Little Thing came over for a visit today. She’s five weeks and three days old — La Gringa and I are completely obsessed with her.
You are catapulted back to remembering to pull the nipple out when they’re dozing off to sleep; remember the five S’s (were there five? I can only remember three); stunningly blow off your own children for hours on end while staring into the eyes of a little farter-cooer-sleeper; wanting to take care of the Mom because you sure as hell remember your friends taking care of you back then; being slightly — oh hell, desperately — tempted to do the mommy gig all over again. You know when the yellow breast milk poo doesn’t bug you that you have to get a grip, pull yourself back and say: “No More Kids. I’m done. My plate is full.”
And I guess since my plate is full (work.kids.spouse would all kill me if I had another kid, muchless another duo), I will go on with my weekly fix of Little Thing.
I can still smell her in our house. That crazy euphoric baby smell. I can still see the way she looks in her own Mommy’s eyes — and find some comfort that my Things still look at me the same way.
Side Gigs
