Retta*
Wow, it sure is hard work being a mom. Astrid seems to be crying all the time, and I don’t know what she wants. I’ve been giving her formula and following the directions on the can, and then I change her diaper for what seems like a hundred times a day, and she still cries.
I’m doing it again—changing her diaper—when I hear someone pounding on my motel room door. I sigh. I haven’t been here long and at least five people have done the same thing. I’m guessing this is someone else who’s going to tell me to quiet down. How can I make a baby be quiet on demand?
“For the love of the fuckin’ Goddess, woman, shut that kid up!” It’s the manager again, with his half-bald head, jeans, and faded rock band T-shirt, and he’s standing here looking like steam is coming out of his ears.
“I’m a
