Oh man, it's time for updates. The next few updates will be organized, because of course, nothing else in my life is. The categories will be: Family, School, Music, and Miscellany.
Family
This will be sub-categorized into sections for your viewing ease and pleasure. Think of it like notes for a test.
I Baby
A. Walking: Most important of all, Ms. Thang, AKA my little pooter face is now
ambulating with the best of them (if the best of them take teetery steps
before faceplanting into the carpet). I received the phone call in the
middle of class, upon hearing which I jumped up and down and told my awesome
little 8th graders the news. "You can't have cell phones in school, said
Karla." I replied, "You are a jerk head. My baby just walked, plus I'm the
teacher, I can do whatever I want. Eat that." After teaching the rest of the
day with a permanent cheesetastic smile, I went home. Upon opening the door,
said pooter face looked at me, exclaimed "Da!" and took 3 rapid steps, ending
in tragedy, of course, as her first attempt to make it into my waiting arms
was thwarted by a plastic fire engine and that bastard gravity.
B. So Big: She has learned three new awesome things, this is the second. When
she is cavorting on the carpet doing the things babies do, she can be
interrupted by few things. One is small puffy snacks with various flavorings
that I like to call "baby crack." Another is by pointing at something,
anything really, and saying "what's that?" To which she'll reply "Da?" and
whine until you bring the object to her, or her to the object, depending of
course on the steadfastness or mobile nature of the object in question. The
third, and my favorite way to distract is to say: "How big is Isla?" She
will stop whatever she is doing, give you a patented saucy smile and throw
her arms high into the air to a chorus of "sooooo big!" by anyone in the room
who is in the know. I love this. It is my daddy crack.
C. Kisses: She learned how to kiss. I am the winner, and will save every one
of them for when she turns 13 and refuses to do anything but curse my name
silently into her pillow between choking sobs because I won't allow her to
date her 17 year old crush named Bruce who has a rat tail haircut and
listens to crappy 2022 house music without even being ironic. I hate
Bruce. I love baby kisses though.
D. The Poopiest Day ever: Was three days ago at Babies 'R Us. I was in line,
minding my own business on what was an unusually busy day at the BRU. My
thoughts were on the kickass skorts outfit I just bought Isla with a teacup
picture on it, and how I could possibly coordinate with such a fabulous
ensemble when I first heard the rumbling. It sounded roughly like an
approaching thunderstorm, although I'm pretty sure those are not standard
fare in your average Babies R Us. No, this was guttural, literally. I
prepared myself for the olfactory onslaught of poopiness, but was in no way
ready for the preposterous ordeal which was to come. The purposefulness with
which my little stinky angel set about doing this deed was, in retrospect,
pretty freaking awesome. She steeled her jaw and neck with determination and
really just went for it. About ten seconds later and it was over. It did
smell, and I gave a knowing smile to the 7 million people in line with me
this day, I mean, they all know the deal, right? At this point, a kindly
soul occupying the spot in front of me in line pointed out that "your baby
is dripping."
"My baby is fucking dripping? Oh fuck, oh no! Jesus, help me!" I thought.
"Thank you." I said, however, and calmly dripped my way into the parking lot
where I had thankfully stored the diaper bag, which I usually forget on such
forays. The poop juice was now visibly dripping from her pants leg, and was
smeared all over my jacket. In order to save my beautiful upholstery from
disaster, I decided to re enter the store, to use their Daddy friendly
changing table. Once I had embarked upon the changing adventure, with her
securely strapped into the table and screaming, I realized a few Awful, Awful
details about my situation.
1. the poop was literally everywhere but the diaper.
2. i had no wipes.
3. the bathroom was full of vaguely sympathetic dudes.
To end this rant, I will say I made good use of some wet paper towels, I'm
sure there is still poop on the ceiling of that Babies R Us, and my favorite
jacket is now the foulest piece of clothing I own. Whee.
II Wife
A. Back: My poor Athena of a wife was lifting a 350 pound elephant of a woman
at the hospital a few weeks ago, and tweaked her spine. Something I can't
pronounce happened to a vertebrae or two - and thanks to muscles
"compensating," AKA running from the pain, she now bears an uncomfortable
likeness to Igor from Young Frankenstein. This should be funny. It's not.
here's why.
1. She can't lift over 5 pounds. that means the baby. or pretty much
anything else important.
2. She did a gazillion things around here that I never even thought
happened until I had to be responsible: "what do you mean? I
thought that clean socks just appeared in my drawer every week..."
3. Constant pain + no pain killers because of breast feeding = suck.
B. Front: Still good, don't trip.
enough for now, stay tuned for next updates forthcoming.
