I watch a movie while my baby sleeps with my nipple in his mouth. In it, a woman tires of romantic fantasy and declares: "I want something real." It makes me think of my sister who watched a British spy drama and, just when the hunk got undressed and oily, her ordinary-looking husband came into the room asking if she wanted Chinese for dinner.

The stark difference between something real and something unreal.

Sometimes, in the library's playroom, my baby licks the wall.

The woman in the movie has the kind of perky breasts that look like they've never fed a child.

My baby and I are laid up with colds for two weeks—probably because of the wall licking.

My husband gets the cold too, but his goes away in two days. He works in the mayor's office with adults and doesn't go to storytime or playgroups with bands of babies. He holds me close at night, even though I trumpet yellow mucus into a Kleenex every ten minutes.

In the movie, the woman gets her something real and it's a bit of a letdown. I think, if I looked like her, I'd walk around naked all the time. I'd pull out my small breasts and point them at my husband while he ate breakfast.

My baby wakes up just before the movie ends and everything is new again. Everything he sees and feels is astonishing and real. The first thing he reaches for is me.


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