Her daughter squeals at the attention.
Me, I’m sitting there sickened by them. I was already in a bad mood, totally exhausted from months of disrupted sleep; but still, this is just too much this time.
“Weeeeeee! Weeeeee! UP goes my gorgeous girl!! The most GORGEOUS baby in the world!”
I smile politely, fighting the urge to grab one of her pistoning arms and hiss, “HEY – I kiss my baby too, you know. LOTS. Just not right NOW.”
Said baby, Fin, is on the rug beside me. He looks on as Sandra and Kelly, in their coordinated outfits, commence with some gleeful wrestling.
I don’t know what to say. It’s like they’re having a moment, but the moment goes on and on. I look down at my six-month-old son and wonder if I’ve depressed him by not cooing enough; by not wrestling him enough; by not generating enough hyperbole around him.
Sandra and Kelly finally rest, panting like – dare I say it – spent lovers. And I kind of feel like I’ve been trapped in a honeymoon suite watching friends make out. To break the tension, I groan loudly and stretch.
“Oh MAN, I am t-i-r-e-d.”
“You look a bit run-down,” Sandra says. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah . . . Just the usual stuff, you know . . . motherhood. . .”
“Phew. . . motherhood, right?”
“Mm,” she says, distracted.
I get the distinct feeling Sandra hasn’t been struggling much with motherhood lately. I’m ashamed to admit I have a pang of nostalgia for when she used to complain, and didn’t slather her daughter with all this manic adoration.