The Burden of Genetics

Upon reviewing their passport photos, SLB and I concluded that one of these children takes after me.  Can you guess which one?

As a reminder, this is me.

I will NEVER STOP posting this photo, so quit begging.

And now, the children.

Child 1:

Oh, hi, I'm all charming and adorable.  Love me!

Child 2:

WAIT!  WHAT?

No maternity test required.

How It Really Went Down

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE'S NO ROOM AT THE INN?!?!"

Know This:

Friends, you're more than welcome to come to our Halloween party, but you'd better be prepared to work for your treats.

Sweeping the doormat = One pumpkin muffin or one juice box/string cheese combo.

Vacuuming the rug = Two funsize Crunch bars or half a bagel with pumpkin pie cream cheese.

Now get to work.

I Need A Date! And A Therapist!

Two things:

1.  Will someone go to "Can't Look Away: The Lure of Horror exhibit at the EMP with me when it opens?

Please don't let it get me, please don't let it get me, please OH, GOD, WHAT'S THAT SOUND?  Please don't let it get me...

2.  And then will someone please sit up with me and hold my hand while I don't sleep for the following 3 days?

Community Property Is A Cruel Mistress

Because SLB can't divorce me without losing a lot of money, I'll be buying this dress for Olivia immediately.

I will, of course, be getting a matching shirt for myself.  And SLB?  Well, there's a bottle of bourbon with his name on it, provided that he's changed his name to "Mark."

House Rules

It's been safely established that, in addition to being a gorgeous genius with a rapier wit, I am also an idiot when it comes to common sense.  But I'm excellent at respecting established rules and guidelines and have been since I was a kid when I worried constantly about breaking the law (Instead of repeating "Why?" like a normal child would, I would repeatedly ask "Is that illegal?  Is that illegal?").  Thus to protect me from myself, we have house rules that I obey religiously.  Such rules include:

1.  NO MORE THAN TWO SERVINGS OF STONE FRUIT A DAY DURING STONE FRUIT SEASON.

DANGER!  DANGER!  OH, GOD, DANGER!

This rule used to simply read "No more than 10 cherries a day" until the great Nectarine Incident of 2010, when it was broadened to the above.  Now one medium peach, nectarine, or plum, or 10 cherries count as a serving.  We are all happier about my adherence to this guideline.  And by "we all," I mean the whole world.

2.  JUST BECAUSE THE SHINING IS ON DOESN'T MEAN YOU HAVE TO WATCH IT.

Although I love a menaced Shelly Duvall second only to a menaced Gwyneth Paltrow.  It's not misogyny; it's just good sense.

I used to be a film student which, unexpectedly, sometimes makes me feel brave.  It convinces me that I can watch scary movies because of my advanced intellect and appreciation for the cinematic form.  It's not a horror movie, see?  It's Kubrick.  And even if it is a horror movie - excuse me, horror film - I've studied the structure, conventions, and cultural history of the genre and am impervious to the fear it expects to inspire because of these academic endeavors - excuse me, endeavours.  The only problem with this rationale is that it's all a huge stinking lie and I'm a huge stinking weenie - excuse me, weenie.  And the problem with The Shining in particular, aside from how much I love the movie in spite of its spookiness, is that cable programmers delight in torturing me and always seem to run it when SLB is either 1) out of town, or 2) working late every night because he is so Mighty and Important.  So, time and time again I find myself watching those damned ghost girls who want to play with me forever and ever and ever, and time and time again I do not sleep all night because of them.  So, technically I am allowed to watch The Shining, but not after dark or when I'll have to go to bed alone.  Even then it's not such a good idea.  Just writing about it now I had to pause and 1) turn on the lights on the whole first floor of the house, and 2) move so that my chair was against a wall instead of backed toward the whole, open, ghost-ridden living room.  No joke.

3.  NO WATCHING THE "REDEMPTION SONG" TRIBUTE TO JOE STRUMMER* WHILE INTOXICATED.

Because the only thing more embarrassing than watching this and weeping about not being able to see Joe Strummer in this life in front of our closest friends at our going-away-from-NYC party is having subsequently wept about not being able to see Joe Strummer in this life in front of my husband.  Or by myself.  Again and again and again.  Tipsy Christina is drawn to this video like most tipsy people are drawn to contacting their exes.  I know I shouldn't, and I know it'll just make me cry, but WHY DIDN'T HE STAY?  WHY CAN'T I SEE HIM ONE LAST [or first] TIME?  Tragic.  Just tragic.

And, finally, thanks to last weekend's sleepless debacle, we have a new house rule:

4.  NO WATCHING "CELEBRITY GHOST STORIES" ON TV "JUST TO MAKE FUN OF IT."

Because, even though Sharon Angela's rambling and nasally tale of a ghost that held her pinned to a metaphysical shop floor for 5-10 minutes in order to save her from being murdered in central park is hilariously told, it took an additional hour of reading first person accounts of the Great Depression in bed in order to cleanse my palate enough to turn out the light.  And you know it's bad when the destitution and starvation of a nation is considered the "light" bedtime story alternative.

The house rules:  Learn them.  Live them.  Pity my weakness that requires them.

*Seriously?  "Embed removed due to request" AND the video is preceded by a commercial?  That's almost as bad as the "London Calling" Jaguar commercial that used to make me yell, sweat, and lose minor bladder control.  Very minor.

Don't Tell CPS

Livy likes to play Peek-a-boo a lot.  She's 2, so that's about the extent of her tolerance of anticipation and excitement.  It's thrilling - THRILLING! - every time I act surprised and say "peek-a-boo!," which at this point is about 8,487,999 times a day.  Naturally, my thoughts turn to Siouxsie and the Banshees after about the 8,487,899th repetition, and so she hears me sing the chorus of "Peek-a-Boo" 100 times a day.  It was only a matter of time before she started belting it back to me, which was cute until about 10 minutes ago when, on a lark, I decided to remind myself of what the other lyrics of the song are.

Not good, people.  Not good.



We are now in the market for a new Peek-a-boo song.  Please let me know what else is out there before I get an ominous knock on the door.

Bizarre Love Triangle

A snippet of today's conversation.

Mama:  (softly, adoringly at her cherubic only child)  Livy, I love you so much.

Livy:  (shrieking, with a glint of cruel ardor in her eyes)  I LOVE BROBEE!!!!!



And, with friends and skillz like these can you blame her?  Sigh.  First runner-up is first loser, Mama.

(p.s. - Remember the time I lived with 2 girls in college who listened to this every damn day? 

I didn't until today, and now I'm confident that this song will be as stuck in my head as Angie Hart's haircut is stuck on it.)

But Bald Eagles Don't Wear Boots?

If Osama Bin Laden's body is actually recovered with a boot in its ass, I'm totally going to apologize to Toby Keith for all the times I called him a douchebag.  Pinky swear.

Promises

Olivia, that loving little cherub, has a great new trick.  Whenever we're out in a crowd, usually when shopping, she likes to reach out toward people, grin, and say "HI!" in her cutest voice.  Absentmindedly, I'd been saying "Are you making buddies?  Is that your buddy?" whenever she'd do that.  So now she skips me as the middle man and just shouts "HI, BUDDIES!" at anyone she thinks will say "hi" back.  And that's where things get weird, because about half the time the person she's just greeted won't say hi back.  I've seen people stiffen and avert their eyes as if she'd just asked them for change.  It's cold, it's weird, and it's far more socially awkward than saying hello to a cheerful little girl.

How dead inside do you have to be to give this smile a cold shoulder?

So, I hereby promise to greet in kind any child who says hi to me.  I'm happy to teach kids by example that if they go out of their way to be friendly that their effort will be reciprocated.  Also, I promise to buy lemonade from any sidewalk lemonade stand.  I do not promise to drink it, but I promise to make my quarters jingle in the piggy banks of young entrepreneurs.  Yeah, it's nice to be nice, and it's even nicer to teach kids to be nice through our niceness.  God bless us everyone.

Should I Be Concerned?

Yes.  Yes, I should.

Ummmmmmmm...

You have read of Olivia's love for Glow, her beloved Gloworm in this post and this post.  Well, since those publications her love has only deepened.  I think these are kisses.  Whatever they are, they are extraordinary and disturbing.

Wash After Reading

Here's a little Me Show public service announcement for all of my devoted readers.

Today, as Livy and I were enjoying the lovely weather at the lake we saw a man riding a bicycle in front of us with a paperback book shoved deep into the back of his pants.  There was no evidence of underwear (wasitband on the book, etc.), and I think it is safe to assume that the only thing between him and his Calvins was his paperback.  Just imagining the friction between the glossy paper cover and his sweaty cheeks as he pumped the pedals gives me shivers.  And, friends, on that paperback was a large sticker indicating that it is part of the current collection of the Seattle Public Library.

That's right.  It's now a butt book.

Unfortunately, it's not this kind of butt book.  (Also, Non-Cellulite is not an adjective.)

So, as a loyal user of the Seattle Public Library, I am now resolving to wash my hands after reading shared material, and I think you should, too.  Because the last thing you need along with your community-supported collective knowledge is E-coli.

Histamine

Sunday:
"Hey, I think Livy has a little rash!  Even though it's Easter, let's forgo the fancy dress and let her air out."

A strategically placed salad spinner preserves modesty.

Nakey is her favorite state of being.

Wednesday Morning:

Cue Mama's heart attack.

"The doctor says we can give her some Benadryl for her hives and see what happens.  He says it will make her sleepy."

Thursday Morning:

Dreaming of perfect skin.

"This wake-up is going to be a HARD one."

She's still hived up, but not as badly.  If she still has them next week we'll see about taking her to an allergist or a dermatologist.  She doesn't itch or feel badly, but she sure looks scary.  You know, in a cute way.

OH FOR THE LOVE!

Some days you wake up and your baby is covered head to toe in hives from some unknown allergy or virus.

Other days you wake up to find that your car, not the one that was broken into 3 months ago, was broken into last night.

And some days?  Well, on some days both happen.

I had planned on writing a big, juicy post today to appease my legions of eager fans, but instead I'm going to get big and juiced myself.

I'm sure even the most longing of grandmas couldn't fault me there.

I Hate People When They're Not Polite

Dear woman at the pool who 1) took Livy's fish toy away from her and gave it to her son, 2) helped her son take away Hans's frog toy, and 3) was helping her son ride some other kid's bike while wearing that kid's helmet (safety first!) outside after swim lessons today:

I look forward to reading Ann Rule's book about your child's eploits in the not-so-distant future.

Well done!

Best,

Me Show

Agent Orange

Apparently we need to move the high chair.  I left to get a washcloth, and Olivia wondered if he loved her or he loved her not.

Not Wrong, Just Different

Don't judge me.

The days get long, and it's a safer pastime than snorting coke off of her belly.

In Which I Do Not Exaggerate At All

This is Olivia Lee.

This is how she woke up after an extraordinary night of terrors and traumas.  Ain't she sweet?  Didn't she wake up adorable?  I sure thought so, and so I took a couple of pictures to commemorate her 180 degree turn around in demeanor and her nearly 180 degree physical turn.

Last night as she fought her way into sleep, she developed a BRAND! NEW! cry with 40% more volume for the same low price.  And, as a gift with purchase, she debuted a new skill in crying, too.  My baby can now screech just like a band saw!  She must have been working on this in private when I wasn't listening or looking because she seemed very practiced at it last night.  It was a flawless performance.  Her face contorted into a grotesque, red, sweaty mask as she threatened the structural integrity of all four of our eardrums with the continual whine of her band saw scream.  And the dedication and endurance she demonstrated through her lengthy fit truly deserves to be commended.  I salute you, Olivia Lee.  Well done.  My ears are still ringing.

After she dropped off to sleep I figured I was in the clear for the night in terms of Mom-duty because she generally sleeps well and long after a late-night tantrum.  Sadly, this was not to be.  She awoke crying for formula around 3:00 and did a champion's job of pounding 8 ounces of the stuff while remaining mostly asleep.  As I burped her and snuggled her quietly in the still darkness, she unleased a torrent of spit up straight into the hood of my sweatshirt.  It was as if there were a target at the bottom of the basin of the hood and she had shown up Robin Hood's marksmanship with astounding precision.  It was nearly ladylike in its discretion and demureness.  I was impressed and very grateful to not have to wake her and change her into new jammies since she was spotless and entirely vomit-free herself.

I, on the other hand, was forced to take off my puke-filled sweatshirt when she was on the changing table and managed to dump the entire contents of the hood (lately the entire contents of my baby) onto my neck.  It was warm.  It was wet.  It smelled of goat cheese.  I'll say no more.  I swiped at myself with a cold baby wipe and proceeded to change Livy without incident until I dropped her old diaper into the bin.  In the amount of time it took me to drop the old diaper and grab a new one - what?  3 seconds? - she peed so violently and so abundantly that when I put my hand on the changing pad it made an audible splash.  I actually heard the splash before my mind registered the warmth, moisture, and smell.  Olivia, fully awake now, received a full, cold wipe-down, new jammies, and a new sleepsack.  Exhausted, I dumped her completely alert in her crib and staggered back to bed.

And so I was so pleased to find this waiting for me this morning!  What a redemption from the night before!  What bliss to wipe the slate clean and begin anew with a warm smile to greet me!

Livy was in prime form to have a great morning, and I was full of hope and optimism as I unzipped her sleepsack to pull her out and begin the day.  What did I find in that sack, friends?  What did I find?  What does the law of bad-things-in-threes demand that I find?  A diaper more suited to be used as a colander filled with pea-green poop.

Kitty had the right idea.  When I first saw her I figured that she had been the victim of Livy's brutal screaming fit.  Now I know that she was trying to save herself from what that baby later had in store.  There was no saving her, and there was no saving me.  And as for Livy's hat trick, I celebrated her achievement in the only way appropriate to the occasion.

Well done, little biscuit.  Bravo.

Slippery Slope

So, this exists:

Which is cute and everything, especially because it is, as a celebration of the temporary, ephemeral.  It can be profoundly lovely to be big and pregnant, and that loveliness can be enjoyed in many artistic ways.  Unfortunately, not all can we washed off after use.  Because, you see, the next logical step after washable tummy art is this: 

And what in the hell do you do with that afterward?  It's big, it's awkward, and it's plaster, which collects dust like no one's business.  I can't wait until Niecy Nash finds one of these on Clean House and gives us viewers at home a manly, whorishly made-up arched eyebrow in disapproval.  This takes the celebration of fertility to an impractical and self-indulgent new level.  And, unfortunately, the impulse behind this albatross is fundamentally similar to the motivation for this:

And that, my friends, is a teddy bear made out of dried and stitched human placenta.  Now, before you get all culturally relativist on me and start spouting patchouli-scented undergraduate nonsense about cultures in which placentas are revered, planted, and even eaten, may I just say this:  GROSS.  Gross, gross, gross.  Gross.  It's irrefutable, so save your self-righteous breath for your American Spirits and/or bong.

So, please pregnant women, think long and hard before you paint that belly.  It's a slippery slope from body paint to placenta pals, and the world is horrific enough without afterbirth buddies.  Let your baby be the souvenir of your birth if you aren't lucky enough to have long-lasting pregnancy weight gain and postpartum stretchmarks.  Your child should be reminder enough.