“I can throw a fit!”

things you can do now
so many awesome milestones
for my genius babe

The wee-er one’s well check went well – zooming fast, actually, because I had no questions except for one about how to get rid of her baby acne. The answer was, I believe, "wash her face." So there you go.

She weighed 18lbs 13oz, which puts her in the tenth percentile for weight. This leads me to believe that she may have inherited my metabolism. Oh, girlie, you may enjoy being thin, but just wait for those IBS symptoms. Woo woo.

Anyway, at the well check we got the little handout that you always get: "I am 12 months old! I can wave bye-bye! I can whack two blocks together!" etc. One of the things listed is "I can throw a ball!"

This got me to thinking about a more accurate list of accomplishments for a one-year-old. It would say things like:

"I can throw toy corn on the cob!"
"I can rip out your hair and then eat it!"
"I can throw the remote, aiming perfectly at the dog!"
"I can scream until your eardrums burst!"
"I can throw more food off my high chair tray than most people eat in a year!"
"I can take off my own diaper and pee on the ottoman!"
"I can empty the entire Tupperware cupboard in less than five minutes, but I am unable to help you clean it up!"
"I can search desperately for my cup of water and yet never realize my butt is actually perched precariously on top of it!"
"I can give you a kiss, if by ‘kiss’ you mean ‘bite off your nose’"

Who can I call to get a new hand-out printed?

fancy feast

puff of tuna foam
atop sweet pickle glazed bread
powdered garlic spritz

I’m standing in the kitchen mixing up some tuna for my lunch – tuna, mayo, sweet relish, a dash of celery seed, a dash of garlic powder, a dash of dried mustard – and as I pile it onto my bread I wonder what the Top Chef contestants eat for lunch on a regular basis.

You’d think it would be something frou frou, but I bet they eat Cheetos and ham sandwiches just like everyone else. (Though they surely pretend otherwise.)

I would very much enjoy seeing someone, camera rolling, sneak into a closet and catch Hung wiping Cheeto dust across his shirt as he reaches for a half-finished cherry Slurpee. BUSTED, ASSHOLE.

Though I bet in reality, he’d be busted eating Cheeto glazed cherry foam sprinkled throughout a PB&J lobster parfait.   

this’ll only hurt for a minute

the well-child exam
almost worse than rock eating
for causing mom angst

The wee-er one is going in this afternoon for her one year well-check. With the wee one, I had a list of questions and my husband met us at the docs and it was a Big Deal.

Today, though, I don’t have a list, my husband is not coming, and the wee one will accompany us so I’ll be spending most of the visit trying to keep him off of the floor and table and I will be distracted from the actual task at hand – asking questions about the wee-er one and her growth and development and all of that.

Even though I’ve been through the vaccine debate a million times now, I still feel a bit uncomfortable on these days. We’ve chosen to vaccinate, and we pretty much do it as per the CDC schedule… and yet… I always feel weird just before these Big Deal doctor visits. I have no problem with delaying vax, we just haven’t done that up to this point. Though I’m seriously thinking about holding off on the MMR for a bit. I haven’t done a lot of research about it, it’s just a gut feeling. So we’ll see.

Anybody want to wager what her weight is? At 9 months she was 17lbs 16oz. I’m guessing 19lbs 5oz for today. Well, 19lbs 3oz. I smell a stinky diaper.

And they’re off!

hope brain is not mush
expectations are scary
edits to book: done!

I just emailed my first major round of edits to my editor at Random House (yes, yes, I will always name drop. Wouldn’t you?)! Of course I’m in mortal fear of disappointing him and of ruining my book and of getting a phone call that goes something like, "Hello? Right. You totally jacked this up." But overall, I feel confidant. No, really! I’m excited and tingly at the thought of hearing his comments and I CAN’T WAIT until I’m able to get feedback from some kids.

Also, I just found out McSweeney’s has accepted another piece for the website. Yay! I’ll keep you posted on when it’s going to appear.

Whew. I’m off to play on Facebook now. I should never have signed up for that thing. Not only does it waste incredible amounts of time, but there’s a group that you can join specifically for the purpose of talking like you live in Deadwood. I speak the honest God-fearin’ fuckin’ truth, you foul-mouthed scoundrel cocksuckah. Facebook and Deadwood are going to cause me to go to hell.

No more devil cremes before bed

like kick in the gut
your confused reality
stems from chocolate??

I had a Little Debbie Devil Creme thing before I went to bed last night. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… it wasn’t very good. Way too sweet, not enough chocolate flavor. Bleh. When I want chemically, over-preserved chocolate dessert, I’m sticking with the Little Debbie Cosmic brownies.

Anyway, I ate my snack cake, then my vitamin (because I have to have something of vitaminal merit go into my gullet at some point in the day) and I went to bed.

I woke up this morning in a right state of dismay. I spent pretty much all night going from scene to scene in one never-ending terrible dream. In the dream I was a surrogate for a doe – pregnant with two deers. I was so pregnant with fauna, in fact, my BACK looked pregnant. I could feel their hooves kicking me in the back, and there was one particularly disturbing scene where one of the deer embryos lost its heartbeat momentarily and a veterinarian had to manually move the creature around in my belly. The sensation was so real and bony and horrifying.

Towards the end of the dream I learned I’d have to give birth at the vet’s office and there would be no pain medication available because of me being a human and all. There was also some question as to HOW the deer would be born because of their size and a human’s physiological limitations.

BLEH.

What a super horrifying, Island of Dr. Moreau-ish dream.

BLEH.

No more snacks before bedtime. Oprah is right. You shouldn’t eat past 7:30.