Breastfeeding Mannequins

The mannequins at Macy’s are often naked. I’ve complained to a manager twice. Display clothes that actually fit or buy bigger mannequins. No woman is that size anyway.

Harold’s mother gives me money for formula. She doesn’t agree with our plan to wean Ryan after six months, but he’s already teething, and he bites.

The formula’s on sale, so I have extra money to stop by Macy’s and try on jeans I know won’t button. The baby weight hugs my hips; I’ve gained more since giving birth.

While checking the price tag on a pair of Kim Rogers, I notice Ryan leaning over his stroller. He’s sucking on the nipple of a bare-breasted mannequin half my dress size.

He’s just like his father, I can hear my mother-in-law saying, but I’m sure you know that already.

—Nortina


moral_mondays_logoJoin Moral Mondays, a new weekly challenge to write a 100-word fable or story based on the moral/lesson provided in the prompt. This week’s moral: look, don’t touch

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A Spring Poem English #frapalymo

I’ve been out sick for the past few days (sinus pressure was so bad, it hurt to sit up and stare at a computer screen). Spring and summer colds are the absolute WORST! Who knows, it might be allergies. Although I seem to clear up whenever I step outside, so maybe it’s the building I work in. Ah, yes. That’s it! I’m allergic to my job!

Anyway, I hope to feel better by diving into this prompt for #frapalymo: “write a spring poem without the word spring in it.” Hopefully it will clear my sinuses, and I’ll be able to smell and hear again. Thanks, Bee, for translating again!

 

I awake to knocking on my windowsill.
I rise, pull open the blinds.
It is a young robin—
first time mother—
building a nest
between the rotting wood of the
windowsill and the brickface
of the front of my house.
We lock eyes for a moment—
touching our round bellies;
it is time.
The snow has melted away;
patches of freshly grown grass
glisten in the newborn sunlight—
icy water droplets lingering on the blades.
The trees are budding,
stretching their limbs towards the sky,
absorbing every ray of sun
to birth rose pink, alabaster silk,
and saffron tulle flowers.
I want to open my window—
sniff the crisp, pure air
of the  fledgling season,
but I mustn’t disturb a mother
preparing for her young.
She nods. I nod back
and turn to start the construction
of a nest for my own tiny suckling.

—Nortina

frapalymo