Another lovely visit to Semiahmoo Family Place, where Simone can cavort and drool and chew with and on a wide assortment of other children and toys. I should mention the only man there–at least during our last two visits–has been Papa Harry. Strange how discussions of breast-feeding, vaginal healing (ask your mom about that one, please) and a host of other “womanly” topics, previously talked about with generous vigor and volume, subside to meager mutterings when I enter the air space. I glean residual snippets, and given my mind’s ability to create its own context (note how I refer to my mind as something extraneous from myself), piece them together into my own sad conversations.

“…I know, they’re so raw…” –but I’ve heard linseed oil works like a son-of-a-bitch.

“…it’s the let down that I find really painful…” –honey, join the club.

“…Roger doesn’t treat me the same way anymore…” –*snort* okay, I made that last one up.

Pathetic yes? I guess I better go ahead and put a Do Not Read Until You’re Eighteen sticker on this post.

I just want to fit in, Simone. A man among women. I want chafed nipples and spousal insecurities. Oh wait, I forgot I made that last one up. Do I really want to walk through the doors of such a hallowed gathering of moms and get the heyyyy girrrl, how are ya? Well maybe not. Who am I, some homecoming queen?

I watched you grab a toy today, a small, wooden, yellow caboose sitting amongst other train cars on an unused wooden track. You held it up over your head and fixed your blue eyes on me, giving a huge cheer at locating such a monumental treasure. A sprig of hair, a precarious remnant of this morning’s bed-head, flopped around like an over-burdened, leaning peony. I was with you, Baby Girl. All the way. Until someone’s little shit of a kid came by and snatched the caboose from your hands to take as their own. No one said a word. And Papa Harry, counting to ten several times before smiling (read: baring his teeth), bestowed upon you a commentary on the virtues of sharing.

Of course you weren’t concerned. Many other wooden train cars were within reach. But I fumed for a second or thirty. Ohhhh, I get it. I’m not one of you, so my kid can have toys ripped out of her hands by your slack-jawed little bastard of a child who… deep breaths, deep breaths. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… Okay, no big deal. Oh look a ball. And one mother says she likes your shirt, which I confess to putting on you backwards this morning–causing me great confusion as to why a kid’s shirt would expose so much future cleavage. Glad I sorted that one out before we left the house. And the kid who stole your toy is nice enough. He came back and patted your head. How benevolent of him. Oh, and I got a free cake to take home. Free cake (insert triumphant music here)!

You’re going to be alright, Simone.

Not so sure about myself, though.