Let Satirical Mama entertain you. Biting, controversial, satirical and witty are the best ways to describe the multitude of lenses through which I observe the world I live in.
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I think you're cute, I think you're sweet, But my darling daughter, dinner you must eat! Food is to digest, to help you grow, Tis not for practising your pitcher's throw. I spent hours preparing the menu, shopping at the grocery store, A gourmet pureed feast I concocted that you deemed fit for the floor. As for the meager few bites that made it to your mouth, Rasberry-blown out with little food bits that trickled down south. Pasta and chicken are to be eaten with grace, So please stop spitting it in mommy's face. Chewing each bite slowly is considered polite, Young lady it's unbecoming to start a food fight. While you may disagree with mommy's fashion choice, Wearing baby food was never in season says Ms. Wintour's voice. Going to bed hungry my infant is a notion quite absured, You'll wake up too quickly, mommy's sleep will be disturbed. A struggle to force feed you seems pointless at this junction, Off four hours of sleep tonight I will find a way to function. And while you will go to bed with an empty belly, Eight hours later you'll awaken with a full diaper, quite smelly. The sun will greet us bright and early with breakfast anew, My nightly prayer hopefully answered, no food struggle with you. The chaos of baby-food fusion I have resigned to accept, Each abstract expressionist food floor tableau away will be swept. Humour now found in the joy you have making a food-nami, A paparazzo of your performance art is now your mommy. The parental battle with baby to eat is a time-honoured tradition, One comes to learn that children must eat of their own volition.
Those are possibly my names. Those words are what I keep hearing over, and over, and over, and over again. Did my mom and dad even pick a name for me? I wonder. I think I heard them say “Sue” at some point since I first saw the bright light and then lay on a soft, squishy surface. Something called ‘skin-to-skin’. I drink out of a bottle. Maybe, the liquid I’m drinking is Vodka or Corona? Or, both? I see my Mommy and Daddy drinking out of bottles, too. But, those could also be my names. My name could also be Poo—I hear that word said a lot, too. No one calls me that but they talk a lot about it around me. I don’t like this, poo.
I’ve been on what the big people call “Earth” for the past four weeks, I’m told. They sing a song about how I’m a little baby 1 week old, a lot, but then stop at four weeks and say that is how old I am. I don’t have any other source of information. So, I guess it’s not fake news. I hear “fake news” a lot, too. Something about how the virus is actually heat resistant, garlic is not a cure, and that anyone who thinks my older brother and sister and their friends are going back to school this year are delusional. This virus doesn’t sound very good, so I don’t think my name is “virus”.
Someone named Woody has this virus, but my big brother and sister have said Woody is a toy and toys can’t get sick. My big brother hid his Buzz Lightyear toy in the closet to protect him from the virus. I also heard my mommy say that her boyfriend, Idris, has corona so maybe he has a baby named Corona, too? I don’t understand how he can be her boyfriend because my Daddy’s name is John. I’ve heard her say that name loudly a lot since I’ve been on Earth.
My big brother and sister like to hold and kiss me a lot. I hope they don’t have the virus everyone is talking about because they keep kissing me. I’ve heard Mommy say ‘do you want to make her sick?’ after they kiss me. I don’t think I like them very much. I haven’t been here long and they could make me sick? I will have to think about this.
I definitely know my name is not Blantons because Mommy and Daddy keep saying that it’s sold out. They seem upset when they say this. I don’t think my name would make my Mommy and Daddy upset. Also, I know I’m only four weeks old, but I don’t think names get sold out.
I wish my Mommy and Daddy would tell me my name so I’d know who I am. Just say ‘baby, your name is…’ instead of making me guess. If you ask me, I would rather be called Vodka instead of Corona. When Mommy says Vodka she sounds less panicked. I think I’ll go with Vodka for now.