My papa is a bit of a photo nut so, somewhat reluctantly, I agreed to pose for him on our last outing. He needs a bit of training on composition, lighting and a few other technical aspect of fashion photography but, in the end, he managed to get off a few passable shots. This is his favourite…
Do you think it makes my head look fat?
So it turns out, after all, that my paternal unit isn’t such a dweeb after all. I was concerned when I found out he was a computer dweeb … I mean, how could he possibly take care of my needs when he makes such poor career choices? But then I discovered that he moonlights as a volunteer firefighter… now that’s a real job. I imagine he gets paid mucho dinera for that!
I’m relieved, frankly. It would have been really awkward dragging my bones to the first day at pre-kin knowing that my answer to the perennial “so what does your father-figure do?” question would be “well… he’s a dweeb”. Now I can say, with some pride, that he’s a highly paid volunteer firefighting dude.
Woah… today I experienced something radically different from the rest of my existence! At first it was just a question of sitting in a different but similar chair, if you know what I mean. But then, all of sudden, there’s my maternal unit pushing on the chair, almost as if she wanted to put some distance between me and her.
Then, without warning, the chair starts to fall back towards her, as if some secret force was at work denying her the pleasure of my rejection. So then she pushes again, as if to emphasize her antipathy, and — amazingly — her efforts are thwarted by a sudden swing back towards her. This “to-fro” yin-yang thing goes on for several time-units.
She squealed then screamed something at me but that woman just can’t pronounce her words — it just sounds like mumbling to me. Besides, if it doesn’t start with a “buh” sound then I don’t understand it… come to think of it, every word I know is pronounced “buh”… go figure.
They gave me this round semi rigid thing without a single word of warning and, just as I put it into my mouth (like I always do with new stuff) it starts to dissolve and, I swear, crumble into little bits of sand-flavoured crap! I don’t know what they were thinking…they know I put everything in my mouth — what’s with the sand-bar?
I gagged, naturally, and spat it out yet, for some unfathomable reason, I felt compelled to put the evil thing back into my mouth. It was like my mouth needed a second opinion. Soon I was left with a soggy mess, a sorely-tested gag reflex, bits junk in my hair and nose, and, shortly thereafter, some nasty structural changes in my nappy.
I certainly hope this is the last time they try to foist that kind of junk into me…
Relaxing in my hotel room after spending the day visiting my legion fans here in Toronto, I’m a bit impressed by the facilities. Look at the size of this bed! It’s as big as my room back home! And the best part is that, to get to our room, we have to step into this little magic cube with sliding doors that makes my tummy tingle while, get this, it totally transforms the lobby into the hallway to my room… it’s amazing! I don’t know how they do but it works every time!
And in reverse too: walk down the hall from my room, press a button to make the doors open, walk inside and seconds later the doors open and voilà!!! The hallway is gone and there’s the lobby. Makes me wonder though…if they can transform a lobby into a hotel room hallway in the blink of an eye, why does it take so long for my parental unit to transform that construction zone into something usable. I’m thinking I didn’t get the sharpest crayons in the box….
You know, I like to follow fashion trends just like the other gals, but tell me, in which sister-sister manual does it say that a gal’s gotta match her threads to her mamma’s? I hafta say, once and for all, that it just creeps me out when I look in the mirror and my momma and I are wearing the same freekin’ outfit.
I must admit though… I think red is my colour. Dunno about my Martha-Stewart-wannabe-mom… maybe she should stick to earth tones.
“Hello? Is this the Child Protection Services?”
I’d like to report a goofy father who drags a helpless child into a construction zone? What? Danger? Yes… there must be! There were wires, unfinished walls, insulation and stuff…spooky enough to make my hair stand on end…
Didn’t they have enough time to finish this place before I was born? And what the heck are they doing while I’m sleeping anyways?
I have no freedom in this place… I’m comfortable eating with my feet up on the table and, apparently, this is “verboten” in my house. Are all parents this strict? “Feet, Mado!” I hear them say all the time… as if they never had feet of their own. Gimme a break…
When I get a chair of my own I’m going to put my feet up all the time …. and I will never wear shoes!
So, here’s my maternal parenting unit dragging me to the local toy library. That’s embarrassing enough — all my buddies seeing me hanging out with my Dear Mater at the toy lending place instead of chilling at the local breastfeeding clinic with all the other cool infants. You’d think she’d let me ride in the front of the jogging stroller, eh? But noooo… she has to tuck me into her coat, like some sort of arctic marsupial.
Having said that, and I’ll deny it if you ever quote me on this, it’s kinda cool up here… feels like I’m five feet tall instead of being knee high to a porcupine and stiff-necked from looking up all the time.
I got this new block thing from my grand-dad… a bunch of blocks which, according to the instructions, are supposed to stimulate my pincer grasp and augment my manual dexterity. The problem is I can’t seem to get past this inexplicable urge to taste it and lick it all over. I dunno… it’s just bigger than me.
I feel like such a failure sometimes… I mean, I really want to explore my pincer grasping abilities and I truly hate to miss the milestones cuz I know the parental units are tracking them… but it just looks so gosh-darned edible that I lose my self-control. One of my colleagues at the breast-feeding clinic has a mom who is an occupational therapist… perhaps I should arrange for a consult.