Cheese Baby
When my period came again, a day ahead of schedule, I carved myself a baby out of cheese. I only had enough for the head at first, so I had to go out and get two more blocks and melt the whole thing together with a candle. You probably want to know what kind of cheese I used. Cheddar. Brie was too soft; Swiss would have made him look pockmarked, and the other children would have made fun of him. Of course, I know he isn’t a real baby. I have named him Bobraham.
It’s amazing how much you can do with a cheese baby. I dress him in a little hat; I push him in a stroller. I take him to the park and the other women coo over him. They freak out when I let them get close, but that is pretty much how people react to me, too. I tell Bobraham not to worry. Yes, I talk to him. It’s actually weirder not to.
Oh, I worry though. There are lots of things to stress out about with Bobraham that you wouldn’t have to consider with a real baby. Mold, for instance. I cut it off with a little paring knife. It doesn’t hurt him. Then there’s always the issue of melting. Luckily Bobraham was born in the winter, so we have a couple of months to plan for that. I am thinking ice packs.
And of course there’s the question of a father. I am a traditional woman; I think a baby, especially a boy baby, needs a male role model. This, as you may have guessed, is why I am writing to you. I think you will find me and Bobraham very easy to live with. He is quiet, naturally, and you can eat bits of him if you get hungry in the night. As for me, not everyone considers me attractive, and many people have described me as strange. But I am the type of woman who does what she can with what she has, and over time I think you will come to find this appealing.