So much easier to dive into another Netflix masala than propping butt to blog. Then again, watching a documentary on the politics of food is just as easy as finding myself bucketing at a tried and tired ol’ layla-majnu theme in french when alternating between masoor daal and mellow Malbec. Ouch! Stop with the egging already – I know, I know, what the fuck am I doing with my second glass of a cheap red when my toddler still nurses himself back to sleep? And back to sleep? And back to sleep? (I’ll be damned if I find that sleeps-like-a-baby misogynist).

Oh…oh sorry – the eggs were for that layla-majnu comment…totally uncalled for. Those kids were the real deal. Unless of course, they lived to have babies. But even then, she’d be perfect I bet, like the mom that has a letdown in the office elevator when her baby wails in hunger at home. Majnu hurts, Layla must bleed dammit. And fools like me will finish an entire Time magazine and grocery coupon booklet with my babe on my lap before the magic (or frustration) kicks in.

And yet, here I am at nineteen months dear Chewy, stuffing a saggy ol’ boob to quiet your premature nightmares, and clinging onto every chubby toed inch of baby-ness that I’ve known. And what have I known? Was it enough? Good enough? Good enough for you to remember? Or better still, to forget?

“His baby fat has started to disappear”, noted Big Byte as he stared at the little arm, a child’s arm, slipping out of his brother’s much-loved dump truck hand-me-down t-shirt. “Fuck you”, I retorted, rather maturely.

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