The Twinkies

F likes to pat her own head while she nurses in the evening.

The other night, after F was done nursing, I looked at her lying on my bed and bent down to kiss her cheek and she wrapped her arm around my neck and pulled me to her in a hug.

I’ve been feeling a bit of SAHM neurosis lately. Well, that’s a pretty mild way of putting it. I’ve been feeling like my life is empty of anything except the overwhelming endlessness of childcare and house work.

(I also feel a horrified fascination with the question of how working mothers do it. Sure, someone watches the children during the day but the same amount of laundry accumulates, food still needs to be prepared, dishes still need to be done. Don’t tell me that your husbands (and, yes, I know that’s heterocentric) pick up the slack. Or do they? How do you DO this?)

Anyway, there is nothing to add a little “I suck, Mozart was dead by my age” seasoning to the sauce of SAHM inadequacy than getting your college alumni magazine. My roommate? On the College Board of Governors. A girl from my peer group? Stationed in Kabul where she is “providing strategic analysis of the political-military situation in Afghanistan to the commanding general.” Another girl from my class? Yeah, her photographs are popping up in more and more NYC museums.

Gotta go. Butts to wipe. Tomatillo sauce to make. Maybe when I’m done with that I can tackle more thank you notes, or, for a rolicking good time, rub orange beeswax into the wood furniture.

Eight is the number of the teet for Fi, there were eight teeth and eight teeth there were. Eight. Eight teeth.

Well, this explains Monday’s excessive poop output.

My New Year’s resolution was to make every Bon Appetite cover recipie. So far…