by Elizabeth Bastos

(Just who is this Bastos?)

 Dear Mommy

  Mommy,

  The womb is wonderful. It’s nice and plush and tastefully decorated. I can get whatever I like (cupcakes, steak, braised baby bok choy) whenever I want it (usually in the middle of the night). Many thanks!

  But sometimes when I’m sleeping or snacking—your heart starts pounding. When I was littler, the size of a bean, I used to wonder what the hell was happening. Now, I’m the size of a gourd and wiser. I know now that you are in a meeting, driving in traffic, or getting mad at Daddy because the dishes are still in the sink.

  I know meetings are a drag, traffic is aggravating, and dishes need to be done. But relax, Mommy. You’re driving me nuts. Can’t I wait to be anxious until after I’m born?

  Life is a mess. I can hear the news, sense the tension. NPR is on so much that soon I’ll surprise you by appearing to listen to Morning Edition. But I don’t want to be in the thick of things yet. In utero may be my only time to really to muse, to contemplate, to live in the watery and gravity-less moment and watch my toes grow. Don’t deny me! Sometimes you wish you could go back yourself—

  Yes, it’s true that wealth is unequally distributed, bad things happen to good people, and Bush is a moron. Stop dwelling. Stop flooding me with stress hormones. After I’m born we’ll Robin Hood around town. I’ll sit facing outward in one of those baby backpacks and we’ll go forth together as a force for the good, for functional non-profits, for financial transparency, sustainable energy. But for now, take it easy.

  Think of good things: My little lungs are growing! Everyone thinks you look so cute and round. Swan on the couch; eat bon bons and daydream about me. Let Daddy to the dishes.

  Love,

  Baby

 We fought about vegetables last night, proving that nothing in marriage is sacred. Anything can set you off. Laundry, parties to which your brother in law and in his wife must be invited because otherwise what would they think, and now even the innocent.

 Beets

   I said, “The beets are wilted.”
  He said, “No they’re not.

(Read more...)

Bastos Bio:

Elizabeth Miller Bastos, a displaced Pittsburgher, currently lives in Cambridge, MA with her husband Javier and an assortment of fish and plants. She daylights as a mid-level fundraising executive and moonlights as a freelance writer. Her work has appeared in McSweeney's, The Appalachian Mountain Club Magazine, JewishHistory.com, Poetism.com and in Inkwell Magazine. She can be reached at seapup_3 [at] juno [dot]com.

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