Attention Whore Strikes Again

I was on the news last night regarding the tax increase for Sangaree. The video is online now. I think the audio is broken on it because for some reason there is none. I can hear the weak-wristed Hamburgler trying to break windows, but once the story comes on... nada nada nada. If the audio works for you, please let me know and tell me what browser you are using.

Even though the audio doesn't work, you can at least see Daughter running around like a maniac and my fantastic hair.

I'm not entirely happy with the story. I need to hear the audio to articulate precisely why, but I think it was mostly that the Tax District is spinning the tax increase to be the result of the fire station and the more expensive garbage contract. Meanwhile, they are still not telling the residents that they need bring taxes up because they were under-collecting for several years. Why is that so hard to say?

Meh...

My hair looked fabulous though...

The Potty Problem

Husband and I have been wrestling with Daughter over one of the most common problems a parent faces: the bed-wetting. Daughter potty-trained on schedule at about 2 years old. During the daytime, she has always been a champ. She is aware of when she needs to use the potty and does so without assistance (unless I have dressed her that day in complicated clothing, like overalls or a straight jacket). However, bedtime is a different story. More often than not, in the morning she will wake up to a wet bed. Lately, the problem has escalated, and she is wetting the bed during her afternoon nap also.

Husband and I have tried all (I think) classic strategies of dealing with this:

1. No drinks after 7:00 PM (her bedtime is 8:00 PM)
   
2. Waking her up before we go to bed and taking her to the potty. (Forgetting to do this is almost a guarantee of wet sheets in the morning.)
   
3. Avoiding shaming her for wetting the bed, or punishing her for doing so.
   
4. Giving her lots of praise for making it through the night without wetting the bed.

I really think the problem is that the girl is just a really heavy sleeper. The child, once she is asleep, can sleep through anything. Last night, we had a thunderstorm and the claps of thunder were so loud that I think God must have just seen the last episode of the Sopranos on His DVR. Daughter slept right through that.

So here are my questions: Is there anything else we can try? Are my expectations just too high to expect stay dry through the night? Does anybody have any twin-size sheets that we can have?

Daughter thinks this post sucks

Bunch of Sick-o's

This weekend sucked.

On Thursday, when I arrived to pick up Daughter from daycare, she was sitting at one of those miniature children's tables with her head down. At first, I thought maybe she had gotten in trouble, but when I got on my knees and looked in her eyes, I knew that she was not feeling well. Daughter said that her tummy was hurting.

I wasn't feeling spectacular either, but I couldn't take us straight home because I needed to drop off some survey cards at the Sangaree Crime Watch meeting. I handed off the survey cards and Daughter and I went home. I promptly took Daughter through the Standard Mommy Medical Diagnosis and Treatment Protocol. It goes something like this:

1. Take child's temperature. If child lies passively with the thermometer under his/her tongue, the child is definitely sick. If child twirls the thermometer with his/her lips, resists having his/her temperature taken, or fidgets during the process, he/she is healthy. The actual temperature of the child is largely irrelevant.
   
2. Administer the standard dosage of Children's Tylenol. Daughter took her medicine willingly and without a fuss. Something was definitely wrong.
   
3. Now that Daughter came up positive for illness, so did her lunch and most of the Tylenol. All over the couch and me.
   
4. Daughter was given a bath, and at her request, she was put to bed at 7:30 p.m. Her father and I began figuring out who would get her stereo if she passed away.

In a rare moment of energy, Daughter tried to fit her sandals on her knees. Note the circles under her eyes and the blue sheet on the couch. The cushion covers were in the washer due to events from Step #3.

The rest of the weekend was spent much the same way. Daughter was doing lots of thermometer action, Tylenol drinking, and sleeping. What Daughter was not doing was eating or drinking. Just as her fondness for her bed was alarming, this was disconcerting also. The girl loves liquid refreshments. It is a rare moment that she is not sucking on a sippy cup. However, in the midst of all of the puking, bathing and sleeping, Husband and I didn't notice her lack of thirst and appetite until Monday morning.

That morning, Daughter woke up with a disturbing red rash on her cheeks, arms, and thighs. Her bottom lip was dark red, swollen, cracked and bleeding. Daughter's fever rebounded from a low of 99 degrees the night before to 102 degrees. On top of that she had a sickening belly-busting cough that was clenching her entire little body every time she hacked one out.

Husband called the doctor and he said that Daughter was likely dehydrated from the vomiting and fever and that we needed to get her to drink lots of water and juice. Easy enough, our kid if the Olympic champion of Juice Pounding. We loaded up her sippy cup and handed it to her with expectant smiles.

Daughter looked back at us with empty eyes and begged, begged!, us to let her go back to bed. For FOUR YEARS, this child has been drinking me out of house and home, and now that it is vital for her to suck down that juice, she wouldn't do it. I can't stress how frustrating this was for Husband and I. Our baby looked like a hunk of rotisserie gyro meat, and there was nothing we could do about it. All she wanted to do was go to sleep in a pita pocket.

After a full night of begging, pleading, and blackmail failed, Husband and I took Daughter to the nearest Wal*Mart. We purchased a small jug of PediaSure, milk, grapes, kiwis, and lunch meat (if on Death Row, I'm pretty sure this would be Daughter's Last Meal). When we got home it was 4:30 in the morning. The girl had finally cracked and began drinking the PediaSure and snacking on grapes and lunch meat. I collapsed on my bed at 7:00 a.m. this morning.

When I woke up around noonish, Daughter's rash was completely gone and she was alert and smiling for the first time in three days. Today, we played outside together, she assembled two jig-saw puzzles, and drank about a half-gallon of various juices, water and milk. My girl is back.

As I reflected on the irony of Daughter's refusing to drink in the one moment that it was vital for her to do so, I turned to her and said, "Daughter, you sure know how to drive me crazy!"

Indignant, she snapped back at me, "Mama! I do not!"

"Uh, huh"

"Nuh uh!"

"Uh huh!"

She settled the dispute with this perfect summation of her mother's complete idiocy, "Mama! I do not drive you crazy. I don't even know how to drive. You know that!"

I relented. "Yes, baby, you are right. I'm sorry."

Flick Her

At her daycare, Daughter's teachers have been insisting that she call them, "ma'am." Growing up in California, the only people who were called "ma'am" was an 85 year old grandmother, and usually not even then. Needless to say, Husband and I have been amused and bemused to hear our little one call me "ma'am."

Last week, when she wasn't feeling his boobies, Daughter started calling Husband, "Ma'am!" We explained patiently to her that grown-up women are called, "ma'am," but grown-up men are called "sir."

She has yet to call him, "sir." Not sure what that's about.

This morning, Daughter asked me to help her put on a necklace and I replied, "Yes, ma'am!" (I'm funny like that)

Daughter replied indignantly, "I'm not a Mannnnn!"

"I didn't call you a man, I called you a ma'ammmm."

"Oh."

Then the lightbulb turned on, "Is that why you were calling Daddy that? Because you thought you were saying "Man?"

"Yes, Mommy."

Great. For a month now, my daughter has been calling me a man.

P.S. I added Flickr to the sidebar of the blog.

I Don't Know Who Taught Her the Word "Boobies."

As I was making dinner last night, I listened to Husband and Daughter playing in the living room. They were engaged in a rollicking game of "Supergirl."

You probably remember that game. Your father or older brother lays prone on the floor with his legs in the air. Then you balance somewhat precariously on his knees, or if you are really adventurous, on his feet. With both arms stretched out in front, you pretend to feel the wind in your face as you fly faster than a speeding bullet. Of course, when your partner's legs start to get tired, balancing yourself becomes more difficult and you topple down onto the floor, or in Daughter's case this time, on her daddy's chest.

I listened to Daughter's raucous giggles as she exclaimed, "Daddy, I felt your boobies!"

Daddy, who honestly does not have any man-titties, was indignant and replied sharply, "I do not have boobies!"

Daughter wasn't buying this. "Yes, you do! I grabbed your boobies! Daddy has boobies!"

Husband called for reinforcements from the only family member who genuinely has breasts and could explain to Daughter that he did not have boobies. "April! You need to handle this one!"

I came into the living room, and got down on my knees so that I could look Daughter squarely in the eyes. "Daughter... do not grab Daddy's boobies. Those are private parts and you should never grab or touch anyone's boobies. Do you understand?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Now Daughter, you need to tell Daddy that you're sorry."

"Sorry, Daddy."

Husband gave me a look that clearly meant, "That's not what I needed you to say," and then looked back at Daughter.

He sighed, "That's okay."

I Have Famous Dishes

Mi familia y yo went to see Spider-man 3 this weekend at the super-cheap theater this weekend. ($7.50 for all three of us!) It was hella fun to be there with Daughter. She absolutely loves Spider-man and Tobey Maguire, much in the way her old lady had a crush on Christopher Reeve back in the day.

The movie was just okay. It was about three hours long, and while I understand why it needed to be longer than the first two in order to set up the Venom villian, the pacing was just sloooow. I can think of at least three areas that the filmmakers could have and should have cut. Namely, almost everything to do with Sandman, Mary-Jane's celebrity angst, and the dance scene *mild shudder* About two hours into the show, Daughter was nudging me with her empty Sour Patch Kids box and saying, "I want to go home!"

What redeems the movie for me (yes, I get cheap thrills out of stuff like this), Aunt May has my dishes! If you go to see the movie, pay close attention in the scene where Peter visits Aunt May's apartment. She serves him coffee in Kensington Balmoral cups. If you look carefully, as I did since I was stoked and all, you can see a plate with pill bottles on it, and the sugar bowl too.



I originally inherited these dishes after my grandmother died. She had them as long as I can remember, and just like her I use them every day. And apparently, so does Aunt May!

Tips for the Aspiring Attention Whore

Last night, Husband and I attended a local meeting to elect officers for our neighborhood crime watch. We have been very active in setting up the crime watch, including starting the new website, designing and printing survey cards, and offering ideas and suggestions to our neighbors. The meeting last night was a great success. Over 80 residents attended and they seemed pleased with our efforts.

At about 5:00 p.m. yesterday afternoon, shortly before the meeting, I received a phone call from my neighbor. She said that Live 5 News was coming to her house in a few minutes and wanted to interview local residents about the crime watch and the problems in our neighborhoods. My neighbor is sick with the flu and there was no way she could appear on camera. Would I be willing to be interviewed? Oh, why the hell not!

First problem, I had been working on Sangaree Connection since 9 o' clock that morning. When I am in full web development mode, I don't eat, I don't bathe, I don't brush my teeth. The only breaks I allow myself is sucking down cigarettes while trying to figure out why Internet Explorer is such a piece of crap.

Fortunately, because of the meeting, I had stopped working and I had just stepped out of the shower when my neighbor called. Unfortunately, my hair was soaking wet, my legs unshaved, and I had no idea what I was going to wear to the meeting. I went to the bathroom and busted out the good makeup that I normally reserve for receiving the Queen and attending movie premieres. I slathered that shit on thick! I raced around the house collecting the materials for the meeting and tried to figure out what I was going to wear. I settled on a pink button-down shirt, blue jeans, and my cutest (and therefore most uncomfortable) shoes. I would regret the shoe choice about two hours later.

Husband had come home from work while I was getting ready. He has immediately pummeled with a barrage of "Do I look okays?" and "Are you sures?" and "You didn't even look at mes!" as I hurdled past him to find my camera and my binder and my purse and my keys and my survey cards. We left the house as quickly as possible and naturally as soon as we reached my Daughter's daycare to pick her up I realized that I still hadn't brushed my teeth. Oh well, I hadn't eaten so far that day, how dirty could my teeth be?

We met with the reporter, Katie, and she asked us some background information regarding how long we lived in the neighborhood, were we scared to live here now, and why we were involved in the crime watch. Daughter supplied her own background information to Katie:

When I was a baby, I had a birthday when I was one! And I ate the wrapping paper! *giggle* Then I had another birthday when I was two. That was my second birthday. Then I had a birthday when I was three. And then I had my fourth birthday when I turned four!

Katie looked perplexed and asked Daughter, "So how old are you now?" In unison, Daughter and I told the reporter that she was now four years old. I then pulled out of my arsenal of Parental Distractions the permission for Daughter to play with my neighbor's cats. She raced on pudgy legs into the house.

Time was running short, so with our neighbors' help, we all agreed that Katie would interview me near a fence that was vandalized. Initially, Katie wanted to interview Husband, but he declined (coward!) some lame comment about how he was so over being on TV when he was a kid. Over at the fence, the cameraman handed me a mini microphone. As instructed, I threaded it up under my shirt and attached it to my jacket. After finding suitable lighting, the camera began rolling. Katie asked me a series of intelligent questions and my mouth began issuing forth noises.

My mind was racing ten thousand miles per hour and for the most part I was thinking deep thoughts such as "Shit, my glasses are sliding down my nose! Shit! I was gonna take my glasses off for this! Oh crap, she asked another question, what was I gonna say?"

When we were done filming, Katie assured me that I had done well and provided her with lots of good soundbites. She practically did a little dance in her sharply tailored pink suit when she thought of my fantastic soundbites.

The video is now online and I have to admit, I didn't come off like a complete asshat. If I were to critique myself (like I ever stop doing that) I would say that I need to stand up straighter, stop weaving my head and neck like I am a hungry chicken, and find a method of digging facts and figures out of my brain that doesn't involve rolling my eyes.

My favorite part of the video is definately the last soundbite where I was talking about the vandals who destroyed $25,000 worth of equipment in our new library, "And these people come in here and they destroy it! And for what purpose?"

That's right, feel my outrage! Boo-yah!

The Road to Wellville

Meh...

Daughter has been in daycare for about two months now and has already gotten sick twice. This time, she managed to infect a total of four people with her germies. Well, I guess I can't really blame her because I'm sick, as my bedside manner involves kissing her all over and sucking on her cheeks at every opportunity. What can I say? She's four now and she only let's me do that when she is physically incapacitated.

I'm staying home from work today as I recuperate from my illness. I do feel icky, but really it's a career-preservation move. I turn into a cranky-ass bitch when I don't feel good and unlike Husband, my boss isn't married to me and really doesn't HAVE to put up with that shit. So, I'll stay home 'til I am once more my positive, life-affirming self. (My boss snorted coffee out of her nose, right now)

The other reason for staying home is this cold has settled into my lungs and a good deep cough is sending dime-sized chunks of phlegm across the room. It's just not good office etiquette to make your co-workers clean spittle off their monitors. I swear though, I've got a range of about twenty feet right now. It's kind of cool!

Right now, I have instituted April's Never Fail Patented Feel All Better Recuperation Plan, Level 2. It goes a little something like this:

1) Put on sweats, the grungier the better. No one is going to treat you like the ailing patient you are if you look good. Likewise, don't comb your hair. Just coerce it into a makeshift ponytail, if you are feeling ambitious.

2) Do brush your teeth though, just because you are sick doesn't mean you get to neglect good oral hygiene. Besides, phlegm-breath is just nasty.

3) High-tail it to the nearest pharmacy and stock up on the essentials:

1. Kleenex brand disposable tissue, with lotion and vitamin E. This is the time to splurge on the good tissue. You'll probably be going through it so fast that if you get the cheap 99 cent box of tissue you will scrape off five layers of skin from your septum. You are sick already, don't make things worse!
2. your favorite brand of symptom-disguising medicine. Currently, I'm using DayQuil, but whatever floats your boat will do.
3. A 2-liter bottle of ginger ale. I don't know why it works, but it does. Ginger ale will ease your scratchy throat, clear your sinuses, and if you have any left over post-ailment, you can use it to make a tasty rum punch.
4. Optional, depending on if your symptoms include tummy troubles: go to your favorite fast food chain and order everything you never let yourself have. Who needs to cook at a time like this?
5. Take a nap every couple of hours or so.

Within 24-hours, you should be feeling a bit more like yourself, or at least well enough that you can make it through the work day doped up on DayQuil without killing anybody with projectile phlegm.

Alright, I'm exhausted now, so I'm going to take a nap and then watch Dr. Phil.

Overheard: God and Daughter

(after the wind blew away her napkin during a picnic) "God! Leave my napkin alone! That's not nice!"

---

(looking up at the sky, and yelling) "God! I love you!" (pauses, and turns to her mother) "Aww... He said He loves me too."

---

"You are so wonderful. I'm so glad Daddy and I made you."
(indignant) "Actually, Mama, you and Daddy didn't make me. God did!

There's No Magic Left in the World

When I found out I was pregnant, I made a promise to myself that Husband and I would not be the parents of a selfish, whiny, ill-mannered child. I believed then, and still do, that too many children are not raised with a respect for their elders or proper behavior. I find it entirely disgusting to be in public, say at a restaurant, and have the experience ruined by a pack of feral children running around the tables, standing on the booths and generally being rude. I do not blame the children for this. I wholeheartedly believe that if a child is taught to behave properly, they will do so. These brats who make a bad name for all children were failed by their parents. (And yes, if Daughter behaves poorly in public, I do blame myself.)

When Daughter was about six months old, she learned how to grasp small objects and could hand them to people. One of my most treasured memories of Daughter's babyhood is of when she was about seven or eight months old. I was popping Cheerios into her mouth, a la nickels into a slot machine. She reached into the bowl and delicately pinched a piece of cereal between her tiny fingers. She held up the Cheerio as high as she could. Scarcely believing what she might be trying to do, I leaned forward and opened my mouth. Daughter popped the Cheerio right into my mouth. I giggled with delight and said "Thank you!" "Feeding mama (and daddy)" became one of Daughter's favorite games for several months.

Just as when she was playing "Feeding Mama," I made it a point to tell Daughter "Thank you" anytime she gave me anything. Several of my friends questioned me on this. Obviously, Daughter couldn't talk yet. What good could it do to tell her thank you? I think the unspoken feeling was that I was being condescending to the baby. I responded to the queries by saying that 1) it never hurt anyone to tell her thank you and explained my theory that it is never too early to teach manners, 2) even though my conversations with a six month old baby is a one-way street, pretending that she understands me at least keeps me from going crazy with boredom.

The result of my little experiment? One of the first phrases Daughter said was "Thank you." She is 3.5 years old now, and she very rarely needs to be reminded to say it.

The next phrase I wanted Daughter to learn is "please." This was a little harder to do, because it required initiation on her part. While with "thank you," I could demonstrate the concept to her without any participation from Daughter other than her handing me something. However, I made sure to tell my little baby "please" if I asked her for something, such as "please stop making so much poop!" "Please stop teething on your Daddy's unopened Dr Pepper cans, the other shoppers at Wal-mart are judging Mommy." Mostly though, her father and I have reinforced the "please" lesson by not acquiescing to Daughter's requests until she says it.

Daughter did learn the word very early, but on occasion she does forget to use it and we have to remind her. Usually all we have to say when she asks for something without saying "please" is, "How are you supposed to ask for that?" and she will quickly respond with "Can I please [insert desired object or activity]?" (We aren't sweating the can I/may I detail yet.)

Last night, Daughter was feeling thirsty and wanted me to get her a drink. She bunny-hopped across the living room and said, "Mommy! I'm thiiiiiiiiirsty! Can you get me some milk?"

"What's the magic word?"

"Please. But it's not the magic word."

"It's not? What is the magic word then?"

"Please, but it's not a magic word."

"Oh... Well, what is it?"

(sigh of exasperation) "'Please' isn't magic Mommy, it's real."

"Oh. I guess you're right."

I like that a lot. Manners aren't magic... They're real.

Anthropology Blows

I haven't been blogging as much recently, and that is primarily because of my new job. My blog entries are primarily about my daily life, and as I have a self-imposed ban on blogging about my work, blog topics are running thin. (Anyone want to buy me this book?)

Also, Husband and I are dealing with some behavioral problems with Daughter. This is probably the first time in her life that we are at loss as to what to do about it. She has out-grown all of the parenting books that we own! Our problem is that she is becoming hugely defiant and stubborn. A simple request like, "Please stop bothering the cat or Hailie will scratch you," is turning into an hour-long ordeal. The first problem begins when Daughter insists that she is not, in fact, bothering the cat. The wisdom of her parents, not to mention the cat and her bared and very sharp claws, are apparently unconvincing arguments.

Imagining that we have some sort of role in disciplining our own child, we insist that she step away from the cat. Daughter counters with "I can't." The girl is literally tries to convince us that she is incapable of standing up and walking away from Hailie. These tactics are immediately infuriating to someone like myself who was raised by strict parents. One, the girl is lying to us. Two, she is being defiant.

This particular evening, Husband finally had enough and he scooped Daughter up to get her away from the cat. She immediately began screeching and flailing in his arms like Michael Stipe on acid. He dropped her into our recliner, where she continued to lose her religion.

Maybe five or ten minutes later, she calmed down the point where she was just sniffling and whining. Her whole body was laying flat on the seat of the recliner, with her legs hanging off the edge. Daughter then began acting like she couldn't get up. No, really. She would act like she was trying to sit up, or maybe roll off the seat onto the floor, but couldn't. For FORTY-FIVE minutes she put on this whiny, shreaky and sniffly one-woman play. At one point I turned to Husband and ruefully quipped, "Who knew that Montgomery Ward's sold recliners equipped with black holes?"

This story is presented to you for entertainment value, but bear in mind that this is just one example of Daughter's defiance and we are reaching our wits' ends. Other prime situations for her to test her limits are naptime, bedtime, lunchtime, dinnertime, bathtime, and primetime. It is getting to be really exhausting having to deal with a conflict over every single thing we ask of her.

Husband and I have different theories on why Daughter is acting out so much. He believes that she is testing her limits. I think perhaps she is trying to get our attention. We definitely need to figure out how to handle this though.

The Facts

When the nuclear physicist Leo Szilard was explaining to his friend Hans Bethe why he was not going to publish his diary, he said, "I am merely going to record the facts for the information of God."

Bethe replied, "Don't you think God knows the facts?"

"Yes," said Szilard. "He knows the facts, but He does not know this version of the facts."

- As related by Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything

Identity Crisis

Daughter has a very defined sense of self. Where it came from, I do not know. What I do know is that when Daughter was about 18 months old, she went through a phase where she felt her father and I were accusing her of being something she wasn't. Her reply was consistant and amusing (to us.)

In order to understand this dialogue, you have to know Daughter's real name. Which you don't. For the sake of clarity, let's call her Betty.

Daughter would do something ridiculous, such as dipping her grapes in barbeque sauce. To this we would tell her, "You're crazy."

"No, I Betty."

"Well, I think you are silly!"

"I no silly! I Betty!"

"Are you a potato?"

"No, I Beh-TEEEEE!"

Well, this was so hilarious to Husband and I that these conversations with Daughter turned into regular events; especially if some unaware distant relative came for a visit. We would nudge our guest and whisper to them, "Hey! Tell her she's funny!" When the expected response arrived, we all, including an ignorant Daughter, would laugh at her adorable antics.

Once we exhausted our supply of family members, questioning Daughter on who exactly she thought she was became our scheduled Saturday night event. Husband and I would shake up some dry martinis; an onion for me, two olives for him. Then the socratic interrogations would begin:

"Are you pretty?"

"No! I am Betty!" And then we spewed gin from our noses.

Over the past two years, Daughter's vocabulary expanded and certain questions wouldn't work anymore.

"Are you thirsty?"

"Aye. I'll have what you are imbibing, my dearest mother. But with extra vermouth, if you please"

Also, as Daughter became aware that her parents are both hopeless imbeciles, her protests became louder and the interviews were concluded by the rolling of her beautiful blue eyes and a heavy-footed retreat to her room. Thusly, the game lost it's novelty after a year or so. Unexpectedly, it came back tonight. And tonight, I took it too far.

I was holding Daughter in my lap. Recalling an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, I squeezed her torso and said, "I'm gonna love you, and hug you, and squeeze you, and call you George!"



Daughter squirmed out of my embrace and declared, "I am not George!"

Suddenly, I was in junior high again. I felt the euphoric surge that teenagers get when they have spotted their enemy's (or best friend's) mental weakness. I couldn't help myself.

"No, you are my George. I'm going to pat you, and pet you and call you..."

"I am not George!"

"Oh, I am so sorry. I didn't mean it. What's wrong, George?"

"I AM NOT GEORGE! YOU NOT CALL ME GEORGE TODAY! DON'T CALL ME GEORGE TOMORROW! MY NAME IS BEH-TEE!!!!!"

Her mental reserves exhaused, Daughter collapsed into a pile of boneless flesh wrapped in a flowery sundress. Her sobbing was inconsolable. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with this unloving parent of hers who insisted on calling her such a disgusting word as George.

Husband heard the commotion from our home office and came into the living room to investigate. He picked her up and asked, "What's wrong, baby girl?"

She was still sobbing. In-between gulps of air and withering glares in my direction, Daughter managed to tell her daddy, "Mommy. She was. Calling me. She said I was. George! But I.. I not George today. Or tomorrow. I am Betty!"

Husband couldn't help himself. Despite Daughter's distress, he began giggling.

"Daddy, it's not funny. It's not funny at all!

"Well, what if we call Mommy "George...?"

God bless her unborn sense of revenge. Still sniffling, she brokered for peace. "No, Daddy... she's my mom. We don't call her George. We call her Mommy."

I stood up from the couch at gave both of them a hug. I reassured Daughter that I would never call her or anyone else George ever again.

Worst. Haircut. Ever.

I received the call at about 11:30am from Husband.

"Guess what your daughter did?"

In my typical hyperbolic fashion, I replied, "Ripped the microwave off the wall?"

"Worse!"

"Worse?! Is she okay? What did she do?"

"She got into the scissors."

My heart sank and began to fraternize with my lower intestine. "Ooooh... noooo! What happened?"

"Well, I've known about this for several hours, but I didn't know how to tell you."

"Husband, just tell me what she did."

"She, uh... gave herself a haircut."

She knows she done wrong. Note the utter lack of bangs and the weird feathering on the right.

"She what?!"

"Yah, she cut off her bangs, and a bunch of hair on the sides. And when I found her, she was trying to give the cat a haircut too!"

Hailie: "Geez woman, thank God I'm a short-haired cat! Imagine the carnage!"

"Oh my God, how does she look?"

"Horrible."

"Horrible?"

At that point, I didn't know what to think. I think Daughter looks "horrible" if her socks don't match or the pudding stain didn't wash out of her shirt. Husband, on the other hand, thinks she looks ready for the Sears Portrait Studio wearing a party dress over her jeans. If Daughter's cosmetology experiment descended her appearance level to "horrible" in Husband's eyes... oh dear God.

What if George Clooney and Billy Ray Cyrus had a kid?

I forced myself to sound hopeful and asked Husband, "Well, I guess we'll just take her to the barber and have them fix it."

"Honey, I don't know if they can. She literally cut her bangs off. There is almost nothing left on the top of her head."

"Oh... well, I guess there's only one thing to do then..."

"Blog it?"

"Yep."

I think she knows these pictures are part of her punishment.

Stage Fright

Daughter loves to sing, especially the childhood standards such as: "Mary Had a Little Lamb," "Itsy-Bitsy Spider," "Jesus Loves Me," and Green Day's "American Idiot." A few weeks ago, I was taking her picture when she burst into song with such fervor that I was expecting she might also burst into flames. I ran for the video camera, started it up, and asked her for an encore.

What happened next (video link) is so adorable that you, gentle reader, may burst into flame. By watching the video, you agree to hold me harmless for any fire-related damaged suffered by your computer, your office or your retinas. Thank you.

(For some reason the audio is a sync'ed a couple of seconds faster on YouTube. I don't know what is going on there. She's still cute though.)

Overheard: Genetic Deformities

"You're my mom, and you're my dad. That's a joke!" (maniacal laughter)

"Oh great, April! She got your sense of humor!"

Head Start

Earlier today, Daughter and I were playing with her MagnaDoodle. She would ask me to draw various things, like happy faces and shapes. I decided to shoot for the moon and asked her if she wanted to draw some letters. She exclaimed, "Yes! Drawing letters is my favorite!

Can you sing the ABC's, hold a MagnaDoodle and smile at the same time? Yah? Well, so can she!
(Click for full-size version, 75k)

Then Daughter backed away from a statement that couldn't be supported by the facts. The facts are she has never tried to draw letters before. She meekly asked me if I would help her draw some. I began by writing a capital "A" on her MagnaDoodle, and then asked her to draw one. I talked her through the steps that I vaguely recall being taught in kindergarten. "Draw one line down. Start at the top of that line and draw another one down. Now connect the two lines with a short line in the middle."

Daughter gamely made an attempt, and slowly created a letter "A" that easily exceeded the writing skills of most doctors and her own father. My heart leapt in my chest as I began daydreaming of Mensa memberships and my smug smile as I discussed with Ed Bradley the moment I realized that she would finish high school by the age of 7.

First things first though. (Or second things, second) Daughter poked me with the stylus of her drawing toy and said, "Let's make a B!"

Again, I drew the letter and then talked her through making one of her own.

"Okay, do you want me to show you how to make a "C?"

"No! I can do it myself!"

Daughter gripped the stylus and confidently drew a capital "C!"

Okay, she'll probably be starting medical school by seven.

We finished the lesson with the letters D through F. There was a snafu with "E," when she drew the cross-braces in the wrong direction, but I won't mention that on her Harvard application.

Daughter and I ended with "F" not because we ran out of room on the drawing board. But rather because for the first two decades of her life, A through F are the only letters that matter. I took a few photos to share with you, our friends and family, and Ed Bradley. Enjoy!

The highlighted letters are the ones that Daughter made herself. The others are the ones I drew for her to copy.
Daughter insisted that a purple glow best reflected her artistic vision.
(Click for full-size version, 75k)

My Little Runaway

As I related yesterday, Daughter has been watching my vintage Care Bear videos recently. I've put a moratorium on the "Care Bears in the Land Without Feelings" for a couple of months.

What could be so bad about a Care Bear video? By itself, it is fine. But for a child like mine, who is very empathetic, plus a natural actress and mimic - it isn't so good. I did not know that Husband had been playing "Land Without Feelings" for Daughter until she had already seen it a few times. She had started moping around the house and whenever we had to tell her "no." Daughter was stomping off to her room with shouts of "I just don't CARE anymore! I don't care about ANYTHING!"

I was perplexed. Daughter loves to mimic people, especially her parents... and neither we or anyone we knew talked like that. Then I watched "Land Without Feelings" with her and I realized that she was mimicking Kevin, the little boy in the story. I talked with her a little bit the next time she began throwing herself a pity party and told her that she wasn't being truthful, that she cares about her friends, and her family and about Hailie. She insisted that she didn't care about anything. I told that she needed to go to her room and think about what she was saying, and about her family who loved her. At that point, she screamed, "I am going to RUN AWAY!"

All of a sudden frightening images began to fill my head.

• Daughter tramping through the woods of South Carolina in overalls with a red polka-dot kerchief tied to the end of a stick, and a lit cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth.
• Daughter living on the mean streets of Charleston, weaving sweet grass baskets, and sleeping under porches on America Street.
• Daughter getting paid $100 to get a tattoo of the Confederate flag on her forehead, to fund her My Little Pony collection.

After a few moments of contemplating my Daughter's dead-end life as a homeless three year old, I collected myself and tried to figure out how to address this problem constructively.

First, I didn't want to scare the crap out of Daughter. I really did not want to tell her about rapists, jail and teenage basketweaving. The last thing I wanted was to make her scared of life and ever leaving home. I knew at some point, about 20 years in the future, I am going to want her out of the house.

On the other hand, I did want to communicate clearly that running away from home at her tender age is not okay.

I began by pointing out to her that Kevin got into a great deal of trouble when he ran away. I reminded her that Professor Coldheart was a very mean man who hurt Kevin, and I told her that there are other people in the world who don't like little children. If she ran away, a mean person or a scary animal could scoop her up and hurt her. This seemed to sober Daughter up. I continued by telling her that Mommy and Daddy love her very, very much and we would be so sad and upset if she left us and never came back. I put on a sad face at that point and dangled my lower lip underneath my chin.

Daughter's empathy and dramaticism started to work in my favor. She reached up with her small hands and held my face.

"Oh Mommy, don't be sad!"

"But Daughter, it would make me so unhappy if you ran away. I would never see you again. And you would never see Daddy, or Hailie or me again. Is that what you really want?"

"Nooooo..."

"So do you still want to run away?"

"No, Mommy! I want to stay with you and Daddy forever!"

I smiled and picked her up. I gave her a big hug. Daughter squirmed after a minute and I set her down.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, honey?"

"You can't run away either, okay? I don't want an animal to eat you. If you run away, I can't keep you safe!"

Crazy Kids Shows, Pt. 3

In the early 1980's, American Greetings, Hallmark's biggest competitor, introduced the "Care Bears." The company had already enjoyed phenomenal success with their first character line, "Strawberry Shortcake," and the Care Bears followed suit. Originally the Care Bears were designed to only be used for greeting cards, notepads and stickers. However, when their popularity shot through the roof, the company contracted a Canadian animation studio to create a television show based on the characters.

The first show was called, "The Care Bears in the Land Without Feelings." My parents purchased this video and several other Care Bear shows for me when I was little and I loved them. I don't think I ever actually had a Care Bear plush when I was a kid, only the movies and a couple of posable "action" figures of the characters.

In the late 1990's, thanks to thrift stores and Hot Topic, the Care Bears became popular again. I was on my own by then, and I bought a used Grumpy Bear on eBay and a couple of Care Bear t-shirts. I dated a guy for a while who worked at a video store and he rescued some vintage Care Bear videos from the bargain bin for me. And this, my friends, is how easy it can be to get into my pants.

I never watched the Care Bear videos that the guy had got me, I just held on to them because they were neat. A couple of weeks ago, Daughter spotted them on the shelf where we keep our movies and asked Husband to play them for her. These videos are now her favorites! (Note to the reader: Daughter's "favorite" anything usually changes on an hourly basis.)

I watched "The Care Bears in the Land Without Feelings" with Daughter a couple of nights ago and it was still as cute and enchanting as it was 20 years ago. The story revolves around a snotty kid named Kevin, who runs away from home because his family is moving and he doesn't want to go. He walks around town and winds up in the ghetto, where he enters a crusty looking park. As he wanders, he mutters to himself, "I just don't CARE anymore!" Well, that is just the Bat Signal for the Care Bears, who float down from Care-a-Lot in their Cloud Cars to find Kevin.

Alas, Professor Coldheart of Coldheart Castle has spotted Kevin first. The video is a little weak on character development. Thus, I am not sure what institute of higher learning Professor Coldheart attended, or exactly what he majored in. I'm gonna guess it was Molecular Chemistry at the University of Anorexics in Crazyland.

Coldheart does get the best line in the movie though when Kevin asks him who the simpering dark-green fellows with the yellow eyes are:

"Well, they could be my friends, but I don't CARE about them! (bitch-slaps a half-dozen zombies in one shot, who tumble over to the sound effect of bowling pins falling down.) So they're NOT!"

Coldheart snatches up Kevin and convinces him to drink a frosty mug filled with some sort of foamy green liquid. I would like to think that it wasn't beer, but let's face it, I would imagine if you are a skinny frozen guy with a hooked nose whose only company are your zombie minions... you'd have a drinking problem too. Alas, Coldheart's attempts to garner a 9 year old drinking buddy goes awry when the not-beer turns Kevin into a zombie also. Jinkies!

The Care Bears try to come to the rescue, but due to Coldheart's nefarious plotting, only Tenderheart manages to make it to Coldheart castle and all sorts of saving the day ensues. The zombies are turned back into little kids, Kevin comes to grips with moving day and all is well. As it should be.

Tomorrow, I will relate how this innocent video filled with fuzzy-wuzzies almost turned my three year old Daughter into a runaway and how good parenting saved the day.

Flowering

Earlier this week, my front yard gave me some pleasant surprises. This yard, which is mainly populated with pine trees and dirt decided to bloom. First, a small tree nestled among the pines busted forth with an orgasm of bright fuschia blooms.



Not to be outdone, our sorely neglected flowerbed next to the house decided to show us what it is worth. One of the plants brought out a beautiful yellow and orange flower.


Daughter named the flower, "Polka Dot." Polka's neighbors have been dubbed, "Leafies."

Cherry Fingers

This weekend was pretty uneventful outside of professional blow-ups, interspousal fighting and at least half a dozen smiley faces drawn on our doors by a certain three year old, who shall remain nameless. But never fear dear readers, for the spouses have reconciled, Mr. Clean's Magic Eraser cleaned up nicely and all blow-ups have been worked through with extensive chocolate frosting therapy.

Also on the agenda this weekend was a thorough cleaning of our house. Husband and I both worked very hard, and you will be pleased to know that there are at least three rooms in our house that we would be willing to let our friends see.

Following the Great Interspousal Garage Clean-Up War, Daughter and I escaped the Charge of the Husband Brigade via the local Super Wal-Mart. While there, I decided to get some cherries for Daughter to enjoy during snacktime. Daughter made it clear that she would rather have hot dogs. I am a big fan of the hot dog. But, Martha Stewart has put a hit on me that will be put into action if I shovel any more nitrate-laden quasi-meat products into my Daughter's body. Cherries seemed to be a nice compromise.

A little confession: I have never in my life had fresh cherries. They are hard to come by and very expensive in Southern California. Until last night, I had no idea just how messy they are. Especially if you have a toddler who must be taught to very carefully eat the fruits without swallowing the pits. The cherry eating lesson went something like this:

1. Pull the stem off the cherry and put the stem back in the bowl.
2. Okay, now pick up the cherry that just flew across the room.
3. Carefully eat approximately half the cherry so that you don't eat the pit.
4. If you do eat the cherry pit, and cherry tree will start growing in your stomach and your parents will have to plant you in the backyard.
5. No, being planted in the backyard is a bad idea.
6. Take off your shirt/pants/underwear/socks now, because oh-my-gawd, you just wiped your cherry juice stained fingers on it!
7. Wait, stop! Stop eating the cherry! You need a napkin!
8. Yell at your father for laughing at your mother because she thought giving fresh cherries to a three year old was a good idea.
9. Repeat from step 1

Cherry Fingers

They Don't Understand as Much as You Think They Do

I sometimes forget that despite Daughter's extensive vocabulary and impressive ability to recite the screenplay of "The Little Mermaid" from heart, there are still things that she doesn't understand. Take the following exchange:

Me (disgusted): "God, I'm getting so old!"

Daughter (happy, but mimicking my disgusted tone): "Yah! Me too. I'm getting so oooold!"

Me: "You are getting old?"

Daughter (sounding like she needs Metamucil, stat!): "Yes, I'm oooold."

Me (laughing): "Well, at least we're both going downhill together!"

Daughter (indignant): "I'm not going on a hill!"

Fearing for My Child's Safety

I sent Daughter to her room for a time-out because she got into the cumin (you can't make this shit up). After her 3-minute sentence was up, I came into her room to go through the Supernanny Approved® dialogue:

"Are you ready to say you are sorry?"

"Yes!"

"What did you do wrong?"

(brightly) "I don't know."

"Why did Mommy put you into time-out?"

(the magnitude of her crime hits her and she hangs her head in shame) "Because I got into the spices."

"Was that naughty?"

"Yes. I won't do it again. I'll be a good girl."

"Okay, what do you have to say?"

"Sorry, Mommy."

I forgot to mention that when I first entered her room, I noticed that the early evening light was waning and I flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. I looked over at the outlet where Daughter's lamp is plugged in. Both outlets were blocked with plastic babyproofing covers. You know, so Daughter won't stick her tongue or the cat's tail into the socket. My first thought was that Husband had blocked them when he was hanging shelves in her room this morning. Daughter sees what I am looking at and says, "Oh sorry, I'll fix it."

Daughter walks over to the outlet, removes out the top outlet cover in all of about half a second and then plugs in the lamp.

And there was light. And she saw that it was good.

Of course, I'm not feeling too good about the outlet covers.

Father's Day

For Father's Day, Husband and I gave Daughter a present. We took her to the movies for the first time. Before that, we made a family trip to the park.

It is definitely summertime now, and really bloody hot. Thus far, it has not been unbearable for us. Then again, we have the joys of modern cooling at our disposal at home and work, which is where we spend 95% of out waking hours. Going to the park and engaging in physical activity really made it clear how quickly humid heat can suck the life out of you. Before we collapsed on the shady grass, we did play with Daughter on the swings and coaxed her a couple of times down the slide. Daughter never wanted to stop. We would have been content to watch her from the shade, but she wasn't comfortable with that yet. So, we called it quits after about an hour and retreated to Sonic for some well-earned slushes.

I am well aware of the crimes against humanity that many parents commit in theaters by bringing small children who have not yet learned to modulate the tone of their voices. Not to mention the morons who bring babies to 10pm showings of King Kong. On Saturday evening, I sat down with Daughter and tried to explain to her what the movie-going experience was all about. I described the big room, with lots of chairs and the biggest TV she had ever seen. I explained that it would be dark, and that she would need to be quiet so that the other people at the theater could listen to the TV. She started to freak out over the anticipated suffocating darkness of the theater. I boosted her spirits with promises of candy and until now, the forbidden soda. Daughter seemed to be suspicious of the offer of soda for good behavior, ("I can't drink soda!"), but I emphasized that for a special occasion like Going To The Movies For The First Time, soda would be permitted.

After grabbing the slushes, we picked up a couple of friends and headed to the theater. We weren't able to get in to see Cars (it was sold-out when we got there), so we settled for Over the Hedge instead. I still was anxious about how well Daughter would act, but I knew that she is generally well-behaved. My strategy involved securing an aisle seat and keeping her drunk on sugar and caffeine. I know it sounds like a ridiculous idea, but it actually worked.

I am proud to say that Daughter did remarkably well. After a few reminders during the interminable previews, she kept her voice at a low volume. She also stayed in her seat for the first two-thirds of the show. At that point, she alternated between her seat (which was the closest to Daddy's soda) and my friend's lap. Also, she only needed one potty break.

As we were leaving, we noticed that a nearby theater was emptying for X-Men 3. My friends and I had seen it a couple of weeks ago. We didn't know at the time that there was a special hidden scene following the credits and so we missed it. We snuck into the theater and caught the scene. (Critic's Note: X-Men 3, two thumbs down and the hidden scene doesn't make it any better.)

Finally, we left and returned to my friend's house for ice cream and general merriment.

Oh, and I learned today that Over the Hedge has a hidden scene after it's credits too. Figures.

Happy Father's Day to all the daddies out there.

Gracie Allen Reincarnate

"Please go ask Daddy to come here and tell him it is about dinner. Can you do that for me?"

"OH-kaaay! I can do THAT!" (runs off towards the office)

"Daddy, it is about dinner!"

"What?"

"It is about dinner!"

"What?"

This is Why We Don't Teach Her How to Do Stuff

On Friday night, Daughter was feeling hungry, largely in part because for most of the day she had been subsisting on Otter Pops and Kool-Aid. She asked politely for dinner and when I asked in turn what she wanted to eat, Daughter replied enthusiastically with "Mac-a-woh-ni!" I am quite a fan for the stuff out of the blue box also, and so I got off the couch and headed for the kitchen. Daughter followed me and asked, "Can I help?"

As a parent of a three year old, I feel it is important to always try to get the kid to try to help us with stuff. It sets up a good pattern for the future that will hopefully last until the teenage years. At which time when I am sure that her idea of helpfulness will be to tell me where I can go after requesting that she clean her room.

At this point in her life, Daughter loves to help. Her little cup of joy overflows at the prospect of aiding us in loading the dryer, folding clothes, putting refuse in the trash and squeezing soap into the dishwasher cup. I get nervous when she asks to help cook, because there are some very real dangers in any kitchen. Especially the danger of wringing Daughter's neck if she spills pancake batter on the floor. The challenge for me is to try to break down the steps in cooking a recipe to include steps that she can perform safely.

For example: No, she can't slice potatoes, but she can take the sliced potato pieces and put them in the pot.

I felt very proud of Daughter as she helped me fill the pot with water and add the salt. She counted the number of tablespoons of butter needed for the mac 'n cheese. Daughter told me when I the milk I was pouring reached the 1/4 cup line on the measuring cup. She threw away the blue box and the cheese packet and Daughter let me know (from a safe vantage point) when I had stirred the cheese powder enough into the pasta.

All of this also helped give Daughter ownership of the dinner she helped to make. She always enthusiastically eats anything that I let her help to cook. But, like all things, having a three year old help you cook is a double-edged sword.

Early the next morning, I was in bed and I heard noises coming from the kitchen. I roused myself as quickly as I could and rushed in there. I was greeted with the sight of Daughter standing on her stepstool next to the kitchen counter. In her hand was an Otter Pop and she was gamely reaching for the kitchen scissors. Before she was able to grab them, I said in my best Mommy voice, "What do you think you are doing?!" Daughter was so startled, she nearly tumbled off of the stepstool.

"I'm getting an Otter Pop!"

"How are you going to open it?"

"With these scissors!"

"Are you allowed to touch scissors?"

"Noooooo."

I put her in a time-out and then I sat down on the couch, newly exhausted by this development.
"Great... I start to teach her how to help me cook and it gives her license to start looking for sharp objects to play with."

I Can't Sing

Husband, Daughter and I were having a family moment relaxing in bed the other day. For some reason, Daughter began doing some serious pouting and looking very unhappy. In our family, being grumpy is not condoned for long and so Husband and I embarked on some good-natured underarm tickling to try to cheer Daughter up. This disheartened her further.

Seeing that Daughter was determined to mope, I began singing to her that old chestnut from my own childhood, "Nobody Likes Me." My father loved to start singing this to my siblings and I whenever we were pouty for no good reason. The song goes something like this:

"Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
I'm goin' out and eat a worm,
Long, thin, slimy ones; Short, fat, juicy ones,
Itsy, bitsy, fuzzy wuzzy worms."

Daughter let out a heavy sigh and climbed off of the bed. Husband asked her what she was doing and she exclaimed, "I'm gonna make Mommy stop singing!"

She picked up a pillow that was on the floor and clammered back up on the bed. She pushed the pillow over my face and then quickly ran out of the room.

As soon as Husband was able to catch his breath from his uncontrollable guffawing, I asked him indignantly, "Did you teach her that?"

He hiccuped and said, "No! But that was so perfect!"

Why She Will Never Be a Teen Model

Daughter owns a fine wardrobe of beautiful dresses, largely in thanks to a former co-worker of mine that kindly would buy her one or two dresses for Christmas and Easter. She hasn't been able to wear them very frequently because we haven't attended church in quite a while. I keep intending to find a local Seventh-Day Adventist church in the Charleston area, but due to various reasons (I'm lazy, I'm lazy and getting up early on a Saturday is unappealing at the moment), she hasn't had the opportunity to wear them very much.

Recently, Daughter gets a hankering to wear one of her pretty dresses in order to get in touch with her feminine side. I have been resisting her requests, because I want to keep the pretty dresses pretty and Daughter is more inclined toward rocks and mud pies, than dolls and tea parties. However, I relented last week on condition that she pose for my camera without trying to burn the lens with her devil stare.

I got off about two or three good pictures before Daughter was seized by Satan and compelled to twirl.

Aww... isn't she sweet?

You can almost smell the mischief rising in her pores.

Twirl! Twirl!

Mid-twirl

After giving her best audition for the whirling dervishes, she began circumnavigating me as quickly as possible. I don't know if this is something that Daughter does, or if it is typical of all toddlers and young children. However, at about 15 months old, when she gained her sea legs, Daughter found it to be the height of amusement to run in circles around any stationary object, preferably her parents. If Husband or I sit in the middle of the floor for over 12 seconds, Daughter will maniacally run laps around us.

I have about 90 pictures of a blurry Daughter, only half in the frame as she did this for the next 20 minutes. On occasion she would pause, run into her room to grab a stuffed animal and then return for more laps.

Approximately Lap #523

I'm surprised that cat still has a tail.

I eventually grew weary and dizzy from all of her activity and so I did what any reasonable parent would do to calm down their manic child. I shot her with a tranquilizer gun.

And she's out...

Memo to the Friends and Family who have been pestering me (and rightly so!) for pictures of our new house: Voila! There is our living room! Now get off my back!

Discipline

I discovered with great delight that I am capable of shoving my three year old's entire left hand into my mouth. I was feeling rather proud of my big mouth, but then Daughter brought down the hammer and lectured me thusly:

"Eww! Mama, we don't eat people's hands! Yuck! That's disgusting! Don't do that again, okay Mama? Don't eat my hand anymore Mama! And don't eat my other hand either!"

This is from the same child who used to shove her entire foot into her mouth and has been known to eat grapes dipped in barbecue sauce. If you ask me, she a total hypocrite. I will write more in 27 minutes, when Daughter lets me out of Time Out.

Streaming

I am suffering a little bit of writer's block at the moment, so I think I'll fall back on that old bit of advice that writers are often given, "Just write!" So here goes my little stream of consciousness.

Okay, I need to plug in my laptop or its going to die in mid-stream. (pun intended)

AFK a sec.

Hey, I'm back!

Yesterday, I spent the morning in a funk. I was snapping at Daughter and Husband and I was being a general prick. The house is mostly in disarray, filled with boxes and all that. When I was a child, my parents' house was nothing but piles and piles of filth and clutter. Whenever my house is dirty and cluttered, it just puts me in a foul mood. It is probably some unconscious reaction to the discomfort I felt during my childhood. I'm not OCD or anything about cleanliness, but I do like everything to be pu...

Oh my gosh...

Daughter is watching Finding Nemo. She is reclining on her pink piggy beanbag chair. Her feet are clan in Elmo slippers and are resting on an antique footstool. The movie is at the part where Marlin and Dory are trapped inside the whale's mouth. Marlin is slapping himself against the whale's tongue. Daughter looked at me just now and said, "Why do I have a tongue?"

Confused, I asked, "You mean, why do whales have tongues?"

While sticking her finger in her mouth, "No, why do I have a tongue?"

"Oh, you have a tongue so you can taste your food."

"No, I really don't like my tongue. Can we go to the store and get me an orange one? I want an orange tongue."

I don't know why, but that just really cracked me up.

So anyways, I am not OCD about cleanliness, but I do like everything to be put away and organized. I just had to get away from the mess, so I went to the grocery store and bought groceries (natch). I splurged a little bit and also got for myself two Cadbury eggs and some Jell-o Pudding Pops. When I returned from the house, it still had not cleaned itself (yes, odd, I know), so I put away the groceries and went to the cigarette store. The lady at the store recognized me and asked me if I wanted a carton of Supers. *siiiigh* That just made me really sad. I'm a regular at a cigarette shop. I told her, "No thanks. I'll just take two packs today."

Yes, I smoked cigarettes yesterday. And well, I smoked today too. I'll reset the clock shortly.

However, after I smoked, I felt quite a bit better and set about cleaning up the house. I completely organized Daughter's room. I put away all of our laundry and the rest of our clothes that was already in boxes. Husband and I put our holiday stuff and suitcases in the attic. I did the dishes and finally put all of my loose recipes in sheet protectors. The house really is starting to come together, and Husband and I were really proud of our progress yesterday. I am hoping I'll finish cleaning up the office today. I also need to bag up the 12 tons of pine needles and leaves that we raked up on Sunday.

Other plans include continuing to update my Egypt site. I created a completely CSS-based template for it and I am slowly importing all the old files into it. Finishing this project will take a while though, because I have like 150 pages of content to import. Blegh. It will be so worth it when I'm done though because then site-wide updates will be a snap.

Okay, I guess that's it for now.

Finding Nemo is over now, and Daughter is dancing to "Beyond the Sea." Honestly, there is nothing more adorable than when she dances.

Multiple-Choice Question

Quiz Time!

Question #1: Why does Daughter look so grumpy?
a) I asked her how she felt about the Bush administration's handling of the Iraq War.
b) She is trying to destroy me with the power of her mind.
c) I pointed the camera at her, again; and I just-won't-stop.
d) Life isn't fair.

Answer: C, and maybe a little bit of B.

I Love Me Some Daddy Fingers

As a part of our anthropological studies, we made several videos of Daughter during her early development. In the video below, Daughter at about 9 months old. This stage in life is referred to by some ancient cultures as the "Dry Tongue" Stage. Please note carefully the near-constant protrusion of the tongue, and her parents' early attempts at programming her for an oral fixation.

In Which I Decide That Watching Dora Is Not So Bad For Her

As you may have noticed, I am bit conflicted over how much time Daughter spends watching television. The problem is that I am trying to do work that pays money, while doing housework, while taking care of the baby. Usually something has to give. I do the laundry but don't put it away. I put in maybe one billable hour of work a day and the kid is addicted to Nick Jr. I am really racking up some major Mommy Guilt.

Should I work and ignore my Daughter and leave her in the clutches of the TV?

Should I spend quality time with my kid, and ignore my work and therefore not earn any money to maintain the roof over her head?

Should I waste my time on housework and not earn money OR spend time with Daughter?

Some days I feel I can't win.

The other day though, I felt a little bit better as I was excercising. Daughter was counting with me the number of stretches I was doing while she hung off of my neck.

"Won - too - free - four - fife - six - seben - eight - nine - ten!"

Just for fun, I started a new set and asked Daughter to count it off in Spanish.

"No - Dos - Twes - Cuato - Cinco - Seis - Siete - OooohCHO - Nuve - Diez!"

Dora can party at my lunch table any time...

Ambitions

"Daughter, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Bigger!"

The Moment I Realized I Need To Cut Her Off From Dora

"Now I'm going to say a Spanish word! Woo-PAH!"

"That's a Spanish word?"

"Yah! Its Woo-PAH! WOO-pah! WOO-PAH!"

Valentine's Day

For some reason it is harder for me to write down my positive, loving feelings rather than my painful or critical feelings. If I like something, I can't write about it. If I don't like something, I could write a 20 page diatribe against it. It is probably caused by two things: 1) I feel that I write the best when I have opportunities to display my immensely sarcastic wit (that was sarcasm right there) and humor. I can't (or rather shouldn't) be sarcastic about something I love, not if I genuinely love it. Okay, I guess there was only one thing.

This post probably won't be my best work, but I wanted to express some of my feelings for the people in my life.

My daughter is the most precious gift I have ever received. She is a gift from God and I am dazzled every day by her wit, beauty, humor and intelligence. I am astonished at how fast she has grown, both physically and intellectually. Just in the past few days, she has learned how to scoot herself up onto a full-sized toilet and go to the potty all by herself. As she watches what I fear is way too much TV, she follows along with the stories and makes comments about the plot and the characters. Daughter can count up to fifteen, knows at least 7 different shapes, can say her ABCs and sings along with my Elvis Presley CD. Folks, she just turned THREE.

More than that she is remarkably mature for her age. Husband and I have basically turned her world upside-down about three times in the past year, and she has taken it all in stride. I know she has been very upset over the time that she has been away from her daddy, and upset because she misses her friends back in San Diego. However, Daughter is still very happy, enthusiastic and excited about learning new things.

I am so proud of this kid, and watching her grow up is the greatest adventure of my life.

Now comes the really hard part... writing about my husband. Be prepared for some unabashed mushiness. Ready? Okay, here goes...

Husband and I have been together for a little over five years now. Neither of us can believe it, it seems like we have known each other for forever (and in a good way). Husband is unbelievably intelligent and has an amazing grasp of mechanics. He can look any broken thing and figure out how to fix it, even if he has never worked with it before. Husband has a wonderful sense of humor and an uncanny ability to see through me and my bullshit.

Also, Husband went through an extraordinary amount of crap throughout his childhood and teenage years. Every social construct that is supposed to protect and nurture children (family, school, courts, etc) failed him in the worst ways. And despite that, he is still a loving, giving, trusting husband and father. His inner-strength amazes me and I don't think many people could have survived what he has gone through without turning into a crack whore, or you know, Dick Cheney.

Now he isn't perfect, he really isn't romantic in the traditional sense of the word. His idea of a romantic act is to install a new power switch for our living room ceiling fan. But you know what? Does your guy install power switches for you without first being nagged for a year and a half? I think I can live with the lack of love poems and flowers.

I love my husband for everything that he is and for everything that he has done for me and Daughter during our life together. I can't wait to see how this new chapter of our lives unfolds, and I know that without his unwavering strength and support, none of it would be possible.

Zert

When we lived in San Diego, our family could not afford large apartments that would have enough room for both a computer desk and a dining room table. Since Husband and I are both unrepentant computer geeks, having an office area naturally was our priority. In our last apartment in San Diego, we set up the computer desk in the dining area that adjoined the kitchen and ate our meals off our laps in the living room. Daughter ate nearby in her high chair. About six months before our move to South Carolina, she took up our habit of eating her meals with us in the living room.

I have nurtured a dream for quite a while of living as a civilized person, with my family eating three meals a day at a proper dining table. Our new house has three bedrooms and a large kitchen. As soon as we move in (and buy a dining table), we will be living my dream.

To prep Daughter for this change, I have enforced a new rule at my friends' house that she shall eat her meals at the table. My friends have been supportive, and every evening we have a proper dinner at the table. Daughter has been learning how to sit properly in her chair ("Sit on your bottom!"), finish the meals she is given and to be relatively quiet while the adults converse.

Her incentive for behaving in a genteel manner is Dessert. Or, as it has come to be known "Zert." Daughter has deemed that the first syllable of the word is completely extraneous. How efficient!

As it always seems to happen, the double-edged sword has reared its ugly head. I am being pestered for zert morning, noon and night.

Daughter has not yet grasped the idea that zert only comes after a meal, ideally only after dinner. She has taken to demanding a zert after every meal, snack, and drink of water that she receives during the course of the day. This amounts to 167 requests for zert in her 12 waking hours (yes, I kept count).

Being a loving mother and with a certain appreciation of her grasp of priorities, I am currently researching a wholesale supplier of Double-Stuf Oreos and Hershey Kisses.

Magnolia Plantation

My friends and I went visited the Magnolia Plantation near Charleston yesterday afternoon. The plantation has a tram that took us on a tour of the entire plantation and several gardens that are planted with flowering plants. Daughter especially enjoyed the petting zoo, which featured a donkey, white-tailed deer, turkeys, goats, geese, chickens and peacocks. Here are some of our favorite sights:

A white peacock!

I caught this young lady wading on the banks of a small pond.

We visited on a cloudy day, which made the forests look so spooky!

I was only taking a picture of a bird, I didn't notice his friend in the water.

I did notice this guy, though!

A statue of Mary in the "Biblical Garden."

Japanese Apricot blooms and Spanish moss.

The gate to the Biblical Garden.

Did my Daughter have fun? I think she did!

God Help Us, She's a Morning Person

I am not a mornng person. Given the opportunity, I would sleep 'til noon everyday and spend the rest of the afternoon in my purple flannel pajamas and my husband's socks. My husband is not a morning person either. He is more of a "Stay up until God Forsaken Hours Killing Spider Queens with his Two-Dimensional friends" kind of guy.

Daughter is a morning person. She wakes up at about 7 a.m. and promptly begins harassing her parents to get their lazy asses out of bed. The Morning Negotiations go something like this:

"Mommy, it's not late anymore. It's morning. Time to get up and get dressed. C'mon Mommy!"

"Unnngggh... go tell Daddy."

(pidder-padder of tiny feet toddling over to the other side of the bed.)

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy..."

"April, its your turn."

(sleepily) "No, its not... I got up with her yesterday."

(chipper) "Daddy, its time to get up. I need to get my clothes on!"

(sleepily) "Nuh uh, I got up with her last time when she had to go potty, remember?"

(lost the battle) "Man... okay, but tomorrow you are so totally going to get up first. C'mon, Daughter, Mommy will get up."

"Yay! Mommy's up!"

Husband returned to San Diego yesterday in order to finish up some business that we have there. For the next two weeks, I will be required to get up every blinking morning with her. The Morning Negotiations have transformed thusly:

"Mommy, it's not late anymore. It's morning. Time to get up and get dressed. C'mon Mommy!"

"Unnngggh... gimme a few more minutes."

(pidder-padder of frustrated feet laying back down.)

(A few minutes later) "Mommy, it's not late anymore. It's morning. Time to get up and get dressed. C'mon Mommy!"

This gets repeated about four times before she drops The Bomb.

"Mommy, I need to go potty!"

(lost the battle) "Okay, okay, I'm up!"

"Yay!"

This morning, as I was stripping her southern hemisphere of her panties and pajama pants, I noticed something peculiar about two inches north of her Pee-Pee Generator. It was a bright orange sticker from one of our suitcases that certified that upon our return from a recent vacation in Puerto Rico, the United States Department of Agriculture had inspected our bags and they were free of illegal fruit flies and contaminated bananas. Two inches north of her Pee-pee Generator!

Yep, Husband is gonna be getting up at 7 a.m for two weeks when he gets back.

The Tragedy of Being a Doodlebop

As we remodel our house, the duty of keeping the Daughter out of Husband's hair has fallen squarely on my shoulder. Given that I am about as helpful in remodeling as our three year old daughter, this is probably for the best.

However, Daughter is a raging television addict. We have managed to keep her away from Barney-laced crack and the Teletubbie-infused heroin. I was unprepared for the new drug on the street: The Doodlebops. Yes, our neighbors to the north, Canada, are exacting a sick kind of revenge for our Big Macs and SUVs. They are importing via coaxial cable three singing, dancing, disco clowns.

I wish I were the type of person that can tune out the TV while doing very important things, like writing blog entries. But have you ever tried to concentrate on one thing while a singing, dancing, disco clown pulls a rope and gets water dumped on his head? People, this is engaging programming.

The unfortunate thing for the Doodlebop actors is that they are actually quite young and talented. They have good singing voices, they can dance, and they can play musical instruments with only four fingers. Whoever is stuffed inside the Barney and Teletubbie costumes at least have a measure of anonymity. These poor Doodlebop actors are going to be known forever as a Doodlebop. What happened to the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers' careers? Answer: Not much.

I can't imagine a casting agent five years from now is going to be willing to hire Rooney Doodlebop as the romantic lead opposite Lindsey Lohan in the lastest Bruckheimer flick, "Orgasm of Explosions Set to Trendy Rock Music."

Update!

Okay... its been about 10 million years since I have posted anything on my blog, and my sister is hopping mad. You see... I promised her about 7.5 million years ago that I would update this thing more frequently, and I have totally welched on that oath.

I would like to point out my small print disclaimer at the top of this blog, which clearly states "...updated infrequently since 2003." If that isn't fair warning, I don't know what is.

Further, I would like to point out that I have been harassing my sister to re-start her OWN blog for about 7.5 million years. Especially since I specifically PURCHASED HER HER OWN FRICKING DOMAIN NAME. Is anything there?. No!

If she gets to flake, why can't I? Hell, I haven't even updated my other much more famous and well-paying website for about 9 months.

Alright... now that I'm done with that... here is a short list of the dramatic developments in April-land:

1. Around July 2005, Husband and I decided that San Diego is way too expensive for us. We want to buy a house, and we certainly can't afford to do so. Last I heard, only 9% of San Diegans can buy a house in San Diego. Therefore, it was time to get the hell out. We decided to move to South Carolina, where we know exactly 2 people. However, this is 200% more people than we know in any other affordable area of the United States. And we heard they have an ocean.

2. Due to some good deep-dicking from the powers-that-be at his job, Husband quit his job in November 2005. FUCK YOU powers-that-be!

3. Due to our imminent getting the hell out of San Diego, my last day at my job was December 1, 2005. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth by my co-workers. I was much loved there, and the feeling was mutual. (Irony: Husband and I worked for the same company.)

4. December 6, 2005, Daughter and I took way too many flights out to Charleston, SC. Ever fly cross-country with a two year old? No? I highly recommend it, especially if you are curious how much screaming and wailing is required to alienate approximately 200 strangers. Whee!

5. December 8, 2005, Received word from San Diego that one of my best friends commited suicide. You can read some of his words on this blog in various posts. He was Zimiri. Readership of this blog immediately decreased by 50%. (Other 50% of the readership is my sister.)

6. After checking out almost every former crack-den and shit-hole in the Charleston, SC area, on January 10, Husband and I finally found a house we were willing to live in for as long as it takes to avoid capital gains tax if we decide to sell. All sarcasm aside, I dast you to find a 3 bedroom, 2 bath house in San Diego, CA on a quarter-acre lot in the "low 100s." (That's real estate speak for you.)

That pretty much brings us up to the present.

Now, Husband and I are frantically spending a shit-load of money on appliances, marble tile, wallpaper remover, and drywall mud to make the house livable per Husband's high standards. Frankly, I could live with painted over wallpaper, but Husband would rather eat his own ear lobes than endure looking at walls and knowing that somewhere underneath lurks blue forget-me-not patterned wall decoration.

We are still staying with our two friends that we know out here, God bless them. I don't know many people in the world that would willingly endure two months of Husband, Daughter and I without asking for rent. I feel blessed that they care enough about us to put up with our crap for so long.

More updates to follow. However, I would like to let my Sister know that they will probably be more frequent once I have my file server, can properly operate this blog with Movable Type rather than Blogger, and when I am not technically homeless.

Lost in Translation

For those of you who need some more language credits in community college, I offer to you a quick lesson in Daughtereez:

"Pees Mommy, I wanna watch Bob-bob" = "Mommy, I want to watch Spongebob Squarepants."

"Pees Mommy, I want bunny-nim" = "Mommy, would like another chewable children's vitamin."

"Mommy! Look! Watermelon!" = "Mommy, Look! A water tower!"

"Green!" = "Red!" alternately, "Orange!" or "Purple!"

"Orange!" = "Green!"

"Mommy! What are you doing?" = "Ha ha Mom, I know exactly what you are doing, but I know it drives you batty for me to ask you 29 times in a row! So, What are you doing?"

"Mommy! I'm hungry!" = "Mother, I would like something to eat. Preferably anything BUT what you have prepared for me to eat, even if I specifically requested it."

Lonesome

The morning that my mother died, Daughter was just beside herself. I don't think she understood what had happened, but she knew we were all upset. She is a very empathetic creature and there was nothing that myself or my husband could do to calm her. Daughter refused her sippy cup, she wouldn't lay down for a nap, she didn't want comfort from either of us. Finally, after about a half hour of wailing, my father asked if he could try.

We knew that he had been in physical pain that day and we asked him if he was sure. He said, "Yes."

I picked up Daughter and gently placed her on Dad's lap. He began to coo at her and say sweet words into her ear. Within minutes, both of them fell asleep. For four hours.

Yesterday, April 2^nd, 2005, my father passed away.

On the Lighter Side: a Two Year Old's Favorite Words

And now, for a little comic relief, I will now thrill you with Daughter's favorite words.

1. Fart - Okay, this one is my fault. I was giving Daughter a bath and she let out and I said, "Was that a fart?!" Since then (and with loads of encouragement from her father), she has gleefully announced all other farts (hers, mine, Husband's) as if she was introducing the Queen of England to the House of Lords.

2. Candy/Cookie - My kid has a sweet tooth and any trip to the kitchen is incomplete until she has asked for some candy or cookies. Hee hee, I've convinced her that dried cranberries and raisins are candy though, so I actually am able to give her something healthy instead. I'm ready for my Evil Medical Degree now.

3. Mine - Oh thank you, dear sister 'o mine for teaching daughter about the concept of "mine." Here is a short listing of things this weekend she has mistakenly believed was hers: The Carbohydrate Counters Cookbook, a curling iron, a roll of tape, about a half dozen Christmas bows, a bag of potpourri, and MY toothbrush.

4. Bottle - self-explanatory

5. Oh MAN - Okay, not really a favorite of hers, but definately one of mine. For about 20 minutes straight last weekend while driving home, her sweet little voice came from the back seat said nothing but "Oh MAN!" over and over and over again. It might have been annoying, but the way she was saying it was so CUTE. Maybe you need to be there.

6. No - And the king of all words, since she was eight months old is "NO!" The child has said no for well over a year. She has said it repeatedly, firmly, aggressively, and happily. In all of her 23 months, she has said the word "yes" TWO TIMES. Daughter, please embrace "yes", its a good word, and you are hurting its feelings.

(Note: While typing this entry, she found and claimed possession of ("MINE!") some Avon lip balm.)

Cleverly Disguised as a Responsible Adult

While my husband was in surgery this week (to fix his other knee), I bought Daughter a Leapfrog Alphabet Pal to amuse her while we were in the waiting room. Husband and I had seen this toy on an earlier shopping trip and had agreed that it would be a good toy for her to have.

The toy is a purple caterpillar with 26 legs dressed in colorful boots. Each boot is marked with a letter of the alphabet. On the caterpillar's collar is a selection device to put the toy into one of four modes, "Letters", "Colors", "Phonics" and "Music." In the Letters function, pressing a boot will make the toy say the name of the letter on that boot. In Colors, it will name the color of the touched boot. "Music" plays a unique tune for each boot. "Phonics" is interesting because the caterpillar will pronounce each letter. Pressing the "A" boot produces "Ah." "B" is "buh." et. cetera.

Husband's friend "Charles" (name changed to protect the weird) came to visit him during his recuperation the other day. Husband showed Charles the Alphabet Pal. I guess Charles knew something about the toy that we didn't, because he quickly put the toy in the Phonics setting. I wasn't paying attention, but I looked up when I heard it say, "Ooh... that tickles!" Daughter had never gotten the toy to say that before!

Charles brought the toy over and said, "Hit "S", "H" and "I" quickly. I did so, and Alphabet Pal giggled and said "Ooh... that tickles!" I didn't really get why those letters tickled the toy, but I figured it out when Charles instructed me to now press "F" "U" and "C". Yep, that left the bug giggling as well. Soon, Husband Charles and I were spelling all of the naughty words we could think of, and each of them left Alphabet Pal in stitches.

Can't you just imagine the folks at the Leap Frog R&D department testing out the new toy?

"Hey Jerry! You are such an," *pressing boots* "Ah"-"Suh"

"Yah, well, Stan" *more furious boot stomping*, "Fah"-"uh"-"Cuh", "YOU!"

"Hmm, I think we're gonna hafta re-program the firmware before we ship."

"Yah, I know."

"Sucks."

"Yah, I know."

Snapshots from My Life

I am now growing onions. I didn't intend to, but after ignoring an onion in my pantry long enough, it decided to bust loose. I felt sorry for the little guy and planted him in my new garden.



My poor Husband had surgery on his right knee earlier this week. It was an arthroscopic procedure, so he only has three puncture wounds on his knee. He's been subsisting on a diet of Vicodin and ice cream for the past few days. Check out the difference in the size of his knees. Yeek.



And finally... to make my mother happy. Here is Daughter watching quizically as I take a picture of the Onion. Her new best friend these days is a Spongebob Squarepants sippy cup with a built-in straw. It seems lately that Mr. Squarepants is invading my home more and more. We never watch the show, but now we have a set of these sippy cups and the ice cream that husband is eating is Spongebob Squarepants ice cream. No, really. Its pretty damn tasty though.

A Short Wish List

My baby needs this shirt.

Damn you, stop growing up!

Husband called me at work today and reported that he had converted Daughter's crib into a toddler bed.

"Puh! She's only 15 months old. Put it back!", I exclaimed. (Side note: Can one really "exclaim" about anything while using your "Making a personal phone call at work" voice?)

Husband stated his case thusly: She can climb in and out of the toddler bed quite easily. She had already taken a nap in the converted bed with no problem. Plus, she's a toddler. And the damn thing is called a toddler bed.

"But... what if she falls out??"

He retorted that she would fall about six inches at the most to the ground. She suffers greater cranial impact when she flings herself on the ground whenever she throws one of her fits. For those of you who aren't parents, at about a year old, whenever a child suffers any indignity like, being dressed in pants, or being offered a sippy cup when she wants a bottle, all of her bones melt and she collapses to the ground. This usually involves her skull slamming to the ground with a shocking crack.

I was still highly skeptical. There is no way that she would actually stay in the blinking bed. She'd crawl out and start playing with toys, or poking her eyes out on sharp objects or you know, fall asleep on the floor. Which we all know is bad for the back and you don't get enough rest and then she'd be cranky the next day and you know. Stuff!

So, at 9PM tonight, Daughter and I went up the stairs to her bedroom. Yes, she went up on her own; she had to crawl though. I gently picked her up from the landing and carried her to her bed. I tenderly placed her into the bed, turned around and walked away. I turned around as I shut the door. Daughter was whimpering and starting to slide out of the bed. I pointed my Mommy Finger at her and firmly said, "Stay!" and then I closed her door.

About half an hour later, I announced to Husband that I was going to check in on her. I tiptoed up the stairs and oh... so... slow... ly... opened Daughter's bedroom door. I was half hoping that she'd be sprawled out on the floor damaging her spine, so that I could self-righteously tell Husband that she still needs bars in her world. Sure enough, there she was, sleeping in the blinking toddler bed. That girl is always taking her father's side.

As if it wasn't obvious to you already, I just don't like this latest development. Babies need cribs. Little girls need beds. I want my baby. I'm not ready for a little girl yet.

I stalked downstairs and said to Husband, "You are such an asshole!.

"I love you too! You just hate it that I'm always right!"

"You are not always right... you just make really lucky guesses."

Happy 1st Birthday, Daughter

At 3:52AM, one year ago today, I took my first look at my brand spanking new baby in the bassinet where she was being cleaned off and said,

"Oh honey, she's got your ears."

My husband crouched down to get a better look, and exclaimed, "God damn it!"

Happy birthday baby girl. You are one year old today, and I love you very very very much.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Daughter met Santa Claus tonight. This polarois was snapped in between two frightened wails. Frankly, I think Mrs. Claus is giving her the Evil Eye.

Questions

There is no question that having a baby is something that has changed me beyond anything I could have believed. There are things that a person can never understand until they have a child. One of those things is your own parents. Another is the true meaning of love. I've loved men. I've loved friends. I love my husband. I love my mom and dad. But none of those loves can compare to the love that I hold for this tiny little person that I first met 10 months ago.

And she's not even that nice to me!

You have to truly love someone to let them puke, pee, poop, suckle, chew, scratch, slap, hit, kick and spit on you. But you do it for your child. You do it gladly. You let them do it over and over again.

There is an overwhelming joy in hearing your child laugh, watching her grow and a pride in seeing her learn new things. I can only pray that she only learns good things from me.

My friend's parents own a cabin in Idyllwild. Every few months she invites several friends to spend the weekend with her at the cabin. It is almost a tradition that sometime in the weekend, we all will sit in the living room before the fire and ask the others very personal questions. Questions along the lines of: "How old were you when you lost your virginity?" (18.) "What is your biggest regret?" (Not finishing college.) "Who are your top five favorite musical artists of all time?" (Offspring, Tool, Johnny Cash, U2, and Frank Sinatra -- weird that I don't have any women on the list.)

One of the questions a year or so ago was, "What things will you never tell your parents you have done?" At the time, (sorry if your reading this, Mom) my answer was that I wouldn't hide anything from my parents. While that may seem honorable on the face of it, the truth is that I don't care enough about their opinion of me to worry about what they may think.

On the other hand, there are a whole bunch, heck almost a bushel, of things that I will never tell my baby. Sexual indiscretions, drugs, petty crime, et cetera. Not that I fucked the football team in high school, snorted anything that started with a letter of the alphabet or shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. I simple want my daughter to make better decisions than I did about some things. I worry that if she knew that I am not as morally good as I wish her to be, I will be sending a mixed and admittedly hypocritical message.

I am ok with being a hypocrite if it helps my baby to be a better person than I am. I know she'll understand when she has kids of her own.

Daughter

Oh, and to those friends and relatives that were promised an email with loads of pix of the Daughter. Sorry, for some reason my email is choking when I have large attachments. So, until I find a work around, enjoy the following:

Points of view

While dining at a local restuarant, some guy let out a huge sneeze right next to Daughter's head. This honestly pissed me off! What the hell is this guy thinking, spraying his germs all over my kid?

*shakes head*

I am getting so old.

Solid!

My beautiful baby girl had a milestone just now. She had her first solid food. A scoopful of rice cereal. Yum!

Happy happy joy joy joy

Is there anything more hard-warming than a sleepy baby looking up at you and smiling?

No?

That's right.