I am writing with my laptop balanced on one knee, tilted against a stool, as Eden sprawls on my lap, mostly asleep for a few hard-earned minutes.
This is her third diaper in about an hour. She pooped on my leg somehow. Damn cloth diapers. I put a disposable on her, casually contributing to the destruction of the environment to avoid poop on my legs.
I am thinking about Maine. I have never been there, but it is paradise in my mind. Maine is the land of milk and honey.
Not breastmilk, though. It shouldn’t squirt like that, but it does. I walk around, milk spurting freely from my nipples, cascading down my ribcage, unstoppable. I think of myself as a cow. Eden’s cow.
She cries— “Come here, cow,” I say in my commanding Eden voice, “Ready your udder. I require sustenance.”
“Right away,” I say obediently, in my cow voice. “Your cow is here, at your service.”
“I am displeased, cow. You are slow.”
“I’m sorry. I am just a humble cow. I’m not very fast-moving, like a horse.”
“Hmm. Indeed. Still, you annoy me.”
“Enough, cow. Feed me the milk.”
Bear and I imagine Eden as a bit of a future galactic conqueror and possible Empress of All Things. She will command great fleets of battleships, bigger than the Death Star.
I am writing this on a Monday morning, and I feel that I should be working. It occurs to me that this is the first time in a very long time that I have not worked for longer than a two day stretch. It’s been over a month now and there is still no time. But strangely, I’m not as stressed out about that as I expected I’d be. I feel just as ambitious, in the sense that when I contemplate my mortality, as I do with neurotic frequency, I think, “I have to write books! Then I can die.” But I don’t feel quite as sharply that I’m failing right now, or not succeeding enough. Or maybe it’s just that I’m thinking more about other things and so my potential failure doesn’t seem as pressing.
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