Every time I finish eating with my mom, this strange man keeps coming over and taking me away.
And then he “sings” (I can’t hardly call it that after hearing real singing from mom) and we walk around in a circle for what seems like a lifetime. Maybe even longer than a lifetime. Certainly several hours. So half a lifetime at least.
I’m 24 hours old, you know. I know what I like and don’t like.
I like milk, fuzzy blankets and knit hats, shushing sounds, and rock and roll music. The Stones. Springsteen. Knopfler.
I like my mom. She’s so cool. She makes her own milk and it’s SO good. Totally organic non-GMO free range fair trade locally sourced small business hashtag blessed milk. Not that stuff you find at the big box stores. The REAL stuff.
She’s also pretty. People say I have her fingernails.
This man isn’t my mom though. He’s ugly. He has a thing attached to his head and his face is scratchy and rough and he doesn’t even know what milk is I bet.
He seems stupid. He tried to swaddle me last night and it was so bad I screamed. I brought my arms out and was like let me handle it but he started saying angry words and gave up.
Not mom though. She’s pretty and smart and funny. I like her jokes. My favorite is when she puts her breast in my mouth wrong and I can’t latch. So I bite down and she cries and I cry.
Crying is how we celebrate. I learned that.
I cry at night because sleeping is such a thing to celebrate. And then she cries and the man cries and we celebrate until the sun comes up. Then I’m tired so I sleep. And they cry to celebrate the party we just had.
I hope this man sticks around so I can keep an eye on him. He seems like trouble and mom and I don’t need trouble. Just partying and celebrating and milk and a nice knit hat. And some Springsteen.