Eleanor

Women of the world, I have a message for you: if you have a baby, put it away. That's right. Just leave it in the old wooden trunk in your attic or chain it to the bathtub. Anything to keep the babies off the streets. I have seen too many cute ones in the last few weeks, and it's hurting my womb - so much so that I have had four baby dreams this week alone.

My sister and I talked about this the other night and decided we needed to name the womb. Kari suggested Eleanor, and I guess both our wombs are named Eleanor now because sisters can do that and it is only mildly creepy.

My Eleanor needs stay in her usual place - back in her closet with a deadbolt. That's where she sleeps, eats, and screams. The sounds can't be heard beyond the extra-thick iron door because I had the closet sound-proofed. I wouldn't want Eleanor's tantrums to start causing a stir at inappropriate times. We certainly can't have her upsetting the guests at dinner or creating a sharp turn in the middle of my quasi-life plan.

Because, honestly folks, Eleanor is nothing but a bother right now. I'm 25, not-fully-independant, a little lost in life, and living in a tiny-ass apartment on the sixth floor of a building with no elevator. Were Eleanor to have her way, I would be even more up shit creek financially... and I'd have a lot more weight to lug up all those stairs every day.

So ladies, please. Put the little baby booties in a shoebox under your bed. Hide the itty bitty scarves and little hats. Stop dressing the boys in little carpenter boots and the girls in petticoats. And please, if your two-year-old likes to jump in puddles, please stop parading around in front of the cafe terrace and laughing as she does it. Eleanor can't take those kinds of displays of cuteness, and Lord knows I need to keep Eleanor locked up just a little while longer.