Wicked Rural Homestead
Live Simply
A Letter From Baby Jail
Dear mom,
I hope this letter reaches you. My warden/guard/fellow prisoner will no doubt try to intercept this correspondence. (To date- she has postponed it’s creation by a week, using nothing more than dirty diapers and grunts of discontent.) She will stop at nothing to make sure that my access to the outside world is limited. On the bright side, she can’t read- so even if she does get a hold of this there’s not much she can do about it.
I hope.
I’ve been on the inside for more than 90 days. The warden found the tally sheet I was keeping under the mattress and spit up all over it. I can’t tell how long I’ve actually been here now. The daily breast-feeding torture is not as effective as it used to be since I’ve grown accustomed to it. She has retaliated by nursing for longer and longer intervals, insisting she needs it to “grow.” To add insult to injury she often falls asleep, pinning me to the spot where we sit after most sessions; leaving me lots of time to think about what I’ve done.
I could try to move her, but that never seems to work out. I have come to believe that there are guards posted around the perimeter and as soon as I get more than 2 feet from her they sound the alarm. Last week, I thought that I would use the time to get some badly needed sleep. I was thwarted again. Just when I began to drift off I felt a warm puddle spreading on my side. At first, I wasn’t sure what it was- or if I cared. I was warm and she was quiet. I realized that wouldn’t work and had to get up, waking the baby and chasing my own sleep off at the same time; which pretty much sums up my multi-tasking abilities these days.
Currently, I find myself once again stuck to the couch. My new plan, is to sit quietly under my captor and try to get a message home.
I miss you mom.
I don’t know how you did this in the days before personal handheld computers. It must’ve been like the dungeons of old. This facility I’m in is nice but I am often quarantined to a small portion of it by the fussy little snapping turtle.
I can’t say too much about the quality of the food. The only time I get to eat, I do it so fast it doesn’t taste like much. I’ve decided that the child has very specific superpowers. No matter how long she has been napping; as soon as I grab a utensil or finish seasoning a plate, she is awake and inconsolably fussy. If her demands for attention go unanswered there will be hell to pay.
It’s been a month since I last wrote. Like preparing a meal, as soon as I have a moment to actually sit and think about something other than cleaning or keeping my jailer happy, she is once again demanding attention. Stockholm syndrome is in full effect and I couldn’t be in a happier place. What a beautiful prison this is. Something I wished for every chance I got, for years. I am grateful for our healthy, fussy, all consuming being, but it’s a lot to get used to. It is weird to spend my days with this little copy of myself, like a baby picture of me came to life and peed on my lap.
She’s awake again…
Send help, I miss you.
em
P.S. Thank you for doing this for me! I owe you like… a million. As partial payment please accept these pictures of your granddaughter.
P.S.S. Did I ever pee on you? Never mind, of course I did. Here are some more pictures as recompense.
Be well!
Wicked Rural Homestead 
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