“Dammit Joanna, this is what you get for being a slut. Why couldn’t you have kept your legs shut?” I mumble under my breath. But then I laugh/cry imagining her saying: take it back. I mean it, take it back right now. My sister always said that, right after she punched my arm.
The guy hands me a Kleenex. Shit. I despise guys who cry. He was a crier — overly apologizing for all the crap he’d done to us every single time he was drunk, which was often. His tears were never sincere or backed by love. He could say some hateful shit too. I guess I get it honestly.
Truth is: Jones – don’t know why but Jones was what I called my sister, ever since we were little. Maybe because she was more tomboy than prissy girl. Jones could spit as far as any guy, …show more content…
“I’m only twenty-four … nowhere near ready to be a father.”
“Your sister was only twenty-two.”
“Getting pregnant was her choice,” I return.
He sits the carrier down by my chair, stoops, and starts unstrapping the safety belt that holds my nephew in. I glance down locking eyes with large, round blue eyes framed with the darkest lashes I’ve ever seen. The baby is bored enough that he is playing with his own fucking bare feet. Real smart kid. I don’t know what my sister was thinking naming her kid Bubba. I never understood Jones. I never understood her erratic behavior or her life choices. Just like she couldn’t understand my distancing myself from the past, which sometimes included her.
I adamantly shake my head. “I don’t even like fucking kids.”
Bubba starts to cry. Anthony sits the baby in my lap, and goes to turn loose trusting me completely with another’s life. “Whoa wait. What do I do? Do I have to hold his back up — what about his head up? It looks wobbly. God he is fat! What does Jones feed him? He doesn’t have ankles … he has cankles.”
On a laugh Anthony moves one of my hands to Bubba’s back. Bubba is still reaching for his feet. Fascinated with his toes. “He’s eleven months,” Anthony explains. “You don’t have to worry about his head. It’ll stay on. I promise—that’s it, see, he’s smiling. He likes …show more content…
“The kid is confused. He doesn’t know what’s good for him. I’m not it.” Slobber coats my arm. More strings of it dripping from my nephew’s wet pudgy chin. “Jesus, isn’t there, like, a bib or something to take care of this
The guy hands me a Kleenex. Shit. I despise guys who cry. He was a crier — overly apologizing for all the crap he’d done to us every single time he was drunk, which was often. His tears were never sincere or backed by love. He could say some hateful shit too. I guess I get it honestly.
Truth is: Jones – don’t know why but Jones was what I called my sister, ever since we were little. Maybe because she was more tomboy than prissy girl. Jones could spit as far as any guy, …show more content…
“I’m only twenty-four … nowhere near ready to be a father.”
“Your sister was only twenty-two.”
“Getting pregnant was her choice,” I return.
He sits the carrier down by my chair, stoops, and starts unstrapping the safety belt that holds my nephew in. I glance down locking eyes with large, round blue eyes framed with the darkest lashes I’ve ever seen. The baby is bored enough that he is playing with his own fucking bare feet. Real smart kid. I don’t know what my sister was thinking naming her kid Bubba. I never understood Jones. I never understood her erratic behavior or her life choices. Just like she couldn’t understand my distancing myself from the past, which sometimes included her.
I adamantly shake my head. “I don’t even like fucking kids.”
Bubba starts to cry. Anthony sits the baby in my lap, and goes to turn loose trusting me completely with another’s life. “Whoa wait. What do I do? Do I have to hold his back up — what about his head up? It looks wobbly. God he is fat! What does Jones feed him? He doesn’t have ankles … he has cankles.”
On a laugh Anthony moves one of my hands to Bubba’s back. Bubba is still reaching for his feet. Fascinated with his toes. “He’s eleven months,” Anthony explains. “You don’t have to worry about his head. It’ll stay on. I promise—that’s it, see, he’s smiling. He likes …show more content…
“The kid is confused. He doesn’t know what’s good for him. I’m not it.” Slobber coats my arm. More strings of it dripping from my nephew’s wet pudgy chin. “Jesus, isn’t there, like, a bib or something to take care of this