what you need to hear.
I’d still really like to reread that poem. I almost but not quite remember how it went and it’s bugging the crap out of me.
“Go on! Move! Move duckie! Waddle you bitch! Waddle!!!”
Now I’ve got the Quack Quack Waddle Waddle song from that old McDonald’s commercial stuck in my head.
And you know what I would like to know? Why don’t the Spice Girls tell us what they want, what they really really want? Because wondering is keeping me up at nights.
And “zigga zig ah” is not the answer of a sane person.
