Update

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.

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.

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."

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.

That's More Like It

Pullin' her weight...

Actual Conversation Just Held In My House

Me: (casually) "Did you know there is a Lego in the guest bathroom sink?"

The Man: "DON'T TOUCH IT!!!!!"

Me: "Um, why? Because I haven't, er, um, or anything."

The Man: "Because she dropped it in the toilet."

And then I just walked away from that one. There's really no way to explain to "The Internets" in a way that makes sense (and doesn't make them think DHS needs to be called) that your husband holds your kid while he pees simply because the stream of pee hitting the toilet makes her giggle. Although I will admit he asked the other day at what point "that needs to stop". Um, like TODAY WHEN SHE DROPPED AN EFFIN' LEGO IN THE TOILET THAT I TOUCHED. ER, THAT I DID NOT TOUCH.

Son of a LINCOLN LOG

Just found a Lego in the sink of the guest bathroom.

This is beyond "un babi".

WHO IS DOING THIS?

The Real Mother Goose

My surrogate parents gave me a book of the old fashioned "real" Mother Goose rhymes when I was pregnant. The Man and I have started reading to Parksie before bed each night and occasionally we pull it out to read a favorite like "Sing A Song of Sixpence" or some other such nonsense.

Tonight we make it to page 62 and find THIS. And, despite being an ADULT, I can't get through it without giggling NOR can I read it to my child:

LITTLE PUSSY

I like little Pussy,
Her coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her
She'll do me no harm;
So I'll not pull her tail,
Nor drive her away,
But Pussy and I
Very gently will play.

Later in life I will have to explain the danger of "pulling the Pussy's tail" to my offspring as I'm pretty sure this is what led to her existence.