Saturday we went and shivered at the beach for awhile: me, Michele, Jason, Erica. Later, we met up with Clinton Jarvis whose name has a funny story behind it, and we went for ice cream. The strange-eyed baby in the booth behind us kept turning around to give us a toothless, gooey grin, until I finally said “I want a baby!” The baby’s mother heard me and tightened her lips and her grip on the kid, I suppose because you never know who will turn out to be a snatcher, and my crew looked at me with identically horrified expressions. (Except Clinton Jarvis, who calmly continued eating his ice cream and only scooted his chair a little away from me.)
Well I can’t help it. Ever since the family rugrat visited it’s all I can think about. All day long I have the imaginary weight of a one year old on my hip. My hair is coated in little imaginary strands of drool, my ears ache from imaginary tantrums, my head hurts from imaginary sleepless nights. Tiny imaginary hands tug on my earrings and little imaginary feet go toddling towards the edge of the pool and I am, in imagination, totally blissed out.
In other non-psychotic-related news, Dan left for the monastery yesterday and The Lad leaves Europe tomorrow. Good luck, guys.
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