November 19, 2009

6:58 pm. Squeaking of the rocker upstairs, just above me. Your father's voice floating down, just your name sung over and over again, lilting up and down, with "we love you" added to the end.

I have had a glass and a half of wine and am feeling a little unfriendly. You have not slept except in fits and starts today and so you are unfriendly too.

Rachel and I walked through the Galleria today, you in the Baby Bjorn and Adelaide in the stroller. Addie has her two front top and two front bottom teeth in. She said "puff" and Rach would hand her a piece of green Veggie Pirate Booty. We spent the afternoon strolling through stores with merchandise we can't afford: toddler sized, hippo-shaped chairs, little dresses with tutu-style skirts, tiny pink $43 bunny slippers.

You are screaming upstairs and your father is trying to pacify you with the bottle. We don't know what's wrong except perhaps that you are overtired. When we let you "cry it out" in the crib you scream and scream until I pad up the stairs with drooping shoulders and pull you to my chest.

Rach suggests perfume and a negligee. Not for him--for you. It's like getting into a separate role. You have to have the right costume. You have to take off the mom shirt and mom sweatpants.

Now I hear the TV too. Probably something from the history channel. Like a British woman describing how to maneuver a special robot around the remains of the Titanic. Or a poorly acted reenactment of King Tut's last days.

When Rach leaves, Grandma Ricki arrives. She sits on the floor of the family bathroom while I nurse you. Asks what kind of writing I plan to do now.

Last night on the channel 9 news at 9:00 there was a special on "Mommy Blogs." As you sucked on my nipple at the Galleria I thought about writing about how you sucked on my nipple and some man reading those lines and wanting to find me and you and do us harm. This is what keeps me from making my blog public.

Well, that and the fear that even if I did invite readers to read no one would want to.

You just have to figure out your shtick, your father told me as we walked home from the Ole Cafe yesterday. You need a shtick.

Now I can only hear the TV. No rocking. No singing. No crying.

It seems to me that great writers don't have a shtick. Their shtick is great writing.

This whole thing started, Thisbe, because your grandmother kept a journal during my first year of life. Here's an entry from my 11th week:

Emergence of a will. She actively resisted nap time by arching her back and screaming. It was pretty funny. Needless to say, she took her nap.

We are cut from the same cloth I suppose, Ms. Thiz. Still, I am feeling unfriendly. You have begun to cry again upstairs, perhaps because your father has paused to burp or swaddle you. Half of me wants to go to you. The other half wants to go to Walgreens in search of earplugs. Both halves want more wine and a long bath.