How It Is

A Short Short Story

I

ON EVERY THIRD DAY, the baby is happy and angelic, and I have a swell of contentment that lasts sixty seconds exactly. Then I go to wipe my other son’s rectum. If it’s a good day, I am also invited to inspect and praise the size of his poop. “Good job, buddy.” As if he is doing nuclear physics or repairing jet engines. “Wow, that’s a big one!” And I clap for him and give him one M&M. When he leaves the bathroom, I reach into the medicine cabinet and fish out all the brown M&M’s and eat them. He hates the browns anyway, and I hate breakfast. I hate eggs. I hate oatmeal. I lie to my children and feed them breakfast with, “Mmmm, doesn’t that look good?” and similar deceitful murmurs.