An hour ago I’m stealing a few minutes at the computer working on my latest sewing-geek project when I hear my Husband and Boy coming out of the bedroom upstairs. I know: bath time is over and Nels is dressed ready for bed and looking for Mama. No words need to be spoken – dutifully, with half a shudder I get up from my perch, automatically unfastening my bra and shuffling up the steps to the usual armchair when I realize that, more or less, I am a Breastfeeding Prostitute. This is further – disturbingly – substantiated as I come through the door and see my son standing in the hallway, his head swinging back and forth with a mad glint in his eye. He sees me and laughs and lunges toward me, ham-fisted and groping, like a frat boy on Friday night. Zeroing in on the boobs. Nursing he possessively holds one or both breasts in his hands and casts a suspicious eye on anyone who looks like they may usurp his coveted position as King Tit of America.
Of course, what is probably more true is that it’s the frat boys who take after the baby – they didn’t get enough of it as tots and still want “mommy”. Don’t mention this to them as they will generally get offended and drink beer and grope tits.
In other news, I am going to upgrade my blog from PG-13 to rated R and say I finally got that Motherfucking, Cocksucking, Felching Euro-Crap Ottobre dress done about five minutes ago. It turned out more or less like it was SUPPOSED to but now I’m going to refuse to let Sophie wear it and either frame it or burn it. Longing, deprivation, and resentment.
I am also too poor to buy any more fabric to make more clothes right now. This is a real bummer and almost unbearable to even TYPE out. On the bright side my parents (but not Rotten Uncle Billy) are coming up for a few days tomorrow. I am looking forward to seeing them. Maybe my mom will pity me and buy fabric or steak or something I want.