By Njuzu
It was a day that began like any other day. I woke up next to my husband. My big husband. My big, burly husband. My big, burly, manly husband. Oh yes.
Anyway, it was a normal morning. I went to the nursery room to check on my handsome baby boy. I went to the crib and looked at him. His two adorable eyes began to slowly open at my presence. My Dudley knows his mommy.
"Hi sweetie," I cooed while I gave a gentle squeeze on some of the cute baby fat on his pink little cheeks. He screamed. He has great lungs. I stood admiring him as my husband, Vernon, came into the room. I gave him a pacifier to suck on. Dudley spat it back out.
"The boy knows what he wants!" Vernon said, his chest swelling with pride. "Just like his daddy." Dudley screamed more.
"I guess he's hungry," I said .
"So am I," Vernon stated, "so you should hurry up with that breakfast." That's my Vernon, always so commanding…so forceful. I went downstairs immediately, a woman should always listen to her husband, to make breakfast and prepare Dudley's bottle. I was going to make Vernon's favorite: buttered blueberry pancakes and extra-large eggs with a side of pork sausages, ham, and bacon. He eats like a real man. A burly man. A really burly man.
I went to the drain next to the sink to get Dudley's baby bottle. It was the kind that was bent at an angle to make it easier to feed him. Nothing but the best for my Dudley-wudley. I looked out the window above the sink and saw Mr. Beckham walk out to get his paper. He was wearing the ugliest green bathrobe I've ever seen in my entire life. The other day I saw his wife wave goodbye to her children wearing a fluffy pink one with a large yellow duck on the back. I wrote myself a mental note to expose their nasty dressing habits at the next neighborhood meeting. Hopefully they will be embarrassed out of their ways. Maybe they'll even move. I smiled at this thought and continued to fix Dudley's bottle, watching. He looked in the general direction of my house and stared at something. I assumed he was appalled at how my other next-door neighbors, the Stackpoles, decorated their lawn. A garden gnome, honestly.
A few minutes later, Vernon came down with the baby in his arms. After wrestling Dudley into his high chair, he sat down sturdily in his seat at the head of the table.
"Where's my paper?" he demanded.
"I'll get it, sweetie," I said, taking my eyes away from Beckham. I walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. When I reached the door, I straightened my hair and picked lint off of my robe. I always look good when I step outside of my house. The other neighbors have nothing to say about me. I'm the perfect housewife. I opened the door brandishing a smile taking a deep breath. And then I looked down.
Everything became muddled at that point. I'm pretty sure I screamed because Vernon came running into the room ("What's wrong with you woman!" Then, "It's just a bloody basket!"). He didn't see it.
"Can you see?" I asked, pointing at it. Then IT cooed at me. Vernon gasped. I fainted.
I came to later, in my bed. The sun peered through my curtains and for a minute, I thought it was just a dream. But then I heard a baby cry not to far from me (it was nothing like my Dudley's strong yell) and Vernon said, "He's your sister's." I promptly fainted again.