Today while you were napping, my handsome son, Mommy wrote a short 500 word "story". In order to be a better writer and to hopefully keep from continually boring people to death (seriously the law suits are getting out of control) I am now enrolled in a creative writing course. Creative Writing (Prose) literary fiction to be all technical and junk about it. Below I have reused my first assignment (a self portrait) as a post. TWOFER! Since I wrote it during nap time it totally counts and I don't feel bad about reusing.
“What goop should we eat today Big Boy?” I stand
before the cupboard debating which prefabbed cube of vegetable flavored mush to
feed my son. I can’t believe I feed my son this gestational colored slop. “Do we want fruit or vegetables?” I ask,
waiting for an intelligible response from my unintelligible ten month old. “Da
da da vuuuuuurzzzm,” my son decrees, sitting in his high-chair alternating
between eating his cheerios and watching them skid across the linoleum when he
beats his little fist on the tray. His
lordship is in high spirits today, all may be merry.
I take his charge to mean fruit and it from its
place. I don’t feel as horrible spooning the faux fruits into his mouth as I do
the vegetables, it feels like less of a lie. I take the three short steps from
the cupboard in, our small white-paneled kitchen, to his highchair and sit
across from him. I scootch my chair a little closer, and smooth his red-gold baby
curls back from his forehead. My utensils are already placed and waiting beside
me on the table, an arsenal of brightly colored, ergonomically designed spoons,
their mismatched patterns are an affront to the calm sophistication of the chartreuse
tablecloth. A pristine paper towel and off to the side a Sippy cup that’s most
often used as a missile, rather than for hydration.
While ripping
the foil off the container marked “Roasted apples”, I’m splattered with pieces
of pulverized apple flesh, wincing at the sudden, though not unexpected, shower
and place the foil in line beside the others. It’s one of the nicer smelling
substances I’ve been perfumed with today.
Stirring the roasted apples my son and I start in on
our mealtime chatter. His sweet baby chatter fills the kitchen overtaking the
summer sounds outside, the cicadas and birds carry on a gentle background noise
ebbing in and out of our stories. This is one of our favorite parts of the day.
No messes for mommy to clean are clamoring for my attention, no toys demanding his
care.
He only allows me a few attempts to feed him, before
relieving me of my spoon and feeding himself. He waves his half empty spoon in
the air, splattering us both with more apples in his gleeful gestures. He
laughs as he puts the spoon back in his mouth, clenching and unclenching it between
his teeth to make it dance. I laugh at his slapstick while I rub the residue
off my glasses.
The tribal paint on his face and tray are soft
beiges and light browns, subdued in hue but shining in texture. The fresh
markings are easy to wipe away with his bib, but the older ones will have to
wait for his bath.
I remove the tray from his highchair and give the
final mealtime command. “Up”. He smiles and waves his baby sweet arms at me and
I lift him from his chair. Hidden cheerios fall off his lap.
