Monologue by Martina Gloster (was age 28, now 6 months), recorded October 14, 2002:
"Don't you just hate to wake up in the morning and find yourself stuck in a bassinet, and racked by this feeling that you weren't always a 6-month-old girl? You try to sit up, but can't. In the process, you realize that you are wearing a diaper, and wow, do you need a change. You call for help, but it comes out an infant's wail.
"And don't you just hate it when the first face that leans over the bassinet is Heather, that girl you didn't get along with 10 years ago in high school; whom you tricked into getting kicked off the cheerleading squad, in a manner that also cost Heather her college scholarship? But Heather smiles at you, and talks to you in the most retarded baby talk. She even kisses you forehead, calling you, "Mommy's sweet little baby." In short order, the nemeses from your past gives you a diaper change and a sponge bath, dresses you in some silly pink baby girl's outfit, plops you in a highchair, and forces spoonfuls of strained rice cereal past your lips with a tiny spoon. And then Heather puts you in a playpen.
"And don't you just hate having all that conflicting data in your head? Heather is, after all, doing her best in being your mother. So why do you have these bad feelings about her? You should appreciate what she's doing, not hate her. But those vague memories of being grown up until last night. That can't be right? The high school Heather said she hated you and would get even with you if it took her the rest of her life. But this Heather doesn't hate her baby girl. She loves me and is being a good Mommy! And hey, people only grow older; not regress backwards. Right? Those thoughts must be a bad dream.
"And then don't you just hate that while these feeling
of childish love for Mommy flows through your entire body, you
see through the mesh on your playpen wall the electric blue party
dress you wore to the club last night? And Heather is putting
it, along with what I remember as some of my other grownup clothes
and best lingerie into a bag, which she soon hands as a donation
to a representative of a charitable group at the front door. And
now Heather picks me up like nothing happened, smiles saccharinely
and takes me to the patio where she offers me the nipple of a
baby bottle. As I squirm, Heather anchors me in her lap and rams
to nipple through my lips, causing soy formula to squirt onto
my tongue. My ire rises! So help me, I'll (suck, suck, suck, glug
gulp...).