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Home: The Toast

Illustration by Marissa Maciel

Actually, this is my twelfth child.

Oh, I’m not her mother; I just walk her and make sure she poops, then take her home.

She has to fly on the plane with us, sorry. It’s in her contract.

Listen, I’ve read the books, subscribed to the newsletters, and bought the recommended sippy cup. Come back when you’re president of my kid’s Montessori co-op.

Her doctor said that thumb-sucking is the e-cigarette for babies weaning off of the breast, so we’re fine with it.

You know, I tried that once and the very next day some blogger wrote a hot take about it — no thanks.

We did consider leaving her at home instead of bringing her to the restaurant, but the last time we did that she locked us out and ordered thirty pizzas on my credit card. BABIES, right??

Yes, we tried feeding her. The crying didn’t stop and we also forgot to make a sign that said “we already tried feeding her.” Thanks, though.

Actually, this is my twentieth child.

He was wearing a sunhat, but we lost it on the motorcycle ride over here.

I’ll cut his hair when I know he’s ready: after he’s bagged his first werewolf, like his grandfathers before him.

We didn’t worry about the shots with this little one. The trick is to find the right vet with a big enough needle, and you’ve got four vaccinations done in one go!

Sorry they’re so noisy. The Omnipotent One doesn’t let us talk at home, so this is our big chance, right kids?!

Crying is the best way for him to get things, actually. If you were his parent, you’d know that.

But if I don’t let my kids boss me around, how will they recognize their superiority over everyone else?

Oh don’t worry. This isn’t my actual child, this is just the prototype.

I shouldn’t feed him this stuff? It’s all he’s lived off of his entire life. Now you’re telling me this?

Keep staring; tantrums are afraid of the human gaze.

Actually, this is my forty-fifth child.

Potty training? No, we’re not planning on starting that until it’s absolutely necessary. I mean, if you could wear a diaper all day, wouldn’t you?

He’s not a picky eater. This is just a bread-and-cheese cleanse.

I know breastfeeding is best, but all the good wet-nurses live in the city.

Of course I let them watch television; how else are they going to see their father, Cookie Monster, or their grandpa, Sir Topham Hatt?

Actually, this is my only child; the rest disappeared into the haunted forest behind our house. We really should think about moving.

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