Come To Me My Danishes

There are currently nine people in Denmark reading this blog according to my stats. I'd like to thank them for being so interested in my little obnoxious American child who continues to bite, shake her finger in my face and tell me "NO NO NO" so much that The Man and I finally burst into tears of laughter yesterday after the third fit that included her flinging herself on the floor and protesting violently our "rule" of NOT EATING GLADE PLUG-INS. We are horribly unreasonable parents.

On that note, if you would like to inform me where in Denmark you currently are, I can have her on a plane in about two hours. Maybe "STOP. NO. DON'T TOUCH THAT. DO NOT EAT THAT. I SWEAR. PARKS ELIZABETH GARROTT. NOT THE OUTLETS. THE MEOW MEOW DOES NOT LIKE THE WAY YOU ARE TOUCHING HIM" (I'm currently checking to see if they make capitalized Capitalized font) will make more sense to her in Danish. I'm pretty sure with the string of babbling expletives she let loose on me yesterday that she's speaking in a different language anyway.

Last night I think she decided that her crib was too lonely and decided to fake an illness that lasted, surprisingly, JUST long enough for us to feel sorry for her and put her in the bed between us. She stayed there...flung out far and wide just like her dad sleeps until I gave up, curled up into a ball about the size of a quarter, and took the space in the bed the two giant DaDa and Baby-Long-Legs in my life decided to give me. She then farted ALL NIGHT and kicked me soundly in my boobs over and over again. This was only topped by this morning when she stood up in bed-angry that we weren't yet awake-and then violently tossed herself backwards ONTO MY FACE with a lovely morning full-of-urine diaper. It squished delightfully against my forehead as she landed. She then peed. I know this because I could feel the warmth spreading throughout the diaper and, despite being a really calm person most of the time, I screamed, gagged, picked her up, and then threw her against the wall. Kidding. We only throw kittens against the walls in our house. Never babies. Babies get tied in the corners and fed vodka until they pass out-or are willing to make prank calls to my father telling him that his PERSONAL TAX MONEY will now be funding the NAACP's yearly conference. Because nothing spells "funny" like killin' grandpa with a heart attack, am I right?

I'm going for my inheritance money early. All $12.45 of it.