Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Approaching Monday

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Baby's still sick.
Baby makes a wheeze
like he's clearing his throat--
ahem--I am here--
I can't breathe.
My brother used to clear his throat,
after making definitive statements,
as if to say
Right? Right?
He also chewed ice
and twirled his leg hair.
Baby says I'm stupid.
Baby's not a baby anymore.
Baby doesn't love me anymore.
Medicine makes baby mean.
He shuts the door in my face.
When baby was a baby,
he nursed with little smacks
--ahem = love.
My breasts are lumps of wood.
Baby's not a baby anymore.
Carry me, he says.
Carry me.
His weight fills my chest.
His head on my shoulder
--his thumb in his cheek--
these stairs carry us closer.
Baby says he loves me.
Right? Right?

Kelly Sundberg’s essays have appeared in the literary journals Slice Magazine, Reed Magazine, flyway, Fringe, and others. She has an MFA in Literary Nonfiction from West Virginia University, and she currently lives in Morgantown, West Virginia, with her spouse, six-year-old son, and two very hyper dogs.

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nice post thanks for this post.
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