9-6-12 The prompt: Choose something big Universe
Choose something small baby
Choose a texture smooth
Choose something green baby poop
The small mind wandered. The eyes explored the confines of the room. A rumbling down below announced the arrival of the warm smooth stinging stuff. A small, dignified baby grunt accompanied it. The feet kicked. Arms waved. The sting kicked in, and the sound came unabashed and strident. “Waaaaaaaaa!”
Eleanor put the manuscript aside and got up for the changing. “Motherhood surely isn’t all it’s cracked up to be”, she thought. Lack of sleep, sore boobs, an understanding but recalcitrant husband who still gags at a changing. And best of all, green poop every two hours. Next kid, she’s making Bob take paternity leave and grow boobs so he can feed the little doink and she can keep on teaching. A hormone shot here, a bit of “We must, we must” exercising there, and he would shape up just fine.
“Hello, little sweetums, have you brought mommy another present?” She cooed down at the small, bright red face and set herself for the act of love that changing a young baby’s diaper is. A quick tug of tabs, slip, wrap, toss, wipe, wipe again, wipe yet again, how does he do it and still gain weight? One-handed grab for a fresh diaper, feet in the other hand, flip of the wrist, slip, sprinkle and wrapped up once again. Like a little baby present .
“Sonny boy, you and I are going exploring today. Out into the wide outdoors. I need it, you need it, and we’ll both be happier for it.” A stroll outside, baby facing out in the chest carrier like an animate, sentient growth. Wide eyed and taking in the entire universe.
What will the child of a philosophy professor think about? Why am I here? Where is here? Why does Food make those cooing noises? Food isn’t necessary right now. Warmth and snuggle are enough. Happy. Look up. And up. And up. The little jaw drops, the eyes wide. Between here and there is a lot of stuff, some seen and heard and felt, and some just sensed. Louder noises from the wind and birds, the repetitive rush of air into and out of Food as I am borne along. The softer noises. The Music of the Spheres. The background voices all around. Calling me out. Beckoning me forward and up. If Food had not restrained me, I would surely go to the voices. They can feed me, too.