The Choice
Patricia's fat little hands ball into fists which she flails constantly in the air.
Filthy little things, covered in spit and food and Lord knows what all. The horrible little beast eats constantly. I cannot throw enough cheerios and rice cereal onto her plastic tray. Yet, it's the only way to shut her up, the babbling, the screaming. She is fat and lazy and incoherent. She smells horrible. That it's all contained in a smiling duck embossed leotard just seems all the more hideous. My friend Barbara suggested that I find something that 'snaps at the crotch'…but is that legal? I mean would I need a special license?
"CHANGE HER DIAPER!" my husband says.
As if it was that simple. There is no diaper. That's why booster seats are made of (recycled) plastic, why I regularly let the neighbors dog into the house; and why I've had a drain installed in the cement floor of the nursery/garage. If she doesn't like wallowing in shit, she'll do something about it. We have 4 bathrooms in this house, for fuck's sake. She has 3 litter boxes to choose from.
Matthew blames me that the child is stupid. Although he claims that she isn't stupid, that she is "neglected"…that I'm "unfair" and "harsh…" "Insane," even!
This from the man who won't sleep with me until I've lost 80 pounds and stopped drinking rubbing alcohol (with a splash of vermouth and 2 sticks of gum – a Dentini, if you will. To lose weight it's an unparalleled buzz/diuretic. Plus, four out of 5 Dentists recommend it.)
"You wanted a child, Hillary!" Mathew says.
No, I wanted a choice. Somehow it's my fault that she isn't clean and cute! That she is NOT unconditionally lovable. He acts as if there is something wrong with me! I think I could love a blonde baby with ringlet curls and huge blue eyes. Something photogenic. This one has a huge bald head at the center of which sits two beady sea-green holes. She already needs her chin worked on.
I saw an Asian baby on tv that I wouldn't mind having.
"You could do something with her," Mathew whines, and for a moment I am encouraged. I may even have clapped. I know I looked at the wood chipper.
"Give her a bath! Put some of your little outfits on her!" he gestures at Mr. Pats carpet-covered bureau, overflowing with kitty coutier. Scarves, furr hoodies, sweaters… mostly last season's stuff. Still, I'm sure I gasped.
As if the cat's cashmere sweater and matching tail cozy would fit that round little shit roast. I couldn't squeeze Patricia into two of Mr. Pats stretchiest funsies (like onesies, only with a hole for the tail!) sewn together!
Mr. Pats is just a baby, too, really, and yet he is adorable and fun and self-sufficient. At least he doesn't shit himself and expect someone else to clean it up. He buries his messes in scented sand. He licks his own ass clean. I have a purse that matches his collar.
Patricia eats kitty litter. Jabbers at the turds.
She screams when I turn the hose on her.
If my television volume didn't go all the way to 65 I think I'd go insane…
God, it is so much work. I'm sure we wouldn't be having this problem if Mathew had ethics about screwing something tits up and minty-fresh 2 years ago. I'd have a Prius or a Labradoodle. Something I could put on Craig's list.
