The one main problem I seem to be having with the Legos is their seemingly alien ability to reproduce like Gremlins…or rabbits on Viagra (I was going to say like “white trash in Scott County” but those people own weapons and aren’t well educated. In short, they scare me just as much as Republicans and Tea Baggers). Every time I turn around there are NEW Lego pieces scattered around the house. Recently, your dad found one sitting perfectly in the middle of the cat food bowl. (I REALLY don’t want to know how it got there or the behaviors that followed you placing it there) There are two on my night stand. There’s one currently sitting under the TV, one on the side of the front porch, two pieces on the fireplace mantel, one in the middle of the hall, approximately three in the bathtub, and I just pulled another from in-between the couch cushions. I’d like to thank your cousin Joy for this glorious addition to our household as I’m pretty sure she sent them down here while silently screaming “SUCKERS” under her breath as they had finally escaped the nooks and crannies of her house. I’m also going to be sure to pay her back for this favor by purchasing at least seventeen different toys that each make a really loud and annoying sound for both of her children at Christmas. I want to make sure the family love is shared equally.
Last night, completely engrossed in playing with the three that interested you the most, you insisted on bathing with them. One held in each hand, you giggled as the other one floated around the bathtub. You were so distressed at being removed from the bathtub without them that your dad had to carry you back in the bathroom, hang you over the side of the tub, and let you gingerly retrieve them so you could continue “thunking” around the house. I don’t mind the “thunking” as its sort of like having a bell on a cat and no matter where we are or what we are doing; we always know when you are on your way. This has the added bonus of letting us know when to hide the breakables and the vodka. Much like when Cousin Charles comes to visit.
Last weekend your baptism went down without a hitch. “Hitch” being defined in this family as a panic attack. It was touching and simple and beautiful and filled with people who loved you. The priest centered most of the ceremony on the wonder of being a child and learning to see the world with child-like eyes instead of, like, Jesus, and Satan, The Prince of Darkness, (not that we didn’t have to rebuke him. We did) of which I was very appreciative.
The only thing that slightly concerned me was that the priest looked at me and SMIRKED when he asked the question about the “glamour of evil” and “Satan, the Prince of Darkness”. And this is not a man that SMIRKS. SMIRKING is left for me most of the time. When he asked the question, I was only looking at him because I knew if I looked at your Auntie (and godmother) Elizabeth that I was going to do much more than SMIRK. I was going to GIGGLE INAPPROPRIATELY. And this, I could not do. Your great-grandmother was there. She is both deaf and blind and, well, I’d like for her to go to her grave knowing her granddaughter can make it through a thirty minute Christian ceremony without disrespecting the Baby Jesus with a SMIRK. Obviously, this priest cannot. Due to this, I think he and I will get along just fine in the future. Unfortunately, his SMIRK led to increasing paranoia about him reading this blog.
HOW DID HE KNOW ABOUT THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS, PARKSIE?
That, I cannot answer. Maybe he does have a direct line to God through the Pope. And, if he does, I’m terribly screwed. Or, maybe you and he have been having conversations on the side that you haven’t been telling Mama about. Because, sure as I’m sitting here, when that man asked if we “rejected Satan, Father of Sin and Prince of Darkness” you said OUT LOUD in front of the entire room, “I DO”. And then, everyone in the room nearly fell over and shit their pants at the same time. This was a huge surprise to all the participants-including your parents-as minus "Mama", "Dada","Kit-Tay" and some minor babblings that sound somewhat like a cat being strangled, you can't yet speak English.
Your outburst finally allowed your Mama to release the inappropriate giggle she’d been holding in for the past five minutes and then I just GLOWED WITH PRIDE. I had to stop myself from standing on the side of the baptismal font and screaming, “SHE’S A GENIUS. I TOLD YOU, GODDAMNIT!!” But then I thought the “goddamnit” part would be especially inappropriate for your great-grandmother to hear. ( Not that she could. But that doesn’t really matter)
The priest even stopped the ceremony and said, “Well, that’s a first.”
I wanted to retort, “That’s just because you’ve never baptized one of my offspring. We’ll surprise you occasionally with the crap that comes out of our mouths. Just ask my mother. She’s the one standing right over there in the corner shaking her head and making the sign of the cross.”
Thankfully, you saying “I do” was a lot better than your head rotating and green vomit spewing from your mouth. Those were my original, and as it turns out, unfounded worries.
You were delightful. You smiled. You even giggled when he poured water on your head. I REALLY wanted to pop a Lego block in there so you would feel more at home but it turns out you didn’t need it. You WERE at home. You charmed everyone. I was so proud I seriously considered tattooing your face on my arm.
Afterwards all 25 of the family and friends went to eat lunch to celebrate your dedication to The Sweet Baby Jesus, Savior of Mankind, and your Aunt Mary snapped this pick of you deciding what you wanted to eat.
Turns out you wanted strawberries and sweet potato fries. Well, you wanted those right after you took a huge bite out of the actual menu.
Good choice.
Love,
Your Very Proud Mama
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