The nursery glowed with the sweet pastel pinks of wallpaper covered walls. I clicked the lock on the nursery door behind me once it closed, leather gloves creaking as I flexed my fingers. His eyes darted to the frilled changing table, to the stack of Pampers blooming from their plastic half ripped packaging. “Big boys don’t slam doors,” I cooed, peeling the leather gloves off one finger at a time. The scent of his sweat sharpened as I approached, that bitter tang of gym socks and panic. “But you’re not a big boy anymore, are you?”

He flinched when I cupped his chin. My thumb found the pulse rabbiting in his throat. “Shhh,” I breathed against his ear, “Mommy’s going to make it all better.”

The first button of his oxford shirt popped easily. His breath hitched, I let my nails scrape the hollow between his collarbones. “Still wearing Daddy’s cologne?” I tsked, sniffing the air. “We’ll have you in Johnson’s Baby Powder and a dress by nightfall.”

His belt clattered to the floor as it was pulled out of the loops. I stepped on the buckle, pushing the metal into the plush carpet as I pushed him backward onto the changing pad that laid on the changing table, new and fresh. The plastic crinkled beneath his weight, a symphony of shame. My smile widened. “Eyes on the mobile, princess,” I ordered, snapping latex gloves over my ringless fingers. The pastel unicorns spun lazily above us, their glittered horns catching the light as they reflected. “Count them for Mommy.”

“O-one… two…” His voice cracked as I yanked his slacks down. The cartoonish rocket ships on his boxers made me snort. “Three,” I finished for him, ripping the cotton apart with precision. His whimper was sweeter than the saccharine air freshener. “Oh hush now, Mommy’s got something special for her little stargazer.”

The nursery drawer sighed open. I let him see the frilly fabric first, the puffed sleeves, the lace trim, the embroidered “Daddy’s Little Star” across the chest. His Adam’s apple bobbed as I shook out the dress, letting the peter pan collar flutter like a surrender flag. “Arms up,” I chirped, plastic gloves squeaking as I lifted the hem. The polyester whispered against his bare chest. The diaper unfolded with a sound like distant thunder. He tried to close his legs, my knee slipped between them effortlessly. “Tsk tsk,” I sang, sprinkling powder that smelled like roses. “Mommy needs room to work.”

The first tape hissed as it sealed. His breath came faster now, cheeks flushing beneath the mobile’s rotating shadows. I traced the waistband with a cold wet wipe, grinning when he jerked away from the chill.

“Look at you,” I crooned, snapping rubber pants over the swollen padding. The crinkle echoed off pink walls. “My perfect little comet, all that fire reduced to…” My palm smacked the diaper’s front. “…cold, dead rock.” The Mary Janes pinched his toes. I knew they would. The bonnet ribbons tied under his chin. I adjusted them twice as they were tied into a limp bow. “Up we go,” I trilled, steering him toward the heart-shaped mirror. His reflection wobbled, a parade float of sateen and shame. I nibbled his earlobe, tasting salt and despair. “Wave to the astronauts, babygirl. They’ll miss you… down here with me.” The mobile played a Lullaby in a warped, tinny key.

I reached into the toy chest, my fingers closing around cool silicone. The bottle’s nipple glistened with Karo syrup as I pressed it to his lips. “Drink up, starshine,” I murmured, watching his throat convulse. “Mommy’s got years worth of bedtime stories.”

Rose

1-888-430-2010