This is what Strudels do when they have mostly recovered from the flu: A paean to the apple.
This is what Strudels do when they’re not screaming or throwing shit at your head, anyhow.
SOOO, it started snowing, which in Seattle means OMFGBBQ Apocalypse. So my babydaddy is stuck on that devil-device the 520, and will be for hours. His bus is broken and someone gave him a ride. I texted him and said, “Are they nice?” and he hasn’t replied, so maybe they’ve scooped out his innards and are using him like a little bitch Tonton right now.
I’d rather have him home than go out to dinner. Yurgh. I’ve got a pot pie in the oven, a glass of Knob Creek in front of me, a naked feral dwarf running around, and Bush is saying something dumb on the radio, which I am too lazy to snap off.
Be nice to my babydaddy, universe. He’s still got to change the porchlight.
LO! Gather around, Libertines, and behold the tale of Christmas Steve! You have to be particularly naughty or Christmas Steve won’t come! So hit the bricks now, or else you won’t get your flipflapperies codswalloped (and I know you would be sad if you missed out).
So a new tradition is born: the Tale of Christmas Steve. He’s just a fledgling legend now–I imagine this will be expanded next year.
Oh, finally, finally, we got our crapping fuckity xmas ficus erected. By “erected,” of course, I mean “brought downstairs and put in the front window for the neighbors to gawp at.” Take that heathens! BABY JESUS SMASH! Ha ha, just kidding. It is unseemly to visualize the Baby Jesus in tatty purple pants.
After much struggle and debate, Franny and I decided that our xmas ficus needed to be more bananas, so we hired everyone’s favorite L.A.M.B.-flogger, Gwen Steponme.
I hung all four of the remaining gingerbread ornaments I made the other night. That was all that was left after Hurricane Strudel came through. Her favorite new game in to play “Counter Fishing.” The rules are simple: blindly grope around for objects on the kitchen countertop. When you feel something, fling it to the floor as violently as possibly. Bonus points if you can make mommy cry when you break her mug, which was ugly but had sentimental value. SCORE!
So the gingerbreads were flinged.
When Franny comes back from her dad’s, we are going to make little paper chains, too, and that’s probably it. We started this holiday decorating sham a couple of years ago, and now it’s tradition. Franny expects the ficus now. She brags to people at the grocery store about it. Learn from my mistakes, people.
Sweetney threw down the xmas tree gauntlet a few days ago, and I make my retort. Who’s your xmas daddy now, Sweetness? You, with your…actual Christmas tree and…real, non-crapped up ornaments…. Well, it looks like you are MY xmas daddy.
Ah well. I’ll be back next year. If I take good care of him, Mr. Ficus will be at least four inches taller and might even be able to hold a few balls. And then I’ll really bring it.
Oh, and: I am starting to like Rosie O’Donnell again. That’s crazy–I never thought that would happen in five million years. Here she is on Teh View today (?) talking about the no-panties bimbo summit. Sorry it’s stinky AOL video and their stinky ads. Oh, and shut up, Hasselbeck. I want to feed you processed pimento cheese spread until it comes out of your straight-woman (read: humorless), ultra-conservative ears. You kill joy and beauty.
Strudel may or may not have just eaten a nickel. Part of me is a little proud. It’s only a matter of time before we move onto cue balls and goldfish! There are pageant moms and stage moms. I think I’m going to be a sideshow mom. “ONE MORE SWORD, HONEY! YOU CAN DO IT!” Thank heavens, the older one was turning out so normal.
It’s another SNOW DAAAAY, bitches. (Weep.) We are decorating the Xmas ficus today. I haven’t been able to track down a good picture of Beyonce lately to use as our snow angel, so Franny and I will have to flip through People until we find someone else we like. Pictures later, unless I bust into the cough syrup. J/K, J/K. I save it for forcing the kids to nap.
We will not be using Crotchshot Britney (TM). What happened, Britney? You were cute for five minutes again. Now you’re making Paris look classy. That sounds like a yo momma insult, doesn’t it? Yo momma so trashy she make Paris Hilton look classy. Say, there’s an idea for my tree topper….
Spears, you’re dead to me. Again.
(Thanks for the Britney link, concerned librarian friends.)
Are you surprised that my youngest child can say “vulva?” I didn’t think so. Actually, it’s more like “wuh-wuh,” I’m sure “wulva” is just a month or two away.
So it’s “wuh-wuh” when I change her droopy, and “wuh-wuh” when I just get out of the shower.
Last weekend we were having a slow start. Strudel was in the bed with me and Companion walked in after showering. Strudel gave the “HELLOOOO, wut’s all this then?” look as she watched the Pop Tart and scrabblebag jiggle by.
“WUH-WUH!” she concluded, pointing at her dad’s naughty bits.
“No, Strudel, it’s not a vulva,” he corrected.
Her brows knitted and I could see the little hourglass turning over in her head. She pointed at her father’s crotch again.
“POO-POO!” she concluded.
At the age of eighteen months she has determined that external genitals are inefficient. We are so proud!
Since it’s anniversary week (even though I have postponed anniversary week due to scanner troubles), I feel compelled to bring up another anniversary. One that I didn’t think would still be on my jock now. Today’s the day that I lost Strudel’s twin two years ago.
Miscarriages are tricky things. I had been feeling like ass for days leading up to the thirteenth. I was feverish and felt bloated, more so than normal early-pregnancy bloat even. When I lost her twin, I felt better instantly. Eventually I slept, and other than insane amounts of bleeding, I was so much better. Companion said I looked noticeably smaller the next day.
Frida Kahlo, Henry Ford Hospital (1932)
I was very sad about the baby’s death and simultaneously felt guilt about the relief of feeling better physically. You start to move on and accept it as a loss and as a could-have-been. You think about maybe trying to have another baby in the future. I started exercising again and trying to take care of myself, and even to look forward to the relative ease of just having one child.
Then I found out that Strudel was still tenaciously hanging onto the sides. I always imagine her, arms and legs spread wide, fingers dug in, like a cartoon cat who doesn’t want to take a bath. I imagine her going NOOOO like she always does now, even to things she wants.
An Aside:
Me: Here, want some peach slices?
Strudel: NOOOOOOO *glomp*
So I found out I was still pregnant, and actually my first thought was that I was pregnant again. Actually, my first thought was OH SHIT. I cannot DEAL with this right now. And I felt guilty about that because this was a new baby and it didn’t have anything to do with the other one. I was not excited about this new baby, which was actually the old baby.
After the ultrasound, and after we figured out exactly what had happened, I felt better. I cautiously allowed myself to become excited again. But it didn’t stop being tricky. Sometimes I am relieved that I have only one insane child to deal with, and then I feel bad about that. Sometimes I feel very sad that Strudel will only be a single, when she had a chance to have a partner-in-crime. Would it have been another girl, or would there have been a boy Strudel and a girl Strudel? I’ll never know.
And I get furious when people say things like, “It was obviously defective, so it’s good you didn’t bring it to term,” and “You’re pretty lucky, you could be chasing after twins right now” and “At least you got one out of it.” I think the best thing to say is, “I’m sorry this happened to you,” and go from there.
Will Strudel ever feel like someone is missing? Will she feel lonely? The questions and the guilt and relief continue to plague me. It’s tricky.
It’s debatable whether or not I’ll get to a PNW’ed today. I am pretty depressed after seeing Britney’s newest Letter of Truth. LE SIGH.
Britney. I don’t know, man. You really let me down. “Mah dad used to drive with me on his lap. We’re jes country.” Well, you can watch for yourself how the accent and the little-girl voice comes and goes. Logic and sanity does not come and go. It’s just gone. Admire Matt Lauer’s restraint and watch how he stifles his self-loathing here. If this video leaves you mopey too, I suggest you look at all of these.
And now, a diverting Friday frolic: Peanut Butter Strudel Time!!!!!
AAAND the grudgematch of the century!!!! Captain Vimes versus Tupperware! Two thingies enter, one thingie leaves!!!
This morning I was sweeping the upstairs and Strudel was raiding my nightstand.
“Aha,” I said. “Did you find Mama’s library book?”
“Oh, wow,” she said, as she carried it to the middle of the floor.
“We need to be careful with books. Be gentle,” I said. Strudel patted the book gently, as she’d been shown many times with the cat.
“MWAH!”
“Yes, that’s gentle. You don’t need to kiss the book, though.”
“MWAH!” Pat, pat, pat. Ah, I love Peter Mayle too.
ALSO, I think I love Brandon Hardesty. He is reenacting movie scenes–he’s really kind of ridiculously hammy-good. He slaughters Partick Stewart awesomely.
So despite all evidence, which is that Strudel is only fourteen months old, she has decided that she is actually two. The length of her patience, which is tested when she gets something stuck in a drawer or under her own foot, is about three seconds now.
Desperately, I decided to carry her to Franny’s school, a distance of about two blocks. I usually put her in the backpack because it’s easier, and because one of Franny’s younger classmates is fucking nuts and will put Strudel in a full nelson if I turn around for half a tick. I thought, cleverly, that we could have a meander home. It could be like those races where they dump the crabs in the middle of a circle and wait to see which one crawls out first. Who knew how long it would take to go two blocks? Could be forty-five minutes, could be two hours.
I did not expect her to make a beeline for home in fifteen minutes, stopping only to shout at a wiener dog and sample some delectable flowers on the way.
So for the rest of the morning she followed me around the house, shouting her opinions at me. She got really into munching on cranberries, and I realized after her third helping that she was saying “more” to get a refill. She is using the same freaky inflection I do, to try to get her to tell me what the hell she wants. What I really want to say is, “If I give you this, are you just going to throw it at the cat, or will you eat it?” We’re not there yet.
Her first really useful word, and I think it sums up her philosophy well to boot.
Of course, the cranberries weren’t really gone. During breaks from wiping her snotty nose on my beautiful green couch, she was dumping them in between the couch cushions and secreting them in her sister’s room. I’ll be finding desiccated burgundy crumbs for weeks.
I decided to take a little break and work on one of my quiet hobbies, pimprolling sewing, which was completely infuriating. How dare I look at something besides her? After ten minutes of minor brattiness I gave up and treated my stinky pickle to a tickle break.
Thank you, Giant Head of Charlie Sheen, for naptime. And tonight I go out with my rad sister, to have dinner. If you see a woman in the U-District with snot stains on her shoulders and cranberries falling out of her purse, just assume it’s not me, and that I am somewhere else, looking more fabulous and well-rested.
ALSO, I’m enjoying this, the My Space stupid haircut awards. R0x0r.
This month you are thirteen months old. How far you’ve come in that time! Your walking has taken off since we’ve moved into this new house, because I understand hardwood floors are not comfortable to crawl on. Also, you’ve discovered that you can get to the communal trough I feed you, your sister, and the cat out of faster if you run for it.
Everyone knows that high chairs are just for looks, and corn tastes better off the floor, anyway.
You are also losing weight since you’ve been running around so much. Your inner thighs, once bulgy and doughy, now hang like little flaps. I can see them jiggle as you run away from me, diaperless, off to piss in your sister’s room again, the only carpeted room in the house, and therefore the hardest to clean. I just throw a towel down and no one notices among all the other stuff. Shh, it’s our little secret!
Another effect of the toddler slim-down is that your head now looks enormo. What a magnificent melon. You could play shuffleboard on that fivehead of yours. Ha ha, just kidding! This won’t be scarring at all, will it?
Speaking of your sister (66 months), there she is, waiting for me to turn around so she can pinch you or steal your food. LOL, just kidding, we’re all VERY HAPPY HERE.
Hey, what are you doing? QUIT CRYING OR NO ONE WILL CLICK ON MAMA’S BLOG ADS.
Well, that’s life over here. I would write about your favorite television characters, but I had to sell the TV for Natural Light to pay for my meds, and I would talk about the cute things you’re doing, but I only see you twice a day: once when I change the litter in your pen, and once during the afternoon when I teach you to do something useful, like fetch me a beer out of the fridge.
