I am having a tough time with you today, Thisbe. I had a tough time with you yesterday too. The tough time is made tougher by your absolute love for your papa. That is, tears at the sight of me and smiles at the sight of him. You cooed to one another while I showered this morning and as soon as I took you back into my arms you began to wail. You quieted while I made coffee and quieted further as I unwrapped a can of nutritionally useless cinnamon rolls and greased a silver pan with Crisco.
I dressed you in a white sleeper with a pink collar which one-upon-a-time was fuzzy but now just feels worn and a little rough. When you got sleepy I tied a mirror to the side of your crib and turned on a Marty Haugen CD. You screamed and screamed, staring directly at yourself screaming while in the background flutes and happy people sang "Rejoice and Be Glad." I treated myself to another cinnamon roll and an extra dose of Caramel Vanilla fake flavoring in my coffee.
Your father and I are trying to decide who to choose as the sponsors for your baptism. This is odd because most love relationships just are. You don't ask someone to be your mom or your sister, you just sigh and roll your eyes at the cards you've been dealt. So it seems weird to get to make a choice about this.
But the truth is that I have half an hour left before I have to return home and I don't want to write any more about choices or crying or bouncing to sleep. I want to dissolve into "Catching Fire" where I can worry about 16-year-olds getting killed for rebelling against a ruthless dictatorship.
I dreamt last night of maggots swarming over dead people. Of a man falling in slow motion off a high threshing machine and the thresher cutting out the bowels of peasants still left in the fields.
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