Yesterday I didn't feel good and your dad's Father's Day didn't turn out well at all. In fact, it just didn't turn out. I'm trying to make myself feel better by telling myself that I made a HUGE big deal out of it last year as it was his first and you were a week old. See, I didn't get my first Mother's Day until this year. You were born smack in the middle of the two.
But, it doesn't matter. I should have tried to do better-despite the fact of being tethered to the toilet most of the day.
There's really no way for me to express to you how super cool your dad is. One day, you will find out.
I find that if I try to make myself list all the ways that make him as wonderful as he is...I start to cry. And that look isn't flattering on me at all. But, I'm going to try to give you just a few anyway.
1) The only time I've ever known your dad to cry was the night you were born and in the NICU. That's it. In fact, because I was incapacitated, *I* didn't even see it. Someone told me. He told me later that he just couldn't handle it. Your dad freaks out often when it comes to things he "can't handle" but he never, EVER cries. He just loves us a whole, whole lot and that night carried a lot of emotion for him.
2) Your dad openly admits-at least on a weekly basis-that his favorite thing to do in the whole world is hang out with the two of us.
3) He read the Dr. Sears Baby Book and decided you MUST eat beets. I know you don't see this as "kind" now. But, its kind of like discipline. It hurts us more than it hurts you. Actually, I'm not eating the beets...so it's probably going to hurt you more. But I promise it means he loves you. The same goes for the spinach. (Don't worry. I'll slip you napkins to spit it into)
4) He ALWAYS gets out of the bed in the middle of the night to get you a bottle. I sit in the bed, rub your head while you scream, and bark orders listing all the things needed: "BABA, STAT. FIGHTER, STAT. NEW DIAPER, STAT."
5) When I wander over to whatever he is doing while I am doing NOTHING and state "She pooped" he walks over to you without a word, picks you up (TRYING NOT TO PUSH ON YOUR BUTT!!!) and takes you to change your diaper. Sometimes I provide wipey support. Sometimes I finish doing whatever important thing it is that I was doing...like watching a McDonald's commercial and NOT GAGGING.
6) He gives your morning pee pee diapers "Purple Hearts" for being wounded in the line of duty because they are so full.
7) He lets you bite him. Like, on purpose.
8) He rubbed my feet EVERY SINGLE NIGHT of my pregnancy. Not that he didn't complain about it. But, who cares about complaining when you know a foot rub is coming?
9) His office is wallpapered with pictures of you in various stages of development. When anyone enters, he gives them detailed information concerning each one.
10) Every morning when we wake up he tells us "Good Morning" then asks if we slept well and then tells us he loves us. I can't tell you how often Daddy's DON'T do that.
And since we're here...Let's take this to 11.
11) He gets off work later than I do but still picks you up from GG's every day (an hour and a half trip in bumper to bumper rush hour traffic) just so I can have time to wind down and write.
And I don't think he'll ever understand what that means to me.
So, I hope that when you are 15-years-old and filled with angst and spite, you remember that every time you tell him he "sucks", his heart is going to break a little. Go easy on him. He's a big softy when it comes to you. Not that I'm not. But, I'm much more inclined to beat you first and ask questions later.
I don't think that point was more illustrated than two nights ago when you were having another difficult night sleeping and we were doing a version of "Cry It Out" that consisted of letting you cry for two minutes at a time and then coming in to soothe you after which we put you right back in the crib. This was a grievous insult to you and after the fourth trip where I held you until you calmed down and tried to lay you back down, your father entered the room and you began squealing at the top of your lungs, "DA DA DA DA" and hurling your body towards him. He moved to take you away from me and I quickly told him to leave the room and informed him in my best military voice that, "the enemy has identified the weak link and is working to divide the troops". He quickly ducked out of the room but not before he yelled back at me, The General, that he would "do it but it felt like his skin was being peeled from his body."
Love,
The General
Monday, June 21, 2010
Dear Everyone,
I totally underestimated how thrilling, yet sad, it would be to make her last bottle.
She's officially on milk-as of this week. I won't say "last bottle" because she still requires one when she goes to bed at night and I'm assuming that will last until at least 18 months. But, last week, we ended the mad dash in the morning to "make enough bottles" to send to her GG's in order to feed the human trash can she has become in the past week.
Remember that whole post about her not eating anything but corn? And then that whole other post about how if you say anything out loud it never works again? Well, OBVIOUSLY that also works for WRITING as my child has now decided to eat everything in the house that isn't nailed down.
Eggs? Check.
French Toast? Check.
Grilled Cheese? Check.
Hummus on pita? Check.
These are all things she previously stuck her nose up at while she threw handfuls of them under the high chair. Now, we can't keep anything ON her high chair as she beats her hands like a prison inmate until dinner is served.
Weirdo.
She's officially on milk-as of this week. I won't say "last bottle" because she still requires one when she goes to bed at night and I'm assuming that will last until at least 18 months. But, last week, we ended the mad dash in the morning to "make enough bottles" to send to her GG's in order to feed the human trash can she has become in the past week.
Remember that whole post about her not eating anything but corn? And then that whole other post about how if you say anything out loud it never works again? Well, OBVIOUSLY that also works for WRITING as my child has now decided to eat everything in the house that isn't nailed down.
Eggs? Check.
French Toast? Check.
Grilled Cheese? Check.
Hummus on pita? Check.
These are all things she previously stuck her nose up at while she threw handfuls of them under the high chair. Now, we can't keep anything ON her high chair as she beats her hands like a prison inmate until dinner is served.
Weirdo.
Dear Parks,
Your FATHER is making me feed you beets for dinner.
Just wanted to clear that up.
Love,
Mama
Just wanted to clear that up.
Love,
Mama
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Why The Man is The Man
Because as he changed the first poopie "toddler" diaper he hummed the theme song from "2001: A Space Odyssey".
Dear Parks,
A year ago right at this time I was in labor with you. The doctor had broken my water an hour previously and I was starting to feel some, ahem, rather “intense” contractions. I was still joking with your father at the time that the first thing I wanted when you “got out of my belly” was a 12 inch foot long from Subway considering they wouldn’t let me eat. I had no idea how 21 inches of infant was going to change every priority I had the instant you appeared and I was finally allowed to hold you. Let’s just say I still love a good sub sandwich but I wouldn’t run across a busy intersection risking life and limb just to hold it in my arms. No offense, Jared.
I had no idea what the next year of our lives would bring us. The hours spent NOT SLEEPING. The hours spent just staring out your face. The hours spent SCREAMING. And the hours spent NOT SLEEPING. Have I talked about the lack of sleep yet? I can’t remember, I’m tired.
Then there was the struggle of going back to work and balancing that life with a home life that afforded you all the love and time you needed and deserved. I’d like to say that we’ve won that struggle. I know that we do the best that we can on most days and you are so happy that I can’t think that the decisions we’ve made about raising you were bad ones. Except that one about deciding you were going to sleep in our bed. Not that I HATE an active kicking infant who has inherited her father’s propensity for kicking and slapping. It’s just that with two of you in the bed now, I’m not sure when your father is going to get arrested for spousal abuse due to the amount of bruising on my arms and legs incurred from a swift foot to the thigh or a roundhouse back handed slap when you decide to turn over. But waking up with you is worth all that. It’s like waking up with the Jimmy Dean sunshine man in bed only he’s MUCH cuter and he smells like heaven and when he giggles, well, my heart soars and I think I can do almost anything. Sausage biscuits don’t normally do that to me (at least they haven’t since I was pregnant). But, you definitely do.
I think about times just ten months ago when you were so teeny and you got your first fever and I held you all day just freaking out of my effing mind because you were so TINY and how could you get a FEVER? I thought it took at least twelve pounds to muster the energy to work up a good fever. We took you to the doctor and you not only had a fever, but a pretty good diaper rash, were allergic to milk and had a case of colic. I distinctly recall telling the doctor that I felt like, “The Baby was FALLNG APART”. And considering up until that point in my life I was pretty much like Nana in that I was the Valedictorian of Running Everything, I felt like a miserable failure. Good GOD, who was running this joint? Exactly. It was the first real lesson in motherhood I ever had. But, your father and I nursed you through that fever. We got you over that colic. And, ultimately, we kept you alive for an entire 12 months. I consider this a personal success.
Now, I practically laugh when you scream bloody murder as I drag you away from yet another normal household item that could possibly KILL YOU and tell you things like, ‘How bad for you that you have a mother that won’t let you suck on electrical outlets. You have a horrible life. I feel sorry for you.” Then I realize that when you get older, if you don’t start slapping me on purpose when you are awake, you are going to have one MEAN case of the “smart mouth” when you get to kindergarten. I’m waiting on the first call from the teacher when she tells me you’ve said, “Thank you, Captain Obvious” when she tells you that “tee tee goes in the potty” or something else inane required by Pre-K teachers.
Right now, when I tell you “NO” in my Most Severe And Stern Voice Ever, you immediately turn around, do what I was telling you not to do, and parrot back to me, “NO NO”. And then I laugh because I can’t help it and I let you completely dismantle the sound system to the television because, hey, we can buy another one, right? And you just look so damn cute. You now refer to all the things in the house that you aren’t allowed to touch as “no no’s” and your father is worried that you will grow up asking to turn on the “no no’s” in the room so you can see.
There isn’t a day that goes by that your Nana doesn’t call me and declare you a “genius” and most of the time I agree. Except if it’s one of those days you’ve tried to eat cat food or something of that nature. Then I tell her maybe we should hold off on our predictions until you speak English and we can actually ascertain if your IQ is above that of a towel rack. Or, maybe you are just a genius who appreciates the complete vitamin nutrition contained in the tiny little bites of cat food. Who knows?
The other day you stayed home with your dad as I had to work and Nana couldn’t keep you one Friday. I came home at lunch to find your father and you drooling asleep in the bed. You were wearing nothing but a diaper with a paci half falling out of your mouth and your father was pretty much in the same position minus the diaper and the paci. He woke up and I asked him what you had eaten for breakfast and he pronounced, rather proudly, that you had “some strawberries, a few cheerios, and some pepperoni”. I think this shows how far we’ve come in relaxing our rules concerning child care around here.
Just last night you fell down, hit your head, got very upset and then I swear to GOD you said something that sounded just like, “I want my MAMA” and you crawled to me and curled up in my arms and I held you and rubbed your sore noggin and told you that you were okay. And, inside, I died just a little knowing that soon you wouldn’t ask for me when you were hurt. That there will be a day when curling up with your MAMA isn’t an option and you will bonk your head and go about your business. Lord knows I do this pretty regularly. But there isn’t a day that goes by that inside I don’t WANT my Mama when I bonk my noggin, say something stupid, or just in general feel miserable and need some comfort.
And, all I can hope, is that 32 years from now, when you are my age, I have done a good enough job that you still feel that way too.
Happy Birthday, Toodle Bug. You are now officially a “toddler” and no longer a “baby”. I expect all that crying and pooping in diapers nonsense to end post haste.
In the infinite wisdom of N'Sync (and as a tribute to your Godmother Elizabeth whom you were named for) I leave you with these words, "Bye Bye, Baby, Bye Bye..."
I love you now and forever,
Your Mama
I had no idea what the next year of our lives would bring us. The hours spent NOT SLEEPING. The hours spent just staring out your face. The hours spent SCREAMING. And the hours spent NOT SLEEPING. Have I talked about the lack of sleep yet? I can’t remember, I’m tired.
Then there was the struggle of going back to work and balancing that life with a home life that afforded you all the love and time you needed and deserved. I’d like to say that we’ve won that struggle. I know that we do the best that we can on most days and you are so happy that I can’t think that the decisions we’ve made about raising you were bad ones. Except that one about deciding you were going to sleep in our bed. Not that I HATE an active kicking infant who has inherited her father’s propensity for kicking and slapping. It’s just that with two of you in the bed now, I’m not sure when your father is going to get arrested for spousal abuse due to the amount of bruising on my arms and legs incurred from a swift foot to the thigh or a roundhouse back handed slap when you decide to turn over. But waking up with you is worth all that. It’s like waking up with the Jimmy Dean sunshine man in bed only he’s MUCH cuter and he smells like heaven and when he giggles, well, my heart soars and I think I can do almost anything. Sausage biscuits don’t normally do that to me (at least they haven’t since I was pregnant). But, you definitely do.
I think about times just ten months ago when you were so teeny and you got your first fever and I held you all day just freaking out of my effing mind because you were so TINY and how could you get a FEVER? I thought it took at least twelve pounds to muster the energy to work up a good fever. We took you to the doctor and you not only had a fever, but a pretty good diaper rash, were allergic to milk and had a case of colic. I distinctly recall telling the doctor that I felt like, “The Baby was FALLNG APART”. And considering up until that point in my life I was pretty much like Nana in that I was the Valedictorian of Running Everything, I felt like a miserable failure. Good GOD, who was running this joint? Exactly. It was the first real lesson in motherhood I ever had. But, your father and I nursed you through that fever. We got you over that colic. And, ultimately, we kept you alive for an entire 12 months. I consider this a personal success.
Now, I practically laugh when you scream bloody murder as I drag you away from yet another normal household item that could possibly KILL YOU and tell you things like, ‘How bad for you that you have a mother that won’t let you suck on electrical outlets. You have a horrible life. I feel sorry for you.” Then I realize that when you get older, if you don’t start slapping me on purpose when you are awake, you are going to have one MEAN case of the “smart mouth” when you get to kindergarten. I’m waiting on the first call from the teacher when she tells me you’ve said, “Thank you, Captain Obvious” when she tells you that “tee tee goes in the potty” or something else inane required by Pre-K teachers.
Right now, when I tell you “NO” in my Most Severe And Stern Voice Ever, you immediately turn around, do what I was telling you not to do, and parrot back to me, “NO NO”. And then I laugh because I can’t help it and I let you completely dismantle the sound system to the television because, hey, we can buy another one, right? And you just look so damn cute. You now refer to all the things in the house that you aren’t allowed to touch as “no no’s” and your father is worried that you will grow up asking to turn on the “no no’s” in the room so you can see.
There isn’t a day that goes by that your Nana doesn’t call me and declare you a “genius” and most of the time I agree. Except if it’s one of those days you’ve tried to eat cat food or something of that nature. Then I tell her maybe we should hold off on our predictions until you speak English and we can actually ascertain if your IQ is above that of a towel rack. Or, maybe you are just a genius who appreciates the complete vitamin nutrition contained in the tiny little bites of cat food. Who knows?
The other day you stayed home with your dad as I had to work and Nana couldn’t keep you one Friday. I came home at lunch to find your father and you drooling asleep in the bed. You were wearing nothing but a diaper with a paci half falling out of your mouth and your father was pretty much in the same position minus the diaper and the paci. He woke up and I asked him what you had eaten for breakfast and he pronounced, rather proudly, that you had “some strawberries, a few cheerios, and some pepperoni”. I think this shows how far we’ve come in relaxing our rules concerning child care around here.
Just last night you fell down, hit your head, got very upset and then I swear to GOD you said something that sounded just like, “I want my MAMA” and you crawled to me and curled up in my arms and I held you and rubbed your sore noggin and told you that you were okay. And, inside, I died just a little knowing that soon you wouldn’t ask for me when you were hurt. That there will be a day when curling up with your MAMA isn’t an option and you will bonk your head and go about your business. Lord knows I do this pretty regularly. But there isn’t a day that goes by that inside I don’t WANT my Mama when I bonk my noggin, say something stupid, or just in general feel miserable and need some comfort.
And, all I can hope, is that 32 years from now, when you are my age, I have done a good enough job that you still feel that way too.
Happy Birthday, Toodle Bug. You are now officially a “toddler” and no longer a “baby”. I expect all that crying and pooping in diapers nonsense to end post haste.
In the infinite wisdom of N'Sync (and as a tribute to your Godmother Elizabeth whom you were named for) I leave you with these words, "Bye Bye, Baby, Bye Bye..."
I love you now and forever,
Your Mama
Friday, June 4, 2010
Consistently Inconsistent
The above title of this entry is what The Man often calls The Baby. I agree on most days except for when she's screaming. Then I say she's "consistently consistent". (I jest about how much she screams, because if I told you my child was generally pleasant, smiles and laughs 89% of the day, and giggles with pure delight at most anything with which she comes into contact, well, that just wouldn't be funny. And then you'd hate me. I can't handle that. Just ask my shrink.)
But, its really true. My kid is just happy. I know this is how they "trick" you into having another one. Then you DO have another one and that kid sets the house on fire at 8 months, strangles the cats, and calls DHS as soon as they can jabber to report all the vodka you give them at night to knock them out. Little Bastard. In fact, I'm so sure this would happen if we had another one I'm trying to mentally tie my tubes as I type this.
I would say that "we've been blessed with an absolutely wonderful child" but I've learned that lesson in parenthood. As soon as you say something out loud...it NEVER WORKS AGAIN. This goes for sleeping habits, eating habits, dressing habits, playing habits, and for almost anything the child can do that either pisses you off or makes you laugh with pure joy. The Man and I have learned this lesson the hard way. In fact, now, when people say something generally positive about our child, you can probably hear us scream from two blocks away, "DON'T SAY THAT OUT LOUD." It doesn't help that The Man and I are horribly superstitous and think that pretty much anything we say can be spoken into existance. Due to this, we both feel a little responsible for Obama getting elected. You can thank us for this later.
Case in point: Yesterday I made a yummy dinner of organic homemade mac and cheese, carrots, and broccoli for her dinner. I SLAVE FOR THESE DINNERS. In fact, I think The Man gets a little jealous because I make tiny amounts of wonderful food for these "baby-sized" dinners and then look at him and say, "Um, don't you have a Totino's in the freezer?" Last night most of the mac and cheese ended up hanging on part of the kitchen wall, down her shirt, and on the living room floor. No, she wasn't moving while she was eating. I'll let you imagine that scenerio yourself. So, I ended up feeding her what she would eat. Strawberries and Godlfish crackers.
I texted my mother a delightfully witty line (at least I thought so) saying something like, "Dinner Served: Organic mac and cheese, carrots, and broccoli. Dinner Eaten: Berries and goldfish crackers"
My mother responded to this with, "Don't think its good at this age to not make her eat what you offer. Won't it spoil her?"
I TEXTFULLY LAUGHED IN HER FACE. This woman obviously does not understand the HORROR that is my child faced with food she does not feel like eating. There is no shrugging. There is no "trying of one bite". There is no "No, thank you." There is gagging, and opening of the mouth and spitting food into the neck of her shirt, there are handfuls of food snuck under the high chair tray and thrown on the floor. There is chaos and darkness and its somewhat like Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" with less Viggo and more ashy Apocolyptic scenes and gnashing of teeth. In short, its not pleasant. So, usually, after ten minutes of attempting to feed her something that won't make her GROW BOOBS AT THE AGE OF NINE. I give up and give her fruit and some version of a cracker. She is happy. We are happy. The cats come out from their hiding places because they no longer hear the small hairless thing in the living room keening and wailing. In short, there is sweet, sweet bliss. Then we all go to bed satisfied to live another day.
My mother keeps my child on Fridays while I work. She wonderfully works a 10 hour four day work week so she can do this on Fridays. Just for shits and giggles (and to get back at her for all the many and varied things she did to me in my childhood)I sent the leftover mac and cheese, carrots, and broccoli to her house with a note that said, "TRY IT. I'll stand back and laugh."
Around 1pm I get a text from her with this picture:
The caption read: "I WON!! NANA LOST! BERRIES AND FISH CRACKERS FOR LUNCH!"
I immediately sent one back that said, "Hurling? Lots of screaming? Hand beating on the high chair? Glueing of lips together?"
Mom wrote one back, "Yes, that sounds familiar."
HA. Just wait until I send some meat over there. Then you might really get a taste of what its like at my house around 7pm and why the cats take cover under large pieces of furniture.
So, we get her back this afternoon and The Man once again tries with the mac and cheese. (Have I mentioned we are also both self-hating masochists?) I sit in the living room painting my toe nails, having a cocktail, and waiting for the nuclear fall out.
It is quiet in the kitchen.
I am intrigued. But, my toes aren't dry. So, I sit and finish painting and drinking my gin and tonic. Maybe I am drunk and Satan has struck me deaf and I have yet to realize it.
I finally get up and walk in the kitchen and The Man stops me at the door and whispers, "Don't say anything out loud. Just leave the room and whatever you do, DO NOT LOOK HER IN THE EYE." Like she's a cornered possum or something.
As I pivot to leave, I try to catch a glimpse of the imp out of the corner of my eye. There she is...sitting big as shit in the high chair shoveling handfuls of mac and cheese and carrots into her mouth as she giggles and talks gibberish to the cats.
Consistently inconsistent, I tell you.
But, its really true. My kid is just happy. I know this is how they "trick" you into having another one. Then you DO have another one and that kid sets the house on fire at 8 months, strangles the cats, and calls DHS as soon as they can jabber to report all the vodka you give them at night to knock them out. Little Bastard. In fact, I'm so sure this would happen if we had another one I'm trying to mentally tie my tubes as I type this.
I would say that "we've been blessed with an absolutely wonderful child" but I've learned that lesson in parenthood. As soon as you say something out loud...it NEVER WORKS AGAIN. This goes for sleeping habits, eating habits, dressing habits, playing habits, and for almost anything the child can do that either pisses you off or makes you laugh with pure joy. The Man and I have learned this lesson the hard way. In fact, now, when people say something generally positive about our child, you can probably hear us scream from two blocks away, "DON'T SAY THAT OUT LOUD." It doesn't help that The Man and I are horribly superstitous and think that pretty much anything we say can be spoken into existance. Due to this, we both feel a little responsible for Obama getting elected. You can thank us for this later.
Case in point: Yesterday I made a yummy dinner of organic homemade mac and cheese, carrots, and broccoli for her dinner. I SLAVE FOR THESE DINNERS. In fact, I think The Man gets a little jealous because I make tiny amounts of wonderful food for these "baby-sized" dinners and then look at him and say, "Um, don't you have a Totino's in the freezer?" Last night most of the mac and cheese ended up hanging on part of the kitchen wall, down her shirt, and on the living room floor. No, she wasn't moving while she was eating. I'll let you imagine that scenerio yourself. So, I ended up feeding her what she would eat. Strawberries and Godlfish crackers.
I texted my mother a delightfully witty line (at least I thought so) saying something like, "Dinner Served: Organic mac and cheese, carrots, and broccoli. Dinner Eaten: Berries and goldfish crackers"
My mother responded to this with, "Don't think its good at this age to not make her eat what you offer. Won't it spoil her?"
I TEXTFULLY LAUGHED IN HER FACE. This woman obviously does not understand the HORROR that is my child faced with food she does not feel like eating. There is no shrugging. There is no "trying of one bite". There is no "No, thank you." There is gagging, and opening of the mouth and spitting food into the neck of her shirt, there are handfuls of food snuck under the high chair tray and thrown on the floor. There is chaos and darkness and its somewhat like Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" with less Viggo and more ashy Apocolyptic scenes and gnashing of teeth. In short, its not pleasant. So, usually, after ten minutes of attempting to feed her something that won't make her GROW BOOBS AT THE AGE OF NINE. I give up and give her fruit and some version of a cracker. She is happy. We are happy. The cats come out from their hiding places because they no longer hear the small hairless thing in the living room keening and wailing. In short, there is sweet, sweet bliss. Then we all go to bed satisfied to live another day.
My mother keeps my child on Fridays while I work. She wonderfully works a 10 hour four day work week so she can do this on Fridays. Just for shits and giggles (and to get back at her for all the many and varied things she did to me in my childhood)I sent the leftover mac and cheese, carrots, and broccoli to her house with a note that said, "TRY IT. I'll stand back and laugh."
Around 1pm I get a text from her with this picture:
The caption read: "I WON!! NANA LOST! BERRIES AND FISH CRACKERS FOR LUNCH!"
I immediately sent one back that said, "Hurling? Lots of screaming? Hand beating on the high chair? Glueing of lips together?"
Mom wrote one back, "Yes, that sounds familiar."
HA. Just wait until I send some meat over there. Then you might really get a taste of what its like at my house around 7pm and why the cats take cover under large pieces of furniture.
So, we get her back this afternoon and The Man once again tries with the mac and cheese. (Have I mentioned we are also both self-hating masochists?) I sit in the living room painting my toe nails, having a cocktail, and waiting for the nuclear fall out.
It is quiet in the kitchen.
I am intrigued. But, my toes aren't dry. So, I sit and finish painting and drinking my gin and tonic. Maybe I am drunk and Satan has struck me deaf and I have yet to realize it.
I finally get up and walk in the kitchen and The Man stops me at the door and whispers, "Don't say anything out loud. Just leave the room and whatever you do, DO NOT LOOK HER IN THE EYE." Like she's a cornered possum or something.
As I pivot to leave, I try to catch a glimpse of the imp out of the corner of my eye. There she is...sitting big as shit in the high chair shoveling handfuls of mac and cheese and carrots into her mouth as she giggles and talks gibberish to the cats.
Consistently inconsistent, I tell you.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Dear Parks,
I woke up today and-after extricating your foot from the small of my back-I realized that in two weeks you will be one-year-old. Like, HOLY CRAP. That means you'll be 1/33 of my age and practically as mature as both your mom and dad put together. Since this revelation, we've mutually decided that you will be responsible for paying the cable and internet bill. That's $162.50 a month. I don't care where you get it, but it's due on the 8th so I'd like it by the 6th. I figure by one you need to start carrying at least part of your weight around here. That's part of 26lbs. I'm carrying ALL of your weight most everyday. I figure you carrying part of it shouldn't break your back. And, hey, aren't you going to be driving soon? I've got some videos I need to return.
After realizing your birthday was looming imminently your father and I freaked out and realized that we have done NOTHING to prepare for this-and I'm not talking about a birthday party. We've already bought the tequila for that. We are "alledgedly" supposed to transition you to WHOLE REAL MILK and, like, FOOD. Someone even mentioned taking your BaBas away. Are these people crazy? I told your father that I was going to buy a flack jacket and some mace as I'm pretty sure you aren't going to take to this transition too kindly.
You DO eat "food items". Like, corn and corn and sometimes some more CORN. But, you really aren't too keen on anything else other than fruit and PUFFS. I'm pretty sure that corn and puffs-although they make for interesting diapers around here-are not nutrionally solvent for a one-year-old.
When we attempt to integrate green things and stuff that actually contain vitamins into your diet the result is usually not pleasant...remember that "hurling" skill I talked about? You've also developed this knack for making something your father and I refer to as "The Ricky Gervais Face". One day I'll let you watch the movie "Ghosttown" just so you can see what I am talking about. Its the face he makes during the part where he has dinner with Tia Leone and there is a large canine in the room that obviously smells horrbly bad? That face. It's a cross between a dry heave, a gag, and a full body convulsion. Sometimes you do it so dramatically that your father and I just laugh and call you out on it. Like a college freshman that's trying to hard at shooting tequila. WE GET IT KID. You don't like SQUASH. You don't have to fall on the floor, gag, and pee your pants. Save that for when you get into a sorority.
And then I say things like, "save that for when you get into a sorority" and I want to laugh, but all I do is get very upset and realize you will leave me one day and all of a sudden I'm in that moment where you are packed and 18 and sassy with long hair and not enough damn sense and are about to take off in your car and all I can think is, "This all went WAY TOO FAST" followed closely by, "I'M NOW ALONE WITH YOUR DAD. WOOT! BACK TO NEKKID SUNDAYS!!"
But, seriously, Happy Almost Birthday. Your Mama is now going to cry and make the Ricky Gervais face for a while (and possibly shoot some tequila).
Please stay little a little bit longer. If you do, I'll let you eat corn and take a Ba-Ba everyday. Or at least until the kids in high school start to give you shit about it. Then I'll help you kick their ass.
Love,
Mama
After realizing your birthday was looming imminently your father and I freaked out and realized that we have done NOTHING to prepare for this-and I'm not talking about a birthday party. We've already bought the tequila for that. We are "alledgedly" supposed to transition you to WHOLE REAL MILK and, like, FOOD. Someone even mentioned taking your BaBas away. Are these people crazy? I told your father that I was going to buy a flack jacket and some mace as I'm pretty sure you aren't going to take to this transition too kindly.
You DO eat "food items". Like, corn and corn and sometimes some more CORN. But, you really aren't too keen on anything else other than fruit and PUFFS. I'm pretty sure that corn and puffs-although they make for interesting diapers around here-are not nutrionally solvent for a one-year-old.
When we attempt to integrate green things and stuff that actually contain vitamins into your diet the result is usually not pleasant...remember that "hurling" skill I talked about? You've also developed this knack for making something your father and I refer to as "The Ricky Gervais Face". One day I'll let you watch the movie "Ghosttown" just so you can see what I am talking about. Its the face he makes during the part where he has dinner with Tia Leone and there is a large canine in the room that obviously smells horrbly bad? That face. It's a cross between a dry heave, a gag, and a full body convulsion. Sometimes you do it so dramatically that your father and I just laugh and call you out on it. Like a college freshman that's trying to hard at shooting tequila. WE GET IT KID. You don't like SQUASH. You don't have to fall on the floor, gag, and pee your pants. Save that for when you get into a sorority.
And then I say things like, "save that for when you get into a sorority" and I want to laugh, but all I do is get very upset and realize you will leave me one day and all of a sudden I'm in that moment where you are packed and 18 and sassy with long hair and not enough damn sense and are about to take off in your car and all I can think is, "This all went WAY TOO FAST" followed closely by, "I'M NOW ALONE WITH YOUR DAD. WOOT! BACK TO NEKKID SUNDAYS!!"
But, seriously, Happy Almost Birthday. Your Mama is now going to cry and make the Ricky Gervais face for a while (and possibly shoot some tequila).
Please stay little a little bit longer. If you do, I'll let you eat corn and take a Ba-Ba everyday. Or at least until the kids in high school start to give you shit about it. Then I'll help you kick their ass.
Love,
Mama
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