Around midday
I did the adult thing.
I put on
pants.
Though the interlude of my being clothed was brief.
Done for the
show of yes, I’m alive, don’t worry, I haven’t being eaten alive by the bats and
mice squeaking and scratching directly above my bedroom in the attic day and
night..
And I almost
pulled it off.
Jeans and a
blouse.
I was ready
to wear, and ready to go.
Going about
normal human business.. Going to the loo…
Participating in normal human
interactions.
Asking my host sister about school… Playing with the baby…
But.. Wait...
Did the baby just throw up on me?
I wasn't sure
for a moment. But yes, yes, there was that unmistakable baby vomit smell…
I wasn't
there to witness the feeding, but even I knew she felt a little heavy around
the middle. A little thick. Did I know she’d just been fed?
Probably
shouldn't have popped her up in the air a couple times. Or tickled her.
Because she
erupted. And baby vomit was splattered down my front. On the shirt that I’d
just shrugged into.
Was the universe trying to tell me something?
That I never
should have bothered with the charade of human productivity and just remained
in my pajamas and continue to be blissfully lazy on this four day weekend where
idleness shall pass for l'habituel?
Or had I
just purposely rough-housed a baby to trigger an Exorcist-esque episode, where I
then had an excuse to slip off my clothes and saunter back to my cave?
 |
| planning her next upchuck sneak attack... my littlest host sister. |