May squeals with delight. It’s like no one has ever made her play before—certainly not her exhausted mother with a*****e full of Gucci bags under her eyes. “She isn’t being cute today. She’s being a menace.”
“Who’s a cute widdle menace?” June amends, eliciting another squeal from my baby.
“Cute widdle traitor” is more like it.
I sigh and go back to work. “Thanks for rushing over. I don’t know what was wrong with her. She just kept screaming.”
“Silly me. I thought I’d been doing that for two months already.”
“That was honeymoon parenthood,” she declares. “This is real parenthood, where babies scream for no reason and always have dirty diapers. Get used to it, Mommy.”
Mommy. I don’t know why the word jars against my ears, but it does, like tiny nails on a chalkboard. “Mm.”
June switch
