Friday, November 26, 2004


I type this before you a spit-upon woman, spotted with cereal, formula, a wide variety of drool, and several unidentifiable stains I am loathe to investigate too deeply.

This after four hours in charge of Jim The Baby Nephew, at the end of which I was positive enough time had passed that it was time to take him to Freshman Orientation at his college of choice.

Things went well, considering I went to the kitchen to prepare a dish of cereal, and after ten minutes of adding cereal and drizzling in some water and adding cereal and drizzling in some water and adding cereal and drizzling in some water my mother finally came in to see what was taking so long.

“I can’t get the consistency right,” I said, throwing Jim’s tiny-tiny spoon down in frustration.

She watched for a moment. “That’s not cereal,” she said.

Okay, so the soy formula and the rice cereal are different things. I don’t understand what all the fuss was about; it’s all going to end up in spewn form on my shoulder anyway.

“Aunt Tink is horrifyingly incompetent, isn't she,” I crooned as I spooned the CEREAL into my nephew.

For months I have been looking for elements of myself in this child, and I think I’ve finally found one. As my sister put him to bed, I watched as he curled into a ball, started rubbing his little feet together, and put a thumb in his mouth, exactly the same position his aunt takes at night, only without the thumb, unless the Reds have had a particularly bad night with the bullpen.

naptime at:

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