The Post That Ends With Smurfette

On Friday, I accidentally dropped you on your face.

Today, I had three hours to myself at the mall. I admired the stray bits of glitter and thread on the floor of the Victoria's Secret dressing room. I imagined your head inside a ladybug patterned hat at Baby Gap. I mixed hot mustard into egg drop soup and and squeezed lemon into a tall glass of water. I bought an indigo sweater with a teardrop shaped hole just below the breastbone.

Then I went back to Ricki and Peter's. Six men in the living room and the scent of trout and sweat everywhere. The Vikings on T.V., scoring touchdown after touchdown.

On the way home, we stopped for gas. You screamed inside the car wash and, when the sun roof began to leak cleaning fluid down the back of my coat, onto the seat, through my pants, I screamed too. Your father laughed.

Maybe I am a little worried that you don't seem to care much about rolling over. But rather than dwell in that worry, I will have a little more white wine from a box and then go and put on the lingerie that makes me look like Smurfette.