slandering fizzgig, plus: julia, an appraisal

R: Actually, your dog is kinda gay.

Morrisa: My dog is totally gay.

R: I met him in a leather bar with Carson Kressley.

M: He arranges flowers. He writes poetry.

R: I was so envious when he won that Pulitzer.

M: Do they give Pulitzers for poetry?

R: Do they give Pulitzers to dogs?

Jeremy: It was a Pawlitzer.

Throughout the entire conversation, Julia snoozed on her daddy’s lap. She snoozed in the sun in the playground, she snoozed through lunch. She woke every hour or two and cleared her throat – a polite request for milk. This sort of behaviour, day in and day out, has earned her the nickname “Trouble”.

Sometimes she hangs out for a while after eating, looking around with the same huge star-sapphire eyes as her sister, plucking at my shirt with tiny fat fists. Then she falls asleep again, her skin no longer radiation-burn red as it was when she was born, but translucent. She’s peaceful and trusting. I am in love.

It’s an entirely new passion, completely separate from Claire, the way my love for Claire is orthogonal to my marriage. With each kid I seem to have found an unsuspected extra dimension, a new direction that can’t be pointed to. Like Claire, Julia is airbrushed into memories of things that happened before she was born. She has always been here.

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