When Your Baby Sleeps Nine Hours

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My two-month-old baby, Juliet, slept nine hours last night. Then these things happened:

1) I woke up, and racism was over. I didn’t even see color. Everyone was iridescent, and they just hated me for my character but said I was good at sports.

2) Not only that, but the people who would have been Black, wore L.L. Bean vests.

3) IΒ  didn’t yell at college students who stepped in front of my car while texting.

4) Same goes for people driving those rectangular toaster cars. I just gave them butter.

5) I felt entitled to my favorite NPR voice. I started using it everywhere. “Here is your bottle, Juliet. I’m Lakshmi Singh.” Or “Coming up, we’ll talk to the man who makes tea by squeezing corn. But first, pelvic floors.” And “For NPR news in Washington, I’m A Mom with Mastitis.”

6) When I drove by roadkill, I whispered, “Peace be with you.”

7) When the crunchy mom in the coffee shop glided to the counter while breastfeeding, I complimented her Chacos and handed her my baby to nurse on the left.

8) I considered letting Donald Trump baptize me in the Bigley.

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