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| ::: ::: Journal entries: ::: ::: ::: Artifact:
The weekend before Riley's arrival: Operation FenceStain 2005.
| Tuesday, September 27, 2005 I am seriously embarrassed to admit that I just read this (on my customized google home page, O the shame) and practically shouted "I KNEW IT!", despite being alone in the house with a dog and a baby, neither of whom share my obsession with celebrity gossip. It is perhaps time to find a hobby, one that doesn't involve Us Weekly or Star magazine. ::: Actually, I do have a hobby, besides nattering away about myself on the internet, and that's Worrying About The Child. There's an endless amount of subject matter, see, and sitting around furrowing one's brows burns calories. Everybody wins! Anyway, my current lip-purser has to do with leaving Riley in his bassinet when he's awake. I mean during the day, not at 3:42 AM when I plunk him down and murmur sweet nothings in his ear about how I'm going to FedEx him to Siberia if he doesn't shut his little milk-hole and go to sleep already goddammit. When the sun is up and he's alert and as bright eyed as a cartoon squirrel, I feel guilty for occasionally leaving him to his own devices, when clearly I should be using flash cards to teach him Latin, or something. The thing is, between times when I'm holding him or singing to him or, you know, doing various nurturing-type things, there are moments when I want to take a shower, you know? Or maybe eat lunch? And so sometimes I let him just kind of...hang out, there in his basket, as long as he's not crabbing at me for it, and that's okay, right? I mean, the break in stimuli won't cause him to take remedial math someday? Come on, babies can only see like a foot in front of them, for all he knows he's constantly surrounded by colorful Lamaze-brand learning devices and calculus tutors. There, I just totally rationalized my own incompetence. I rule. Other things I feel guilty about: laughing at his comically angry expression when he's being changed, referring to him as "Hiccupy McCallahan", aiming his butt at JB when he's being particularly farty, pulling a shirt halfway off of his head then making fun of how he looks, imitating the loud gas-related grunts he makes in an unsympathetic manner, saying "that'll do, pig" when he snorts, giving him loud gobbling smooches on his neck even though it makes him freak out a little, grabbing his arms and flailing them around while making karate chop noises ("Heeyah! Hyah! I am kung fu baby!"), and letting the dog put her big wet snout really, really close to his head.
Oh, hey, you know what my other hobby is these days? Doing a fuckload of laundry like every five minutes. I'll tell you, you really can't have too many baby washcloths - they're good for everything from wiping milk-drool off pudgy cheeks to draping over naked boy parts to stave off Old Faithful during a diaper change - but I'm constantly laundering the damn things, along with encrusted onesies and pee-moistened blankets and JB's socks (why, WHY does the man own so many thousands of white athletic socks?). Everything comes out of the dryer in a giant static-charged clump because I fear using Bounce sheets on baby items (since Riley's skin can handle a dog tongue but not a fabric softener? Dude, I don't know), and now that I'm all housewifey and shit it's apparently my duty to fold not only all the washcloths (you must fold them, it's the only way to exert control; leave them in a pile and they multiply like Tribbles) but JB's clothes as well, and although he would love for me to also do that thing with his bafuckinzillions of socks where you put them in pairs and fold down the top part so they stay together, I MUST DRAW THE LINE SOMEWHERE. ::: Well! Now that I've written the above and realize just how much of my limited brainspace is currently devoted to mulling over my child-rearing skills when it's not already preoccupied with a Sisyphean loop of dirty laundry decisions (Dryel or Cheer? Hot or cold? Bounce or self-electrocution?), is it any wonder the lives of celebrities fascinate me so? I've probably only got one or two freed-up neurons at this point, might as well assign those to making guesses about the fecundity of Donald Trump's wife, you know? That, and making sure Riley isn't actually on fire or anything. ::: I may be smiling, but not because it's 6:30 in the morning.
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