Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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Oh, Henry!

Never, not even in my randy college days has there been so much pawing at my chest and sucking on my nipples.

Leave it to a boy. Violet could go either way, bottle or boob. But the little man is all about the big boobs.


But after all my ambivalent talk about breastfeeding, I am milking like a dairy cow. I am whipping out boob in spite of the obvious distaste on Violet's face when she glimpses the bowling balls come rolling out. She looks at me like I've grown a third head or something and yeah, they're damn near the size of heads so that could very well be what she's thinking.

The little dude farts louder than Serge and poops, like, every ten minutes. I think he's fucking with me, I really do. I'll change his diaper, cream up his buns and powder his balls (now I understand why some men have that baby fetish thing - OY VEY!) and just when I get the damn onesie all buttoned up his face turns purple, he grunts and there is the unmistakable sound of bowels unleashing. And - I swear to god - he grins at me. Could Serge be teaching him this shit?

Grinning shitter. Who, of course, looks just like his dad. So the whole thing is just weird. Now there are two boob sucking, farting, recreational poopers up in the house.

Violet and I could use some girl time.