I watched my baby sleeping
Soft, pink globes on an angel
Luring my caress as I was peeking
I wondered if he felt my eyes upon him

Silence echoed the room’s peace
Cold rushing gusts outside the window
My newborn, protected by his sentinel fleece
As he slept on without a care

With flannels on, I went to lie in bed
Socks on my feet, hot tea beside me
Coverings wrapped me to my head
I was tucked in like a swaddled babe

I read until my eyes could stand no more
Their lids, an anvil falling to the ground
There was no return from this worn shore
Wave after wave had driven the sand to the sea

A cozy corner settee, a love story in hand
Vistas of tropical, warm destinations
Then warm burritos beside a palm-fringed stand
My mother’s arms embracing my dreams

I sailed the Caribbean seas, flew to distant places
Smelled luscious, spicy aromas in every scene
Warmed my happiness and joy in all the muted faces
I did not know a single actor in these reels

I could not reach the veil that hid their identities
As soon as I reached, I was sent to another location
Dismissed in the distance, like floating parentheses
A sleeping baby at each stop, floating in dreamy mist

My mouth called out to the baby; I knew him by name
No words came from his mouth
My cries were silent, just the same
He slumbered in a cocoon of warmth

I tussled beneath my cave of layered coverings
Cuddled in their comfort, but I did not wake
No cries were heard for a diaper change
I opened my eyes all the same and stared at my bundle

Sweet confections paled beside his own
I lay there transfixed, like a magnet to him
Nothing, no one around; I was alone
Next to my love, my child, my dream

A blaring sound came forth
Reality was cleaved from dream
An alarm sounded, threatening my warmth
Ripping me from my dream within a dream

I knew what came next
Cold toes on oak planks of ice sheeting
Leaving my covers left me vexed
Ten more minutes in my goose-down shelter

I felt the longing before I saw him missing
My baby had not yet come, and I had not yet named him
Months of waiting remained, the dream: teasing
I stayed in bed as my blankets whispered

Come back to bed; it’s autumn
Doze off some more; you’ll need it
I’ll keep you cozy, comforted by my bosom
Until your infant’s warmth is all you’ll desire

Silence echoed the room’s peace
Cold rushing gusts outside the window
My newborn, protected by his sentinel fleece
He slept on without a care, when he was finally there

(Published in Poets on Vocal, 2026)

Catch me on Patreon, Substack, Beehiiv, Medium, Vocal, Wattpad, or WordPress. Dealer’s choice! Check me out on Social Media too via Linktree or my website, Ink and Echo.

Something to cozy you by the fire:

Blankets and Binkies ©2026 Spilled Ink. All rights reserved.

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It should be in bold print right on the stick and on the packaging: Warning! But then again, it would be too many warnings for that tiny thing, and the packaging would have to be a Bible-thick book of warnings. But the pregnancy test says nothing at all. I never got any warnings. It was all wonderful sunshine and roses. But here is the truth. Anyone wanting to have a baby: here is your sign and your quick guide to “What to really expect when you are expecting.”

And They’re Off

Right out of the gate, you will be able to experience the joys of tender nips. Yup, I said it, and no one else will. Come to find out, nursing makes them irritated and angry all day long. Oh, they will give you remedies after the fact: salves, cocoa butter, and a slew of witchery, but it doesn’t go far enough to soothe something that is constantly being used and abused. A baby can literally suck a bowling ball through a straw, and that has this small downside.

Wise sages may tell you to use a loofah on them every time you shower while you are pregnant, but have you ever done that? It’s like using 60-grit sandpaper on the tender tissue under your eye. Yes, it is that brutal. I am fairly sure the Gulag uses it as torture, but we women are supposed to embrace this aspect of the wonderful world of motherhood.

Incoming!

I know an image comes to mind with that word: incoming! But it is so much more interesting and amusing than the image you are getting. You are probably thinking of toy projectiles flying all over the place, but that is not the projectile I am talking about.

Flying poo! Flying pee! That is the danger. Yes, that beautiful bundle of joy will baptize you, or, if you are lucky, someone else, with the two liquids at the most unexpected and inconvenient time.

My first experience with this was one day while I was visiting my sister, who had just had a baby. She was dealing with postpartum depression, so I would go over and help her take care of the baby while she got her hormones back in order. I was changing my nephew’s diaper while we were watching television, and he wizzed right at my face. Yes, you guessed it. It hit the target. Score! A direct hit!

A baby’s capacity for suction is only matched by how far that little thing can hit the target without flinching. It’s like a drone at midnight, too. You will never hear it coming. But there is an added bonus, too.

The grin! The grin a baby gives you, once he has done it, is akin to someone who has beaten you in a game you didn’t know you were playing, knowing he was cheating the entire time and not getting caught. My nephew gave me the biggest and best Elvis impersonation I have ever seen. I mimicked it for others for years, but clearly I couldn’t channel the rock legend the way a newborn did. He was a wicked little thing.

In addition, my sister broke out in a pee-inducing laugh as well, which was a good thing, but the victim had to shower off the toxic fuel from her face. Wait, I am not done.

Baby Pollack

Congratulations! You have given birth to an artist, a painter. His canvas? The diaper and you. Oh, the joys of the vibrant hues of baby poop. Earthy shades in browns, greens, and yellows, all splashed across his handy canvas. He is an Artiste. Baby Jackson Pollocks, all training for their gallery debut.

Sometimes that canvas is too limiting for the eccentric painters, and a mural is more appropriate. That is when it gets serious. But don’t call an agent yet. The paint has noxious odors that most gallery visitors won’t appreciate.

My artist was more of a three-dimensional aficionado, so he shot his paint at his target canvas: his mommy. Enjoy that one when it happens. That’s when you WILL want to loofah your whole body.

Side note: If you Google my name, you’re more likely to find the actor’s wife/artist. I’m also a writer and artist, but my son created the art for me, which I don’t believe she can claim. So I’m one up on her. Incidentally, you have no idea how much drama that causes with Amazon, Goodreads, and the like. The struggle is real.

Superman~

The warning that you have created your own breed of superhero never comes. I birthed Superman, or maybe it was Batman. Who remembers exactly 20 years after the fact, really?

At age 4, my son started preschool. He had what I would call a crush on a sweet little brunette named Michaela. They were buddies, really, but that didn’t stop him from needing to impress a girl. One day, his teacher told me to check on him and make sure his brain was still in his head and not scrambled eggs after an incident.

Mini Batman told the object of his desire to watch this, then ran full force toward a sofa. He wasn’t faster than a speeding bullet, but he leaped over a toy in a single bound and swan-dived into the couch headfirst. It’s not a party until something breaks. Apparently, my son wanted it to be his head.

The worries are the worst part of the warnings you should be given when you have a child. Maybe before you even start down that road, you should get them, actually.

My superhero didn’t start his antics at age 4. No. At two, he liked to jump on the bed. Ours. Once he learned to climb, he would amuse himself doing just that pretty often. Then he spread his wings, which should have alerted me right then that I had a real-life thrill-seeking hero on my hands. My baby spread his wings like Icarus, or maybe it was a phoenix, and dove headfirst to the ground.

I wasn’t one of those lucky parents with thick, lush carpeting on the bedroom floor. We had beautiful hardwood floors, and I didn’t want to cover them. So the wood carefully broke his fall.

Then came the screams heard round the world. I am sure you all remember hearing a weird wail 18 years ago that seemed to come from the sky. That was my son.

Horror!

Do you know what fear is? Do you know what scares you? This is more horrifying than the best horror flick. The scream that makes you pale like an ivory tower: the one that drains the blood from your overtired and worn mommy body. I thought he was dying!

Blood from his forehead dripped all over the place. Would he bleed out? I didn’t know what to do. I called his pediatrician and got the doctor on the line immediately. I told him what happened, and he asked if he was acting peculiar or disoriented. He wasn’t, and, of course, he stopped crying just as the doc got on the line, so I had no evidence of his anguish.

The doctor laughed and said, “Unless he is not behaving normally, he is fine.” He added, “You would be surprised how hard their skulls are.” I was left with my mouth open, relieved- don’t get me wrong, and I know I instantly grew 7 gray hairs right then, but the world was spared the loss of one superhero.

Fair Warning!

I could go on and on about the warning labels on having children, but as I intimated earlier, it would look like a Bible. Who has time for such a thing? My fingers would ache, and I might be dead before I finish it. The rest will have to wait for another prompt request, hint, hint.

Be warned-it will not end with a couple of examples, and you will have fodder for your own book after you have a child.

(Published by Write Your World on Medium, 2026)

Catch me on Patreon, Substack, Beehiiv, Medium, Vocal, Wattpad, or WordPress. Dealer’s choice! Check me out on Social Media too via Linktreeor my website, Ink and Echo.

Want more drama? Read this one:

Two Pink Lines ©2026 Spilled Ink. All rights reserved.

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Jury duty is a form of torture, or at least we all seem to think it is. What we miss is the chance to improve as we watch the hysterics of the jury selection process. It’s comical in ways you can’t fathom until you drag your butt to do this thing you have to do, because you wanted to be a voter and for the opportunity to elect the shite failures we have in the political realm of insanity. Yes, this is on both sides, and I speak of both. Your side is not any better than mine. They are all trash and useless. But I digress. This isn’t a political rant.

This is the hilarious conversation I had with my hubby as he waited to hear his prison term in the courthouse of fine judicial outcomes. I was laughing the entire time we were texting.

Friday, September 4th

The letter we received said that, in his famed luck, my husband was to report for jury duty and had to call on this day at 5:00 p.m. He did, hoping against hope that they would excuse him and say, “Oh, we made an error, and we don’t need to disturb your life and rob you of your good income in order to work for free for a system which does anything but work for free.”

Makes sense. The government, at every level, gets paid no matter what. You, not so much.

He was told via a recorded message, or maybe it was an AI bot, that he needed to report at 7 a.m. on Tuesday morning. I wonder if they send you to the gulag if you no-call, no-show. Anyway, he got up, had his coffee so he wouldn’t fall asleep in court, and headed off to do his duty. Sounds like something you tell your toddler not to do in his pants.

By the way, Law and Order, How to Get Away with Murder (I am not condoning this one), and Better Call Saul make it all look so glamorous and exciting, but those are actors acting. The reality is an ass-numbing experience. It’s like a State of the Union address and the reading of the Encyclopedia Britannica, given by Ben Stein. (Bueller. Bueller.) Yes, that guy.

They should really consider letting the likes of Joe Pesci or Mathew McConaughey be the lawyers and the likes of Paul Bartel or Ted Knight become judges. It would make it a more inviting and exciting experience, and I could see people actually lobbying for jury duty.

But no. Rote, monotone, dull teeth-pulling and fingernail-scraping is what we are gifted for the $10 a day they pay you. Wait. It gets better. They make you buy your own lunch, which means the Happy Meal you get for being unhappy eats away at your high profit margin. You wind up in debt, if my memory serves, and prices are sky-high for the trash they call food these days.

My husband obeyed his master and went to serve. This was the texting that began about an hour and a half into this process. The left side is my husband speaking, and the right is his dutiful and wonderfully perfect wife and queen of his castle, me.

The Feed

After Some Radio Silence

The Excuses

The Prophesy

Gear Shift

Vroom Vroom

What Math Is This?

Cha-ching!

And so ends another day in the American Judiciary. (At 11:00 a.m.-we should all have those kinds of hours.)

(Published by Quirky Rants on Medium, 2026)

Catch me on Patreon, Substack, Beehiiv, Medium, Vocal, Wattpad, or WordPress. Dealer’s choice! Check me out on Social Media too via Linktree or my website, Ink and Echo.

Hear ye, hear ye, the judge orders you to read another story:

Improv at the Courthouse ©2026 Spilled Ink. All rights reserved.

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