Food Diary

Today I will begin keeping a food diary, just like my nutritionist, Dr. Stephy, suggested.

Day one: Woke hungry to a blustery morning, the endless plain visible through the gauzy blue curtains of my nursery. During the night, my wind-up mobile (hamburgers!) had wound down and Mother had not bothered to rewind as I slept. I will note her lack of vigilance.

Attempted (fruitlessly) to roll over in my crib, but was unable to do so. Stuck on my back, rocking side to side in order to build up the necessary momentum, the joints of my crib began to squeak ponderously. What this portended, I do not know. Eventually, Mother entered the nursery and with effort lifted me to her own ample bosom. Together we walked into the pantry, where she placed me on the floor while she prepared my first helping of pre-pumped breast milk (as you know, Debra refuses to breastfeed) mixed with Splenda.

While she bustled about I took stock of the grimed-over linoleum and contemplated, in my hunger, of eating what appeared to be a dusty Corn Flake. I attempted to scramble for it, but Mittens beat me to it and ran off to bury it, no doubt, in her litter box.

Defeated, I cried out.

Father ambled into the kitchen at this point, roused by my plaintive cries, and proceeded to berate Mother yet again. Since he lost his job at the Wal-Mart he's been on the testy side. His diabetes seems to be on the upswing, which has him gimpy and on edge as well.

He lifted me and affixed my Monday Night RAW bib and Mother finally (finally!) gave me the bottle I so sorely required. At this point I should mention that my digestive system is developed far beyond my scant 11 months, and although I'd prefer a hearty breakfast of sausage and eggs Mother still insists that I drink her milk at least once a day for reasons I cannot surmise.

I made short work of the bottle, but with second breakfast still two hours off and the rumble in my stomach barely satiated, I cannot help but wonder how and in what throes of agony and want I shall pass the time.