Diaper Bag

Bottles and stained blankets, three different types of pediatrician-recommended creams 

and fine white powder. (The baby is still covered in angry red patches.) Wipes 

for when shit gets everywhere, because of course it will. When the car seat 

doesn’t snap into place, I slap the furniture then smile at my baby 

with an avalanche of softness. By the time we both get into the car 

he’s only wearing one sock. There’s a booger in my tangled hair. His or mine? It doesn’t matter.

We’ve both been crying. I feel the oneness of our snot universe. 

My head is pounding. There’s a broken bracelet with teeth marks, a stuffed animal that plays

obnoxious songs, an orange toy car missing the bumper, an overpriced thermos of lukewarm tea

from a casino (open 24/7 when nothing else is), a silicone spoon, two baby thermometers (only

one will work at a given time) and a lollipop wrapper 

all rattling against my skull. Luckily, after I gave birth plastic grew 

over my core and nipples and forehead wrinkles, now smooth as a Barbie, without needs 

or opinions, while my pink lips snapped 

into a perfect rubber band. “How sexy,” my husband jokes about my snot

when I fall ill from sleepless nights. He says “blowjob” and 

I might murder him with my teeth. 

I’ll be accepting unsolicited advice from strangers at 3 pm via the mail slot 

slashed into my abdomen. But shhhhh, please judge us quietly. The baby finally 

fell asleep in my lap.