Oh, it’s real alright: the bathtub, the rotting tiled floor, the baby in the bathtub, the play-toys, and foam. It’s as real as the boys I once sambaed with, as real as the water-woosh down the drain. The child, a blister, is a bum. Like meditation on the foul, her body decomposes. We are similar in this way: bloated. “How many licks would it take to get to the center of all this bullshit?” she says — I’m sure of it.

When she’s three, more stable and flirtatious, she will bathe again amongst Barbies and big boats. She will look me in the swollen eyes, and ask, “Mommy, would you like some of my milk?” proving her right nipple to me. I will tilt my head back and criticize her for not knowing that that’s not how things work.