Perhaps Riley has a built-in self preservation device that tracks the number of days he’s been 99% Evil, and flips an internal setting to Cherubic, in order to keep his parents from driving to the Woodland Park Zoo, circling for an hour until a parking space is finally located, bundling him into the stroller and standing in line, then walking directly to the wolf exhibit and briskly tossing him inside.

(It would be complicated, sure, but OH GOD SO SATISFYING.)

Or maybe the mysterious molars that seemed on the verge of making an appearance have somehow sunk back below the surface of his gums, or maybe we’re in a brief nanosecond between illnesses, or maybe the planets have aligned in a manner that pleases His Majesty. Who knows, but I’ll take it.

The boy has been exceedingly charming, full of good humor, and sparkling with intellect (well…I mean, a toddler-sized intellect. He’s not exactly ready for the SAT, but he’s made leaps and bounds in the general category of Aw, He Thinks He’s People!), and life is like a happy pink unicorn blowing rainbows out its gold-plated asshole, instead of how things have been over the last couple weeks, which was more like a sad brown unicorn blowing…nevermind, suffice to say things have greatly improved.

I am high on both life and dessert right now. Thanks to Swistle, I have eaten probably eight thousand calories worth of cream cheese and pumpkin and chocolate crumbs this evening, and the only reason I’m typing right this minute instead of getting yet another piece of cheesecake from the fridge is because my hands are the only things that can move.

Anyway, it seems like it’s been a while since I’ve posted a bunch of photos. Behold!

Surprisingly, the boy corners quite nicely.

Also if you are a bear than you had best be watching out because this kid is ON PATROL.

This is how Riley holds the phone to “talk”. We find it endlessly amusing, although I bet we won’t be laughing when he dials Indonesia someday and we get the bill.

Baths are fun again! No more screaming!

Seriously, I have no idea who replaced the demon toddler with this swoony suctopus, but I’ll keep him, thanks.

The boy appears to be expressing an opinion. Loudly.

They are reading Dora, which, I don’t know…Dora seems so NAUGHTY now. I’m not sure I approve.

Lastly, here is Cat, peering up over the table. You shouldn’t think of Ceiling Cat when you see this picture.

November 16, 2006

When I was reading through your interesting, insightful, and moving comments from yesterday’s post, I watched this Dove-sponsored video that Sabine linked. Wow. I recommend viewing it, if you haven’t already; it’s a powerful reminder of exactly how manufactured the beauty industry is. I actually got snort of sniffly and eye-blinky towards the end, when the model’s face is being digitally manipulated, because it’s just so sad that even after all the hair and makeup and lighting there’s still so much trickery that goes into those images. Necks are lengthened, eyes are widened, every possible imperfection is erased. Is it any wonder we’re so batshit crazy when these are the false idols we are comparing ourselves to? They aren’t even fucking human.


Not that raising a boy doesn’t have its own set of issues, and not that the question of whether or not we’ll have another baby someday who may in fact be female isn’t still on the table, but for now I’m glad that one of the many nebulous subjects to get paranoid about in the nonstop worryfest that is parenthood isn’t How To Raise a Girl With Healthy Self-Esteem, because holy shit, what a complicated mess.

It gives my heart paper-cuts to think about all the crappy social issues Riley will start being exposed all too soon, probably at an age that will blow my relatively jaded little mind, in fact.

Sometimes we talk about moving out to the country to an area with less affluence and related keeping-up-with-the-Joneses and no middle school kids going to raves and maybe less Xboxes per household because then Riley will grow up a simple kind of man, just like that Lynyrd Skynyrd song, and he’ll be happy and strong and he’ll know how to build a fire. And then I think, who am I kidding. We can’t shield him from everything, and are there really any non-Amish communities anymore who aren’t living in the exact same world as the rest of us? (Country kids probably hurry through their cow-milking chores to pulverize each other on Halo in their wireless-networked barns.)

We’re still going to teach him how to build a fire, though. You never know, he might go on Survivor XIX: New York Sewers someday.


In completely unrelated news, how in the hell is Thanksgiving next week? I feel like there’s been some kind of government conspiracy because really, there’s just no way it can possibly be almost Thanksgiving ALREADY. Somebody moved this holiday back, by god. Oh, you can’t fool me.

(Pardon me while I maniacally shake my fist at the invisible helicopters.)

We will be driving to Oregon for the holiday, and even though I have begged and I have pleaded, JB will not let me leave Riley behind (it’s not like he would have been alone, I totally would have left Dog in the house too. They would have developed a symbiotic relationship, like anemones and clownfish, I’m sure of it!). So we will have 6+ hours in a car with a “spirited” toddler, which will be great, as long as “great” means “eye-clawingly horrible”.

I should have a lot to be thankful for once we get there, like the fact that the double jeopardy law exists, so if I murder my husband for wanting to spend the whole time elk hunting (“But babe, it’s the only time I get to go!”) (“You mean except for last weekend when you left me with a teething Hitler while you spent three days manfully pooping in the woods, RIGHT?”) and I am found innocent, then just like O.J. I can tell you all about it with impunity.

There better be a shitload of pumpkin pie available to me at all hours next week, is what I’m saying.

For a variation on my usual “what are you doing this weekend” theme, tell me, won’t you, what your Thanksgiving plans entail, if you are celebrating.

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