Little Homie

Cross-Pollinating with Sarah The Crazy Baby Mama …

See my post “The Agent Who Laughed Himself To Death” at her blog today!

Desperate Times

by The Crazy Baby Mama


For the past almost-two years, I’ve been stalking anyone with a baby.  No, really.  It’s actually even creepier than it sounds:  For instance, every time I go to Trader Joes, I’ll spot an unsuspecting mama who looks ripe for the picking.   First, I’ll follow her around the aisles  — keeping a safe distance until  I “accidentally” bump into her with my cart.   After the fake-fluster of apologies, I’ll start chatting her up, desperate for a friend.  Yeah, I come on strong like cheap perfume, or that guy at the club who you know is packing a roofie, but I’ve been so lonely.


I even use my children as bait:  “Oh, Little Homie is flirting with your baby girl.”  I’ll say even though Little Homie is only smiling because he just took a major dump and warm shit feels so nice.  And the other mama starts looking for the nearest escape route, clearly freaked out by the crazy lady and the baby with the swampy yellow shit oozing down his left thigh.  Oh well.   I guess one woman’s humor is another woman’s horror.

Sometimes, when I’m lucky enough to get an actual name I’ll race home and click over to facebook.  With a spring in my fingers and hope in my heart I’ll key the letters as if they are a magic code to unlock a portal out of this loneliness.  But, inevitably, my ‘friend request’ and the “spontaneous” message I spent an hour and a half composing are ignored, and the next time I look her up, her profile has vanished into the ether.  While I may be desperate, I’m not stupid.

Last month, when the census guy came over to take down our information, I was so excited to have some adult interaction that I held the door wide open, and invited him in.

“Won’t you please stay for dinner!  We’re having lentils and cheerios!”  I said with a hopeful smile.

Seeing the gleam of manic desperation in my eyes – and perhaps smelling the aroma of warm baby shit emanating from The Girl’s diaper – the census-taker fled, without taking down the information he was duty-bound to collect.

If you know of any Jehovah’s Witnesses, hook me up, yo.