by Nicole Brogdon
Baby’s father slips from bed at seven, dons a clean blue button-down that highlights his eyes. Tangled in sheets in a pale nightgown, I stink of milk, Baby Boy belly-down on me, chests rising and falling together. My husband’s vetiver cologne trails him—the big man travels outside, to the world of traffic, espressos, commerce. We don’t follow.
Baby lifts his curly head, mumbling, “Finally, we’re alone.” He snuggles his chin deep between my breasts, then nurses. I wrap my hands like stirrups around Baby’s lovely feet. An hour later, I lift Baby, fleshy legs dangling, hoisting him, seat-belting him into his bouncy chair. I pee, he watches. I hand him a rattle, I shower.
“Mommy! Stay in my line of vision!”
I emerge, angle his chair toward the glass shower. Then water and almond soap change me from ripe animal to human. Baby throws the rattle at the shower, pumping his legs, air-running.
“Sing ‘Red Dirt Girl!’”
I croon, he claps.
My life and my waistline stay loose and baggy. My husband’s life continues—work, gym, cocktails. Sometimes he slides a firm leg over my tired body, moaning, reaching beneath my nightgown. But our big baby, with glow-in-the-dark marbles for eyes, suddenly sits up, then topples hard between us onto his father’s stiff leg. Husband cries out in pain, Baby howls. I push Husband, I reach for Baby, pressing my nose into the sweet satisfying dope of his scalp. Lullabying.
Later, I toss Baby my nightie, recline in my bathrobe on the couch.
“No Cloth-Mommy!” Baby yells. “Real Mommy!”
Kate in Mommy Group suggests I clarify night time to Baby. At 3 AM, I carry Baby to his room curtains. “See? Dark night. The sun sleeping, people sleeping. Good night humans! Goodnight squirrels!”
He looks for squirrels.
“Don’t wake me, nights, unless you’re sick!”
Next time Baby fake-coughs near me, I carry him to his room—a planetarium with stick-on stars and planets—tucking Baby into astronaut print sheets, red Mars glowing over his crib. I stumble to bed, hiding beneath a pillow.
Morning, my husband gone, Baby sits propped on the couch naked, legs splayed, popcorn bowl in his lap, pulling his penis, watching black-and-white Twilight Zone reruns.
I finger his silky mouth—“No choking.”
He bats my hand. “Go! It’s the best part! The mannequin comes alive!”
We drive to the park. Baby calls from the backseat, “Frappuccino stop!”.
“No,” I answer. “Too sugary.”
He kicks my seat-back, straining against straps, screaming.
At the park, toddlers hurl rocks at each other’s eyes.
“Stop it!” I hiss at the delinquents.
“Bastards!” Baby yells. I swoop him away, past two open-mouthed mothers in suits. “Bad parents!” he yells.
We attend Library Baby Story Hour, babies with full diapers grinding on stuffed dinosaurs. The fresh-faced librarian sings, “One fish, two fish, redfish, bluefish!”
Baby says, “Simplistic. Yawn. I need a latte!”
I drive him to Starbucks for a juice. He shoplifts the New York Times.
Finger games, diaper changes, books, Animal Planet. Baby, always babbling, stroking. Not allowing anyone else touch him. After dinner, his father leans, “Heh, little man!”. Baby shrieks like he’s being roasted. Baby begins bedtime sprawled on my chest, before wandering the house, lurching like a caveman. I lift my head—empty, heavy—as Baby’s bare feet pad over tiles, his hands rifle through drawers. My husband rests in stillness, a male model in a pajama ad. I’m too exhausted to fetch Baby.
One morning, Baby zooms past, screwdrivers in hands, orange thunderbolt tattoos zig-zagging his calves. He points, “Be gentle with these at bath time. Vroom.”
“How?”
“Rex Tattoos. I drove. Get lightning tattoos on your breasts!”
Baby hunches under the toilet vent, smoking cigarettes.
I snatch the lit stick. “Where did you get these?”
“Relax. Low tar. Better than your pills.”
Baby never rests. I am the only one who hears, who understands, his changing vocabulary. He’s not like other babies in cafes or supermarkets, peaceful objects in kangaroo carriers. I can’t fully sleep—Baby might film himself for YouTube, playing with kitchen knives.
He’s sitting in my lap, unbuttoning my blouse for nursie. He stops, holding my chin in both hands, his long lashes beckoning like fingers. “Mommy. This morning, Father packed his gym bag—hiding special underwear inside. Tomato red.” Baby lowers his eyes. “He whispers on the phone, calling someone, ‘Baby.’ He’s cheating on us.” His words, a roundhouse kick to my chest, crumple me.
Baby slaps my face.
I yelp. “Gentle touch.”
Baby, that forceful Buddha, presses his massive forehead against mine. “We don’t need Father.” He scans for contributions. “Father gave sperm. Anyway, it’s an alimony state. We’re fine.” Collapsing against my chest, Baby murmurs, “I will never leave you.”
I pack Husband’s suitcases for him.
Dark, aging crescents underscore my eyes. More Grandma than Ma. Living alone with Baby, our days have no comforting circadian rhythm, no rise and fall of purposes. Baby’s skin glows, he chatters spontaneous poems. “Mommy, your eyes are like two ponds. I swim naked in them.” Baby grows tall—no interest in potty-training. I buy him deodorant, Clearasil, a razor. His thick wrestler legs need exercise.
Outside, I teach him to sprint through the front yard, past the bay window, circling the house. I sit inside, watching him through the window, one—or both—of us, in a fishbowl.
“Afterwards, you smoke a bowl with me!” he hollers. “And play Mortal Kombat!
I’m waving, dozing. “Keep going.”
“Look at me!” He startles me awake, still leaping outside. Staying. My hair hangs in long grey snakes now over my shoulders. I could lock him out of the house—but he’d just find the garage tools, breaking and entering.
Baby’s swift legs are hairy, his body stretching, loaded diaper hanging dangerously by one Velcro corner. A beautiful savage male-boy, becoming a man. I can’t turn away.
Nicole Brogdon is an Austin TX trauma therapist interested in strugglers and stories, fiction in Vestal Review, Cleaver, Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, Bright Flash, SoFloPoJo, Cafe Irreal, 101Words, Centifictionist, etc. Best Microfiction 2024; Best Microfiction 2025. Long ago, she earned a Masters in Writing @U of Houston. Twitter NBrogdonWrites! & nbrogdonwrites.bsky.social.
Photo by Joseph Corl on Unsplash
