Another birthday come and gone.
A child is five and a half months old.
She is eating breast milk and rice.
It’s a single grain cereal.
One child is eating rice.
Another child is boxing.
And again, I’m father of the year.
Keep hearing stories,
“Be careful with your dog!”
“Dog and new babies don’t mix!”
“Like oil and vinegar!”
“Or, cats and paper
So far, no incidents.
Except the dog thinks Sara is her own daughter.
Constantly licking her feet, hands, head.
I mean, I’m not letting them go to Europe together.
They’re not renting a car and going cross country.
(Neither of them are 25 years of age, so would be quite an expensive jaunt.)
Raffy is boxing, reading, dancing, calling me a loser.
Ya know, typical kids stuff.
We went to a park and he was looking after a three year old
Three year old came back alive.
And let’s leave it at that.
That was the best possible outcome.
Did the 3 year old need a change of clothies?
Did the three year old venture out on some rocks?
Anyway, he’s alive. And such a cutie.
I joined a mom’s group.
We walk around with our babies.
We make funny faces.
I don’t breastfeed (obviously), my wife does.
We talk about life, homes, acting.
We only met once, but it went really well.
I think they’re real.
I think they’re authentic.
I’m curious about them, and they seem curious about us.
Oh, and my play The Unaccompanied Minor was a smash hit at the Fringe.