As Dave Letterman would say, "Pants! Pants! Pants!"

In the sweet naive days of pregnancy, I would gaze at the massive gift loot we acquired in the name of baby and imagine the years of utility such items as the co-sleeper and Snugli would provide. I have learned since that baby paraphanalia is essentially an experiment in consumerism. It’s like throwing cold cuts at the wall and seeing what sticks. The Soothie pacifiers, marketed as “Great for newborns!” are great for everyone else’s newborn. Not mine. My son prefers wide nipples the size of a flattened hand. He also does not like cheap diapers. I was frugal (i.e. broke as a joke) and bought the Target brand, but my son peed through them like they were made of gauze. He pees all the time! He sure as hell didn’t inherit that from me.

If I could have any superpower, it would be the ability to stop time. I don’t care much for flying or regenerating tissue, I would love to press my fingertips together and pause. That way, I could just look at my baby before he outgrows another romper. What happened to my tiny, pinheaded child? He’s lost that sweet coneheaded shape and taken on a pudginess. I’ve pinpointed the weight gain to his Sputnik noggin. When I strap him into the carseat, I don’t need to squish his head between two rolled towels. I envy this. I wish I could store all the fat in my head. I wouldn’t be able to walk upright, but I wouldn’t feel so bad about my ass.

He hasn’t slept through the night, but he has been sleeping in longer increments. For this I am grateful. There have been moments during the bewitching 8 o’clock hour when my son and I have a delightful banter. It begins when Nathan starts tugging at my drained breasts in search of more sustenance. When he finds that I have momentarily ceased to provide any source of nourishment, he emits a glass-shattering screeching cry that I’ve translated to mean, “Listen lady, no sleep till Brooklyn.”

“But my dear boy,” I reply, “we are in Seattle and Brooklyn is on the other coast!”

“Well I guess we’ll be up a long-ass time then, huh?”

Should I mention that this exchange usually coincides with the Dr. Phil replay? Hello insult, this is injury.

I’ve marked tomorrow as my quit day. I am going to quit this nasty habit of eating everything I see on television. I am going to make use of my expensive couple’s gym membership. I will go on more Target walks. I hope they don’t think I’m casing the joint. And who even says that, casing the joint? Hello Mona, 1932 called. It wants its lingo back.

All of this looks so ambitious in writing, but I have to say goodbye to the ten pounds that have made themselves home on my hips. I have to fight the urge to pull into Dairy Queen for those Monster Cookie blizzard-ma-bobs and let the half-eaten Angel Food cake in the kitchen see tomorrow.


I know, a picture of a picture is tre ghetto, but we used the scanner for kindling. Anyway. I am the sassy one in pink rocking the Ogilvie home perm. Is it weird to envy your seven-year-old body? Oh the fleeting metabolism of youth, I hardly knew ye. If I were a seven-year-old boy also at Disney World and attached to my parent by a plastic leash, I would probably mouth something romantic in passing, like, “Damn girl, why you so fine?”

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  1. Angel food cake is the best cake for you. I think you can justify eating it. I’ve been dreaming of cake all week, I’m envious!

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