It’s as if it happens in slow motion, the dawning realization that it’s me, ME, looming over him, and then his face just crumples.ĭoes it hurt your feelings, Sal asked. The first couple of times we thought it was a fluke. Recently I’ve noticed that the baby cries every time he sees me. Then -īut I cut her off and told her I got the point. If you died, I asked Sal, and Jamie too, like both of you died in some tragic freak accident, would I be in charge of your baby? He’s frustrated to discover it’s just my lackluster breast. Sometimes Sal’s baby tries to bury his face in my nipple and makes a sound like a truffle-hunting pig. It made me wonder what it was we were actively grieving. I ran into a friend on the street, a young father, and he said to me wryly: That baby is always shrouded. He holds my fingers in his little hands and sometimes falls asleep like that. And that’s me! He always looks a little dispirited to see the two of us again, still at it.
So how do I know whether Sal’s baby is suffering? What I do is stop at every car window and stare into our reflection together to make sure we are both real and intact. The problem is the baby is always facing away from me and protected from the sun. When I walk him Sal can answer emails for a little while, do the laundry. I like to pretend I’m his nanny - that’s what people must think of us, with this little white baby curled up against me. His trachea, she said, is exactly blueberry size. Is he breathing normally? She saw me letting him chew a blueberry, and she flinched. When she hands the baby over to me I worry that he is too cold, or too hot. Those were the words she used: cutest little turd. She told me he had the “cutest little turd” the other day. And then she would say: Just kidding.īut of course when I leave the room she looks down at that baby and grins. When the baby was first born she would say to me: Can you do a little molly and I’ll watch? So I know someone is having a nice time. She only does them on special occasions, like at weddings or IMAX movies. I hope it’s a teenager, experiencing freedom for the first time. I think I smell it through the window, said Sal.
What are you? I asked her, some sort of TSA dog? Sal sniffed the air and said: Do you smell weed? But I don’t want to spend too much time thinking about it. I think it’s probably something libidinal, I told her. Have I tasted it? she asks them incredulously. They say it in a low whisper, urgent and conspiratorial. Sal told me that when she breastfeeds around men she knows, they always ask her if she’s tasted it. Has anyone sucked on your nipples before? she asked. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. When Sal had her baby, I watched her breastfeed her son in her living room.