Just wanted to update you guys and let you know that I am once again writing at The Butter Knife...who is now all official and shit.
www.thebutterknife.com
I needed some space back.
Also, if I know you from work and you still read this...forgive all the shits and fucks.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Dear Parks,
It’s getting colder outside and I love the change. It will be the first Christmas where you actually understand there is something “different” going on and I can’t wait to see your face the first time you see a Christmas tree, or get to open a present, or dig through your stocking, or wake up on Christmas morning and see what Santa has brought to you with no knowledge that Santa is actually your dad wandering around in his boxers trying to find the ONE DAMN SCREW that holds THE WHOLE DAMN THING TOGETHER. You know, THAT screw. The one I’m pretty sure I probably threw away because your dad left it sitting in a half-empty coffee mug on top of the mantel taped to a spoon. Because that’s how he categorizes “important” things. AS IF ONE WOULD KNOW.
I’ve always been partial to the fall. My whole life I’ve been that way. When the first cool breeze hits the air and I feel the wind shift, things get clearer and clearer and are covered with less pollen and haze; it’s like I can see the world better. I feel as if an oppressive lingering heat depression lifts off my shoulders and I can conquer the world. I then make approximately two thousand commitments to people to keep my racing brain occupied and I already start to think about how the world will be different next summer. It won’t be as hot and I’ll be willing to get outside and run around with you. Missing the one fact that I’ve always hated summer, will continue to hate summer, and probably shouldn’t tell you that I’m pretty sure-after much reflection- I hate the summer because I was a fat kid and I didn’t want to be forced to wear the clothing that showed everyone how “fat “of I kid I was.
Also, I hate the smell of cut grass.
Your dad says this makes me Un-American. I think it actually makes me “Un-Un-American” as most of the Hispanics I know are usually cutting some sort of grass as the rest of us “Americans” can’t be bothered. And, oh, WE HATE THE SMELL.
We took you to the State Fair for the first time this year and figured out that you LOVE Pygmy Goats just about as much as you love the cats. Like, a REALLY WHOLE LOT. And, not in an “I like pygmy goats in a scary sort of child molester” way but in an “I really, really, really like a pygmy goat” sort of way. Judging from the way you reacted when we removed you from the presence of a pygmy goat, your dad and I need to purchase one just so we can have four uninterrupted hours of TV watching time on Friday nights. All that seems to be required is handing you a sack of sliced carrots and the leash to a brown pygmy goat. At least, I imagine that a pygmy goat would be on a leash. Who knows, right? I’m assuming there’s a carnie out there that knows but I’m not going to ask them. Mainly because I'm pretty sure there is more than one carnie out there that spent four hours on a Friday night with nothing but a bag of carrots and a pygmy goat to entertain them. And, due to that, they can keep their knowledge about pygmy goats on leashes to themselves.
So, you’ll have to live with your pygmy goat on a leash and LIKE IT, missy, you hear me? Now here are some carrots and go outside and let your dad and I watch Bill Maher and eat cookies and refried beans.
Lately (okay…like FOREVER AGO), you’ve become a hot mess of flinging whole-body-limp-going screaming fits of rage and tears…so almost two? We can’t take you anywhere. We figured this out in vivo-as they say-at a restaurant two weeks ago when your father and I made the erroneous assumption that we could peaceably take you into a restaurant, sit down, order, and eat a cheeseburger in some form of peace. After all, we’d been doing it for the past 15 months with no issue whatsoever. I’ll pause a minute for the seasoned parents to stop laughing.
They are laughing because they know we made a rookie mistake. The “rookie mistake” of believing that just because we could do anything TWO SECONDS AGO does not mean that we can do it NOW, as in RIGHT NOW, as in TWO SECONDS LATER. Because, in that two seconds, your brain formed different neurons that decided that event could NEVER BE ALLOWED AGAIN EVER-until eighteen years later when we’re beaten, saggy, defeated, and wondering at what point DHS won’t put us in jail if we decide you have to sleep under the house. Can you tell I haven’t been sleeping? What day is it? I can’t remember. WHERE’S YOUR FATHER?
Anyway, halfway through the meal I texted your Nana, “We have reached the point of restaurant melt downs”. She had the foresight to realize that this situation was probably not funny to me…YET. That maybe this was one of those situations that was going to take a few weeks to be funny, one of THOSE kinds of situations. You know, like the kind of situations where you turn on the gas stove and accidentally set your head on fire and it’s not really funny until you realize that your eyebrows will grow back and those sort of melted looking ears aren’t that bad. Because Nana didn’t text back anything. Not a DAMN WORD of “advice”. This is not usual behavior for your Nana as she usually has advice about everything and-in fact-gets paid by people to give them this advice in “therapy”. I’m glad your Nana didn’t text back because, at that point, anything she said would have garnered a response that pretty much sounded like, “EFF. YOU. I want a cheeseburger. I’m at pre-pregnancy weight. And I have I told you to go fuck yourself today, yet? ”
But she didn’t and I didn’t and all sat well between the two of us for a while.
Your Nana hasn’t been keeping you every weekend due to other obligations. So, your father and I are getting a break every OTHER weekend (poor us, I know, right?). Therefore, your Nana hasn’t had you spend the night at her house in over two weeks. That’s a LOT longer than two seconds, isn’t it? Are you catching my drift here?
So, Nana-not taking heed to my earlier text concerning restaurant behavior-woke up this morning obviously feeling very SASSY as you had slept all night and she wanted pancakes. She decided since everyone was so well rested and there’s a Cracker Barrel right up the interstate from their lovely abode that she would travel, you included, to said Cracker Barrel, sit down, and eat a calm and perfectly reasonable breakfast of pancakes while you sat in a high chair and glowed like the small angel that you are. In her mind, I'm pretty sure there were even blue birds floating around your head farting flowers that smelled like rainbows.
HA. TWO SECONDS, NANA. THERE WILL BE NO RAINBOW-SMELLING FLOWER-FARTING BLUE BIRDS HERE.
I was unaware that this was happening this morning as I was busy enjoying twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. I know, my body was like, “WTF? Are we in a Turkish Prison? Why have we been laying down this long? And while we are at it, who is this man lying beside me that isn’t wearing a diaper?”
Right when I was about to wonder out loud when the “dogs were being brought in”, I remembered where I was and my name. I then realized that my body had been asleep for a full twelve hours. It is about this EXACT time that your escapade at the restaurant two weeks earlier became amusing to me.
So, what was EXTRA amusing to me today, you ask?
Well, when I texted Nana my usual Sunday morning question of, “How’s that baby?”
This is the text I got in response:
“Slept great. We tried to go to Cracker Barrel for breakfast-BIG MISTAKE. Great nap. Has some diarrhea. Little fussy now.”
I read it and I realized-except for that sleeping part-that Nana had pretty much summed up your entire last two weeks in five sentences and did you see how it took me, like, a bazillion? Nana’s much more talented than I am. And other than that, I think that might be the funniest text I’ve ever gotten. It’s like the telegram version of a status update, isn’t it?
But, I’m going to give her a couple of weeks before I tell her how funny I really think it is.
(I'm thinking its going to take even longer for her to think you pooping in the bathtub the last time you spent the night was even funnier)
Love,
Mom
I’ve always been partial to the fall. My whole life I’ve been that way. When the first cool breeze hits the air and I feel the wind shift, things get clearer and clearer and are covered with less pollen and haze; it’s like I can see the world better. I feel as if an oppressive lingering heat depression lifts off my shoulders and I can conquer the world. I then make approximately two thousand commitments to people to keep my racing brain occupied and I already start to think about how the world will be different next summer. It won’t be as hot and I’ll be willing to get outside and run around with you. Missing the one fact that I’ve always hated summer, will continue to hate summer, and probably shouldn’t tell you that I’m pretty sure-after much reflection- I hate the summer because I was a fat kid and I didn’t want to be forced to wear the clothing that showed everyone how “fat “of I kid I was.
Also, I hate the smell of cut grass.
Your dad says this makes me Un-American. I think it actually makes me “Un-Un-American” as most of the Hispanics I know are usually cutting some sort of grass as the rest of us “Americans” can’t be bothered. And, oh, WE HATE THE SMELL.
We took you to the State Fair for the first time this year and figured out that you LOVE Pygmy Goats just about as much as you love the cats. Like, a REALLY WHOLE LOT. And, not in an “I like pygmy goats in a scary sort of child molester” way but in an “I really, really, really like a pygmy goat” sort of way. Judging from the way you reacted when we removed you from the presence of a pygmy goat, your dad and I need to purchase one just so we can have four uninterrupted hours of TV watching time on Friday nights. All that seems to be required is handing you a sack of sliced carrots and the leash to a brown pygmy goat. At least, I imagine that a pygmy goat would be on a leash. Who knows, right? I’m assuming there’s a carnie out there that knows but I’m not going to ask them. Mainly because I'm pretty sure there is more than one carnie out there that spent four hours on a Friday night with nothing but a bag of carrots and a pygmy goat to entertain them. And, due to that, they can keep their knowledge about pygmy goats on leashes to themselves.
So, you’ll have to live with your pygmy goat on a leash and LIKE IT, missy, you hear me? Now here are some carrots and go outside and let your dad and I watch Bill Maher and eat cookies and refried beans.
Lately (okay…like FOREVER AGO), you’ve become a hot mess of flinging whole-body-limp-going screaming fits of rage and tears…so almost two? We can’t take you anywhere. We figured this out in vivo-as they say-at a restaurant two weeks ago when your father and I made the erroneous assumption that we could peaceably take you into a restaurant, sit down, order, and eat a cheeseburger in some form of peace. After all, we’d been doing it for the past 15 months with no issue whatsoever. I’ll pause a minute for the seasoned parents to stop laughing.
They are laughing because they know we made a rookie mistake. The “rookie mistake” of believing that just because we could do anything TWO SECONDS AGO does not mean that we can do it NOW, as in RIGHT NOW, as in TWO SECONDS LATER. Because, in that two seconds, your brain formed different neurons that decided that event could NEVER BE ALLOWED AGAIN EVER-until eighteen years later when we’re beaten, saggy, defeated, and wondering at what point DHS won’t put us in jail if we decide you have to sleep under the house. Can you tell I haven’t been sleeping? What day is it? I can’t remember. WHERE’S YOUR FATHER?
Anyway, halfway through the meal I texted your Nana, “We have reached the point of restaurant melt downs”. She had the foresight to realize that this situation was probably not funny to me…YET. That maybe this was one of those situations that was going to take a few weeks to be funny, one of THOSE kinds of situations. You know, like the kind of situations where you turn on the gas stove and accidentally set your head on fire and it’s not really funny until you realize that your eyebrows will grow back and those sort of melted looking ears aren’t that bad. Because Nana didn’t text back anything. Not a DAMN WORD of “advice”. This is not usual behavior for your Nana as she usually has advice about everything and-in fact-gets paid by people to give them this advice in “therapy”. I’m glad your Nana didn’t text back because, at that point, anything she said would have garnered a response that pretty much sounded like, “EFF. YOU. I want a cheeseburger. I’m at pre-pregnancy weight. And I have I told you to go fuck yourself today, yet? ”
But she didn’t and I didn’t and all sat well between the two of us for a while.
Your Nana hasn’t been keeping you every weekend due to other obligations. So, your father and I are getting a break every OTHER weekend (poor us, I know, right?). Therefore, your Nana hasn’t had you spend the night at her house in over two weeks. That’s a LOT longer than two seconds, isn’t it? Are you catching my drift here?
So, Nana-not taking heed to my earlier text concerning restaurant behavior-woke up this morning obviously feeling very SASSY as you had slept all night and she wanted pancakes. She decided since everyone was so well rested and there’s a Cracker Barrel right up the interstate from their lovely abode that she would travel, you included, to said Cracker Barrel, sit down, and eat a calm and perfectly reasonable breakfast of pancakes while you sat in a high chair and glowed like the small angel that you are. In her mind, I'm pretty sure there were even blue birds floating around your head farting flowers that smelled like rainbows.
HA. TWO SECONDS, NANA. THERE WILL BE NO RAINBOW-SMELLING FLOWER-FARTING BLUE BIRDS HERE.
I was unaware that this was happening this morning as I was busy enjoying twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. I know, my body was like, “WTF? Are we in a Turkish Prison? Why have we been laying down this long? And while we are at it, who is this man lying beside me that isn’t wearing a diaper?”
Right when I was about to wonder out loud when the “dogs were being brought in”, I remembered where I was and my name. I then realized that my body had been asleep for a full twelve hours. It is about this EXACT time that your escapade at the restaurant two weeks earlier became amusing to me.
So, what was EXTRA amusing to me today, you ask?
Well, when I texted Nana my usual Sunday morning question of, “How’s that baby?”
This is the text I got in response:
“Slept great. We tried to go to Cracker Barrel for breakfast-BIG MISTAKE. Great nap. Has some diarrhea. Little fussy now.”
I read it and I realized-except for that sleeping part-that Nana had pretty much summed up your entire last two weeks in five sentences and did you see how it took me, like, a bazillion? Nana’s much more talented than I am. And other than that, I think that might be the funniest text I’ve ever gotten. It’s like the telegram version of a status update, isn’t it?
But, I’m going to give her a couple of weeks before I tell her how funny I really think it is.
(I'm thinking its going to take even longer for her to think you pooping in the bathtub the last time you spent the night was even funnier)
Love,
Mom
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Dear Parks,
Last week you received your very first set of skinned knees. I’m not sure if that was more of a milestone for your Dad and me, or you. I have a tendency to think it was probably a bigger deal for us as your father cried like a little girl, my first reaction was to call 911, and you basically stood up in the yard like Rambo breaking through the top of a lake in the jungle with an automatic weapon and fired off something akin to, “You WUSSIES. A LITTLE BLOOD WILL NOT STOP ME FROM EATING THIS GRASS.” Then you ate some grass and snapped a kitten’s neck just for pure pleasure. Kidding. That kitten part I totally made up.
What’s strange is that at the time I couldn’t decide which upset me more. The eating of something from OUTSIDE or the fact that you were bleeding and gave as much care to that as a roided-out college football player. In fact, you screamed your ass off when we dragged you inside for a rub of Neosporin and a band aid. Once we figured out that you were not going to break in half and dissolve into red plumes of skinned flesh, your Dad and I visibly relaxed, called both sets of grandparents, and retold the story like Korean vets discussing a jungle skirmish.
The next day I whacked you on the side of the eye with a dresser drawer when you snuck up behind me and it left a small cut near your eye. I then spent the better part of three days CONVINCED someone was going to report us for child abuse instead of reporting you for having a really, really hard head and a preternatural ability to sneak up behind people without them hearing you. If I wasn’t pretty sure who your daddy was, I’d think you were part Native American.
Lately, you’ve fallen in love with “Dora” and “Boots” (and can scream their names in a frequency only heard by ferrets, as well) but you also have discovered “The Backyardigans” and “Blues Clues”. “The Backyardigans” come on at 7pm and this is usually the time you are wrapping up dinner. If you can hear the theme song in the kitchen you raise your arms, bark, and demand to be taken out of your high chair so you can run into the living room to stare at the TV for 30 minutes. And, when I say stare, I mean loose all high levels of consciousness, go into a trance, and stand still staring at the television where even a hand being waved in front of your face will not break your concentration. Like a medium channeling “Uniqua’s” spirit. At first, we were a little freaked out as your ability to concentrate on something for a long period of time is extremely scary. Yes, SCARY.
When you have a 15-month-old who doesn’t even acknowledge your existence if you jump up and down and wave chocolate bunny cookies under her nose-and she’s related to you and you KNOW how much a good chocolate bunny is worth the effort-you WILL get freaked out about it. Your father and I have become increasingly more upset about the love you seem to have for the television. So upset that three days ago we became “those” sort of parents. You know, the sort of parents that decide “Hey! We don’t really like our child a whole lot so let’s REFUSE to let her watch television and see how pissed she gets. Just for shits and giggles”.
So, two nights ago with absolutely no ceremony, we turned off all the televisions and silently watched your head explode all over the living room for the next thirty minutes until you adjusted to the idea that you were actually going to be forced to interact with your parents for the next hour and a half until bedtime. There was wailing and slapping and screaming and stomping and dramatic throwing of oneself on the floor while beating of hands and fists and the gnashing of teeth. It was of Biblical proportions. I’ve never known I’d made a better parenting decision than right then when I was watching your reaction. If you loved Blue’s Clues THAT MUCH it was obvious your father and I were not making enough of a mark on your psyche.
You finally calmed down and let us read you books and point out pictures while you delighted in telling us what everything was, “buder-ply” (butterfly) and “bee” and “wow-wer” (flower) and “woof woofs” and “meow meows” and “dars” (stars). And, seriously, it’s not just because I’m your mom, but I think if we recorded you saying “buder-ply” and “wow-wer” that we could instantaneously cause world peace if we played it over world-wide loud speakers just with the cuteness dripping off the mispronunciation of each word. Last night I think I offered you a brand new car if you would just say “buder-ply” ONE MORE TIME. You obliged every single time until I could tell that you were getting a little tired and looking at me like, ‘Hey, Lady, I’ve told you what that effin’ BUG is fourteen times in the past thirty minutes. If you can’t remember, I’m sort of scared that I am your progeny. I hope my Dad is smarter for my own sake.”
But, you did oblige us every time we asked until about thirty minutes later when I asked you if you wanted to play in your room until bed time and you raised your arm, pointed towards the television, and pretty plainly asked me in your own language “Will the television be playing in the bedroom, M’lady?” I know you asked this because when I answered it with a very clear, “No. We aren’t going to watch television in the bedroom either” you returned to previous explosive head state full on with the slapping and beating of the floor. I couldn’t really get upset as this fit was, once again, about” Dor-da” so I just stood there until your father caved and picked you up and we seemed to convince you that you were going to live. It took a while for you to believe us. But, you eventually did and we finally put you to bed that first night with no television and you calmed enough to seem to enjoy the extra reading and interaction.
The second night….well, let’s just say there was about the same amount of angst regarding the TV not being turned on but for fewer minutes than the first and you settled into playing with your father and I a little quicker and took delight in showing us all the “bees” and “buder-plys” and “wow-wers” once again. We retrieved some new books and laughed as you made a “vroom vrrooom” sound for all the cars in it along with screaming “DUK” every time we turned the page and you saw the yellow feathered creature.
Every. Single. Time.
That book seemed to last as long as “War and Peace”. Only with less Russians and instead of having 16 different names, every one was named "DUCK".
Luckily, we finally came to a “tiger” in the book and-being pretty sure that you had no idea what that was-I pointed to it and said, “TYE-GERR”. You pointed at it and said “danke scheon”. OK, Wayne Newton. Whatever. Let’s try this again.
I point at the picture and say “TYE-GERR” and you point at it and say “Danke Scheon”. I have a hard time not bursting into song here and reenacting the parade scene from Ferris Bueller. So, I just say, “Yeah, it’s a Danke Scheon” and we moved on. I figure there will be a pre-school teacher somewhere who can clean that mess up. Just like they can tell you Mama’s cleavage isn’t really her belly button. What the hell are we paying them for anyway?
After finishing this book, it was nearing bedtime and as an afterthought we decided to ask you if you were “ready to go night night”. Normally, this incurs a little bit of screaming followed by some screaming with a little more scream-filled screams. But that night, you popped up, threw your sippie at your Dad and mumbled something that sounded like, “blowin’ this borin’-ass joint”, turned around, slid off the couch and practically ran to your room like your ass was on fire. You then pointed at your Dad, pointed at your paci, and then pointed at the rocking chair. You then stood there with your hands outstretched like, “Come on, bitches, let’s DO THIS THANG.” Your dad sat down, put you in his lap, cranked back and you were asleep within two minutes.
It’s so nice to know we entertain you that much. We love you too, honey.
There were lots of “firsts” in the past few weeks. We left you for the first time with people that were not family. Well, not “technically” family. But, your Uncle T and Aunt M are pretty much related minus that whole pesky ‘sharing blood’ thing. Although they don’t have kids…we thought if you were in your crib asleep there was slim to 23% chance of them not killing you within three hours. Surprisingly, they managed not to kill you and your father and I got over our fear of leaving you with anyone other than our mothers. Well, *I* did. Your dad checked his phone every two minutes and vibrated the entire time we were out for dinner.
Have we discussed the level of anxiety that you are naturally going to inherit from the both of us yet? If we haven’t, maybe I should go ahead and start schooling you on symptoms and pharmaceuticals. Although, with the way you react to some situations, I can already tell you are going to be an interesting kid who has her own ideas about how things should work. Basically, everything in the world belongs to you and the rest of us are just borrowing it without your permission.
Like, yesterday morning, when I got into the shower in “your” bathroom (which isn’t really YOUR bathroom so much as a bathroom that happens to be attached to your bedroom) and you pulled back the shower curtain and screamed, “NO MAMA. MY WA WA”. You continued to scream this for three minutes until I nearly broke a leg falling over laughing in the tub and your dad came in and dragged you away screaming “NOOOOOOO” as you beat your fists on his chest. You know, because no one should have the gumption to use YOUR WA WA without permission. Next time I’m going to bring up how you totally used my uterus for ten months without MY permission. Let’s not even mention the conditions under which you came into the world. I think that certainly makes me worthy of using a few drops of YOUR WAWA. At least, I think so. It’s also why I take bites of your ice cream cones, kiss you as much as I want no matter how hard you push me away, and occasionally put stupid ass outfits on you for my entertainment. I figure I’ve earned it. If you don’t believe me, I’ll totally show you my hemorrhoids.
I’ll leave you with something that your great-grandfather once said to me.
“Quit your crying. I’ve had worse things in MY EYE.”
He then rubbed me down with gasoline while smoking a cigar to kill the “chiggers” I was screaming about.
Granted, not the best parenting advice. But definitely a good perspective through which to see the world. Or, maybe just borderline neglect. Who knows?
All I DO know is that right now you are the coolest thing EVER.
Love,
Mama
What’s strange is that at the time I couldn’t decide which upset me more. The eating of something from OUTSIDE or the fact that you were bleeding and gave as much care to that as a roided-out college football player. In fact, you screamed your ass off when we dragged you inside for a rub of Neosporin and a band aid. Once we figured out that you were not going to break in half and dissolve into red plumes of skinned flesh, your Dad and I visibly relaxed, called both sets of grandparents, and retold the story like Korean vets discussing a jungle skirmish.
The next day I whacked you on the side of the eye with a dresser drawer when you snuck up behind me and it left a small cut near your eye. I then spent the better part of three days CONVINCED someone was going to report us for child abuse instead of reporting you for having a really, really hard head and a preternatural ability to sneak up behind people without them hearing you. If I wasn’t pretty sure who your daddy was, I’d think you were part Native American.
Lately, you’ve fallen in love with “Dora” and “Boots” (and can scream their names in a frequency only heard by ferrets, as well) but you also have discovered “The Backyardigans” and “Blues Clues”. “The Backyardigans” come on at 7pm and this is usually the time you are wrapping up dinner. If you can hear the theme song in the kitchen you raise your arms, bark, and demand to be taken out of your high chair so you can run into the living room to stare at the TV for 30 minutes. And, when I say stare, I mean loose all high levels of consciousness, go into a trance, and stand still staring at the television where even a hand being waved in front of your face will not break your concentration. Like a medium channeling “Uniqua’s” spirit. At first, we were a little freaked out as your ability to concentrate on something for a long period of time is extremely scary. Yes, SCARY.
When you have a 15-month-old who doesn’t even acknowledge your existence if you jump up and down and wave chocolate bunny cookies under her nose-and she’s related to you and you KNOW how much a good chocolate bunny is worth the effort-you WILL get freaked out about it. Your father and I have become increasingly more upset about the love you seem to have for the television. So upset that three days ago we became “those” sort of parents. You know, the sort of parents that decide “Hey! We don’t really like our child a whole lot so let’s REFUSE to let her watch television and see how pissed she gets. Just for shits and giggles”.
So, two nights ago with absolutely no ceremony, we turned off all the televisions and silently watched your head explode all over the living room for the next thirty minutes until you adjusted to the idea that you were actually going to be forced to interact with your parents for the next hour and a half until bedtime. There was wailing and slapping and screaming and stomping and dramatic throwing of oneself on the floor while beating of hands and fists and the gnashing of teeth. It was of Biblical proportions. I’ve never known I’d made a better parenting decision than right then when I was watching your reaction. If you loved Blue’s Clues THAT MUCH it was obvious your father and I were not making enough of a mark on your psyche.
You finally calmed down and let us read you books and point out pictures while you delighted in telling us what everything was, “buder-ply” (butterfly) and “bee” and “wow-wer” (flower) and “woof woofs” and “meow meows” and “dars” (stars). And, seriously, it’s not just because I’m your mom, but I think if we recorded you saying “buder-ply” and “wow-wer” that we could instantaneously cause world peace if we played it over world-wide loud speakers just with the cuteness dripping off the mispronunciation of each word. Last night I think I offered you a brand new car if you would just say “buder-ply” ONE MORE TIME. You obliged every single time until I could tell that you were getting a little tired and looking at me like, ‘Hey, Lady, I’ve told you what that effin’ BUG is fourteen times in the past thirty minutes. If you can’t remember, I’m sort of scared that I am your progeny. I hope my Dad is smarter for my own sake.”
But, you did oblige us every time we asked until about thirty minutes later when I asked you if you wanted to play in your room until bed time and you raised your arm, pointed towards the television, and pretty plainly asked me in your own language “Will the television be playing in the bedroom, M’lady?” I know you asked this because when I answered it with a very clear, “No. We aren’t going to watch television in the bedroom either” you returned to previous explosive head state full on with the slapping and beating of the floor. I couldn’t really get upset as this fit was, once again, about” Dor-da” so I just stood there until your father caved and picked you up and we seemed to convince you that you were going to live. It took a while for you to believe us. But, you eventually did and we finally put you to bed that first night with no television and you calmed enough to seem to enjoy the extra reading and interaction.
The second night….well, let’s just say there was about the same amount of angst regarding the TV not being turned on but for fewer minutes than the first and you settled into playing with your father and I a little quicker and took delight in showing us all the “bees” and “buder-plys” and “wow-wers” once again. We retrieved some new books and laughed as you made a “vroom vrrooom” sound for all the cars in it along with screaming “DUK” every time we turned the page and you saw the yellow feathered creature.
Every. Single. Time.
That book seemed to last as long as “War and Peace”. Only with less Russians and instead of having 16 different names, every one was named "DUCK".
Luckily, we finally came to a “tiger” in the book and-being pretty sure that you had no idea what that was-I pointed to it and said, “TYE-GERR”. You pointed at it and said “danke scheon”. OK, Wayne Newton. Whatever. Let’s try this again.
I point at the picture and say “TYE-GERR” and you point at it and say “Danke Scheon”. I have a hard time not bursting into song here and reenacting the parade scene from Ferris Bueller. So, I just say, “Yeah, it’s a Danke Scheon” and we moved on. I figure there will be a pre-school teacher somewhere who can clean that mess up. Just like they can tell you Mama’s cleavage isn’t really her belly button. What the hell are we paying them for anyway?
After finishing this book, it was nearing bedtime and as an afterthought we decided to ask you if you were “ready to go night night”. Normally, this incurs a little bit of screaming followed by some screaming with a little more scream-filled screams. But that night, you popped up, threw your sippie at your Dad and mumbled something that sounded like, “blowin’ this borin’-ass joint”, turned around, slid off the couch and practically ran to your room like your ass was on fire. You then pointed at your Dad, pointed at your paci, and then pointed at the rocking chair. You then stood there with your hands outstretched like, “Come on, bitches, let’s DO THIS THANG.” Your dad sat down, put you in his lap, cranked back and you were asleep within two minutes.
It’s so nice to know we entertain you that much. We love you too, honey.
There were lots of “firsts” in the past few weeks. We left you for the first time with people that were not family. Well, not “technically” family. But, your Uncle T and Aunt M are pretty much related minus that whole pesky ‘sharing blood’ thing. Although they don’t have kids…we thought if you were in your crib asleep there was slim to 23% chance of them not killing you within three hours. Surprisingly, they managed not to kill you and your father and I got over our fear of leaving you with anyone other than our mothers. Well, *I* did. Your dad checked his phone every two minutes and vibrated the entire time we were out for dinner.
Have we discussed the level of anxiety that you are naturally going to inherit from the both of us yet? If we haven’t, maybe I should go ahead and start schooling you on symptoms and pharmaceuticals. Although, with the way you react to some situations, I can already tell you are going to be an interesting kid who has her own ideas about how things should work. Basically, everything in the world belongs to you and the rest of us are just borrowing it without your permission.
Like, yesterday morning, when I got into the shower in “your” bathroom (which isn’t really YOUR bathroom so much as a bathroom that happens to be attached to your bedroom) and you pulled back the shower curtain and screamed, “NO MAMA. MY WA WA”. You continued to scream this for three minutes until I nearly broke a leg falling over laughing in the tub and your dad came in and dragged you away screaming “NOOOOOOO” as you beat your fists on his chest. You know, because no one should have the gumption to use YOUR WA WA without permission. Next time I’m going to bring up how you totally used my uterus for ten months without MY permission. Let’s not even mention the conditions under which you came into the world. I think that certainly makes me worthy of using a few drops of YOUR WAWA. At least, I think so. It’s also why I take bites of your ice cream cones, kiss you as much as I want no matter how hard you push me away, and occasionally put stupid ass outfits on you for my entertainment. I figure I’ve earned it. If you don’t believe me, I’ll totally show you my hemorrhoids.
I’ll leave you with something that your great-grandfather once said to me.
“Quit your crying. I’ve had worse things in MY EYE.”
He then rubbed me down with gasoline while smoking a cigar to kill the “chiggers” I was screaming about.
Granted, not the best parenting advice. But definitely a good perspective through which to see the world. Or, maybe just borderline neglect. Who knows?
All I DO know is that right now you are the coolest thing EVER.
Love,
Mama
Monday, September 13, 2010
Dear Parks,
I'd like for you to stop being so cute. Its making your bedtime especially difficult for your Mama and Daddy.
Love,
Your Parents
Love,
Your Parents
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Dear Parks,
Yesterday you woke me up by biting me on the arm. Hard. Right after I informed you that “OWWIE, HURT MOMMY” you got this extremely confused look on your face. You then raised your own arm and proceeded to bite your own self. REALLY hard. Immediately afterwards, I saw understanding dawn on your face and you very eloquently said, “UH OH”.
Yes, “UH OH”, it looks like the pediatrician was wrong and you aren’t a genius. Stop biting yourself, kid. Save that for the boys in pre-school, or high school for that matter. If you REALLY want to make your Mama happy you could also bite bitchy girls in junior high as well. I promise I’ll have your back if the principal calls and blame it on some rare genetic disorder like “Bitchititis”. And then I will tell them you can fart on cue and burp the alphabet and WHY AREN’T THEY CULTIVATING YOUR GOD GIVEN TALENTS? What am I hypothetically paying them for anyway?
The past few weeks with you have been nothing short of sheer joy dipped in sunshine with my only regret being wishing that I had more time with you just so we could “hang” and talk. I’m convinced you hold the secrets to the universe. Well, at least my universe. We can pretty much communicate like any normal talking human beings except no one else can understand you but me. Tonight you let loose with a stream of gibberish and I told your Dad that you very clearly said that “he couldn’t have your BaBa” right after he told you the beer on the kitchen counter you were desperately trying to grab was “Dada’s Baba”. I told him you were pissed-as any good offspring of mine would be at being denied a Budweiser-and that you pretty much thought he was denying you your night-night BaBa. And this grievous insult was the cause for the flinging, dramatic fit you were currently throwing. I think it took all he had not to throw the remote at my head when he smart assedly returned, “Thank you, Rick Warren.” Hey man, I got mad 14-month-old language skillz. What can I say?
I don’t know how I CAN understand you. I don’t know if it’s a “mama” thing or if I’ve just been around really, really drunk people for way too much time in my life. But, when you look at me very seriously and say, “I umba nee mah ba ba un me meow meow”. This means you would like a bottle and be taken to bed. Your dad, on the other hand, thinks it means you would like an Asian massage and another beer. Some nights we try both-just for shits and giggles. Surprisingly, they both seem to work equally well.
I would also like to mention that you speak fluent “Cat”. When you are either very angry or very upset, you will frequently scream-or whine ”UM MEOW MEOOOOW”. I occasionally want to ask Fat Jesus The Cat to translate. But, he’s too busy trying to reach his ass so he can clean it. I don’t like to interrupt him because his valiant effort at this undertaking of cleaning his undercarriage is probably the only reason he isn’t in a shelter. I’ll give anybody a chance if they are TRYING. (I AM a social worker after all)
Unfortunately, he can’t reach his huge ass and this often results in lots of “dirty tooter stains” on the couch. I won’t save you the gory details as they are part of my daily life. When Fat Jesus pees it catches in his tooter hair and dries there to make this lovely stench which he then drags along all the furniture. I might be willing to put up with this behavior without beating his ass daily if he would at least aid us in understanding your frequent long streams of “Meow, meow, meooooow, MEOW, MEOW”. Mainly because we are starting to think you aren’t normal. The spinning and repeatedly walking around the house shoving your whole hand in your mouth and then pulling it out and screaming, “EEEMMM” doesn’t help either. You are totally weird. I’m so proud. In fact, between all that and your freakishly large vocabulary for a 14-month-old it would normally have the hypochondriac in me screaming “AUTISM” faster than you can swing a dead cat if you weren’t the most social animal that I’ve ever met.
Your GG takes you story time at the library two days a week where she says that you must walk around and greet all the other children before you allow the librarian to start. The librarian then allows you to “ring in the ceremonies” by pushing all the noise-making books first. You get this from me. Just don’t get the whole “taking a shot of tequila and getting so friendly you take your shirt off” part from me and we’ll be good to go. I mean, at least until college. We don’t want to raise an after school special around here.
Three weeks ago you started waking up in the morning and immediately pointing to the mole in the center of my forehead. The mole I’ve had my whole life. The mole people constantly think is a huge zit as it’s almost skin colored. After a few days of your obvious intense curiosity, I finally just screamed “MOLE” one morning when you pointed at it. This is where I start cursing my impulse control issues as now every morning when you wake up, you roll over, point at my forehead and scream, “MOOL”. It’s like I gave birth to Austin Powers. But with better dressing style and no horrific English accent.
We’ve started a new routine in the afternoons where as soon as you get home we all go into the front yard and let you run barefoot in the grass while you squeal and frequently face plant into the ground. The obvious pure joy you have at this seemingly mundane activity gives me hope for the world in general as your Mom and Pops are feeling a little broken down right now. It’s been a rough month for all of us around here and not just because you are cutting six new teeth at the same time. Your father and I are struggling with both losing our idealist ideas about saving the world as within one month’s time we’ve both had our home, and our cars, broken into. Mama’s job got ultimately more complicated due to budget cuts, your Nana got put in the hospital this morning, and two weeks ago a kid at my facility went nuts and did five thousand dollars worth of damage while basically holding my entire staff hostage for an hour. Shits been rough, kid. You’ve been my rock.
Because, when stuff like that happens and I come home and your GG tells me that while you were having “nekkid time” that day running around the house she turned her back for one minute and then heard you say, “UH OH, WA WA” and turned to find you stomping in a puddle of your own urine, it makes the whole crappy day take on a brighter tinge of sunshine. I shouldn’t be as entertained by this as I am. But, you know, when it feels like the world is falling apart, if you can’t laugh at pools of pee on the floor, what do you have left?
Hopefully, I always have you. And when I have days like this…where my idealism is challenged. Where my cynical nature is running rampant and I’m cursing the world instead of trying to save it. You remind me WHY I’ve fought so hard for so long. And it’s that part of my life-you-that keeps my chin up and tits out-as my friend Em used to always tell me. Pools of pee in the kitchen always lighten the day. The fact that your GG said you spent three minutes stomping in it like it was a rain puddle lets me know there will ALWAYS be something worth saving. The fact that she lets you reminds me there alway was.
If only for our innocence, our sense of humor, and our little family's nightly Budweisers and Asian Massages. I love them so much I almost can't touch those feelings for fear of the gagging certain to follow. But always know, your Mama ain't as tough as she acts. Except for when it comes to you. Then I can turn into a eight-legged sixty-four clawed Saber toothed tiger with a set of poison darts and a blow gun with a scope. But, really, that's just because I've been living in Jackson for a while.
Here’s lookin’ at you kid,
Mama
Yes, “UH OH”, it looks like the pediatrician was wrong and you aren’t a genius. Stop biting yourself, kid. Save that for the boys in pre-school, or high school for that matter. If you REALLY want to make your Mama happy you could also bite bitchy girls in junior high as well. I promise I’ll have your back if the principal calls and blame it on some rare genetic disorder like “Bitchititis”. And then I will tell them you can fart on cue and burp the alphabet and WHY AREN’T THEY CULTIVATING YOUR GOD GIVEN TALENTS? What am I hypothetically paying them for anyway?
The past few weeks with you have been nothing short of sheer joy dipped in sunshine with my only regret being wishing that I had more time with you just so we could “hang” and talk. I’m convinced you hold the secrets to the universe. Well, at least my universe. We can pretty much communicate like any normal talking human beings except no one else can understand you but me. Tonight you let loose with a stream of gibberish and I told your Dad that you very clearly said that “he couldn’t have your BaBa” right after he told you the beer on the kitchen counter you were desperately trying to grab was “Dada’s Baba”. I told him you were pissed-as any good offspring of mine would be at being denied a Budweiser-and that you pretty much thought he was denying you your night-night BaBa. And this grievous insult was the cause for the flinging, dramatic fit you were currently throwing. I think it took all he had not to throw the remote at my head when he smart assedly returned, “Thank you, Rick Warren.” Hey man, I got mad 14-month-old language skillz. What can I say?
I don’t know how I CAN understand you. I don’t know if it’s a “mama” thing or if I’ve just been around really, really drunk people for way too much time in my life. But, when you look at me very seriously and say, “I umba nee mah ba ba un me meow meow”. This means you would like a bottle and be taken to bed. Your dad, on the other hand, thinks it means you would like an Asian massage and another beer. Some nights we try both-just for shits and giggles. Surprisingly, they both seem to work equally well.
I would also like to mention that you speak fluent “Cat”. When you are either very angry or very upset, you will frequently scream-or whine ”UM MEOW MEOOOOW”. I occasionally want to ask Fat Jesus The Cat to translate. But, he’s too busy trying to reach his ass so he can clean it. I don’t like to interrupt him because his valiant effort at this undertaking of cleaning his undercarriage is probably the only reason he isn’t in a shelter. I’ll give anybody a chance if they are TRYING. (I AM a social worker after all)
Unfortunately, he can’t reach his huge ass and this often results in lots of “dirty tooter stains” on the couch. I won’t save you the gory details as they are part of my daily life. When Fat Jesus pees it catches in his tooter hair and dries there to make this lovely stench which he then drags along all the furniture. I might be willing to put up with this behavior without beating his ass daily if he would at least aid us in understanding your frequent long streams of “Meow, meow, meooooow, MEOW, MEOW”. Mainly because we are starting to think you aren’t normal. The spinning and repeatedly walking around the house shoving your whole hand in your mouth and then pulling it out and screaming, “EEEMMM” doesn’t help either. You are totally weird. I’m so proud. In fact, between all that and your freakishly large vocabulary for a 14-month-old it would normally have the hypochondriac in me screaming “AUTISM” faster than you can swing a dead cat if you weren’t the most social animal that I’ve ever met.
Your GG takes you story time at the library two days a week where she says that you must walk around and greet all the other children before you allow the librarian to start. The librarian then allows you to “ring in the ceremonies” by pushing all the noise-making books first. You get this from me. Just don’t get the whole “taking a shot of tequila and getting so friendly you take your shirt off” part from me and we’ll be good to go. I mean, at least until college. We don’t want to raise an after school special around here.
Three weeks ago you started waking up in the morning and immediately pointing to the mole in the center of my forehead. The mole I’ve had my whole life. The mole people constantly think is a huge zit as it’s almost skin colored. After a few days of your obvious intense curiosity, I finally just screamed “MOLE” one morning when you pointed at it. This is where I start cursing my impulse control issues as now every morning when you wake up, you roll over, point at my forehead and scream, “MOOL”. It’s like I gave birth to Austin Powers. But with better dressing style and no horrific English accent.
We’ve started a new routine in the afternoons where as soon as you get home we all go into the front yard and let you run barefoot in the grass while you squeal and frequently face plant into the ground. The obvious pure joy you have at this seemingly mundane activity gives me hope for the world in general as your Mom and Pops are feeling a little broken down right now. It’s been a rough month for all of us around here and not just because you are cutting six new teeth at the same time. Your father and I are struggling with both losing our idealist ideas about saving the world as within one month’s time we’ve both had our home, and our cars, broken into. Mama’s job got ultimately more complicated due to budget cuts, your Nana got put in the hospital this morning, and two weeks ago a kid at my facility went nuts and did five thousand dollars worth of damage while basically holding my entire staff hostage for an hour. Shits been rough, kid. You’ve been my rock.
Because, when stuff like that happens and I come home and your GG tells me that while you were having “nekkid time” that day running around the house she turned her back for one minute and then heard you say, “UH OH, WA WA” and turned to find you stomping in a puddle of your own urine, it makes the whole crappy day take on a brighter tinge of sunshine. I shouldn’t be as entertained by this as I am. But, you know, when it feels like the world is falling apart, if you can’t laugh at pools of pee on the floor, what do you have left?
Hopefully, I always have you. And when I have days like this…where my idealism is challenged. Where my cynical nature is running rampant and I’m cursing the world instead of trying to save it. You remind me WHY I’ve fought so hard for so long. And it’s that part of my life-you-that keeps my chin up and tits out-as my friend Em used to always tell me. Pools of pee in the kitchen always lighten the day. The fact that your GG said you spent three minutes stomping in it like it was a rain puddle lets me know there will ALWAYS be something worth saving. The fact that she lets you reminds me there alway was.
If only for our innocence, our sense of humor, and our little family's nightly Budweisers and Asian Massages. I love them so much I almost can't touch those feelings for fear of the gagging certain to follow. But always know, your Mama ain't as tough as she acts. Except for when it comes to you. Then I can turn into a eight-legged sixty-four clawed Saber toothed tiger with a set of poison darts and a blow gun with a scope. But, really, that's just because I've been living in Jackson for a while.
Here’s lookin’ at you kid,
Mama
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Why The Man is The Man
Because when I told him I was writing a post about vaginas that was taking me WAY longer than I thought it would, he threw his hands up in the air and said:
"I just don't know. What you guys got going on DOWN THERE. It's just got too many responsibilities. Birth and everything else. Y'all need to delegate some of that shit out."
To which I replied, "Well, to which orifice shall it be delegated?"
And then he was quiet for a while.
But he never once said, "Please don't write a blog post about vaginas."
"I just don't know. What you guys got going on DOWN THERE. It's just got too many responsibilities. Birth and everything else. Y'all need to delegate some of that shit out."
To which I replied, "Well, to which orifice shall it be delegated?"
And then he was quiet for a while.
But he never once said, "Please don't write a blog post about vaginas."
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