O.P.I.nion

I usually groom meself.

But my mom’s here and sent me off for some pampering and that’s how I came to be at the salon face-to-face with a poster for the new O.P.I. India Collection.

It must be that my head’s still grappling with all the writing I really ought to be doing because I end up obsessively (and needlessly) parsing the names of the shades. Surely Royal Rajah Ruby is tautological? (Rajahs are by definition royal, no?) And surely Lunch at the Delhi is inauthentic? (It falls short of actually eating in Delhi, it‘s at best a restaurant called “The Delhi,” perhaps with cutesy pun on “deli.“)



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ARGUMENT

The afternoon fails;
Calls out for dreams.
Comes to at two.


As you probably know;
I’m poor at keeping score.
Smile. Why. Smile.

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Adventures in Breastfeeding

It’s a good thing that I’ve been paying such close attention to Baby A as she nurses.
I dreamt last week that a giantess with ginormous boobs was my only source of sustenance.

***

According to the breastfeeding manual, babies need to empty one breast before moving to the other one because the hind-milk that emerges at the end is the fatty stuff that chubbies da babies up while the foremilk tends to be thin and watery. I was reading this out aloud to my mom, when she deadpanned--perhaps it would be simpler to shake well before use. Ha!

***

It may or may not be true that everybody needs a bosom for a pillow, but Baby A totally believes that shit.

***

To me, my boobs seem little more than milk bottles right now. Still, when some concerned gentleman at the supermarket suggests that I should probably zip up my down vest since it’s so cold outside, I think (no matter how sleep-deprived I am) it’s a bit much to tell him that my boobs are now so huge that that’s impossible.



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YOUR BROTHER

Both grandmothers
Are horrified when
Your father and I
Say you look like
A pretty orangutan.

Cousins and friends
Outraged when we
Show off your fuzzy,
mad-scientist, male-
pattern-baldness hair.

***

Of course we only say these things
Around other people. Alone with you,
We are reduced to unclever,
childish annotation: Sooo cute!
Awesomest baby in the world!

Clearly, we just aren’t as well
Adjusted as your big brother,
Who is so proud of you
And so full of fond wonder
And doesn’t care who knows it.


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THAT THING

Speaks like kisses
And stealthy looks
Draw your moist
Clothes closer.

Crosshatched by heat,
Slow moans signal
Limbs unhinging
And speak in yeses.


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Coloring outside the lines

Li’l A (watching assorted colored puppies frolic):

They remind me of you and dad.

Why?

Some of my friends ask me, you know—you’re brown, your mom’s brown, but your dad’s white?!?!!

(I’m stumped. I always meant to talk to him about this *someday* but haven’t said much beyond the traditional palliatives about how it doesn’t matter what color someone’s skin is—it could be green for all we care—all that matters is what kind of person they are, etc.)

So what did you say?

Yeah, my dad’s white. So?????

Perfect. I wish I had thought of that comeback first. Not that anything will stop me from using it, anyway.

New Parent Fantasy (sadly, so not prontastic)

We’re getting, at the most, three hours of sleep a night. And on the nights that we do get those two+ hours, we’re so *grateful* for it. (The baby totally has us on some lovely variation of Stockholm Syndrome.) Recently, one night (I honestly can’t recall which one—it’s all a can’t-even-pee-in-peace blur) Big A and I were up together and caught The Amazing Race on the telly.

And decided that we’d be awesome at it.

And that we should go.

And--since Big A already had his i-book open—we should apply online at CBS.com

RIGHTAWAY.

And then we realized that they begin filming in March and that the baby would still be only six months old and that--really--we can’t go.

So we’ve decided to go in two years. We'd be so in form. We’d leave the kids at my parents'. And we’d make it all the way to the end and win. After all, if we lost it would mean that we’d have no choice but to return at once and reclaim the kids :).

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