Aug
25
• For an 18-month-old, at least my own personal 18-month-old, there can be no such thing as too many in-car DVD viewings of Baby Einstein’s Baby MacDonald: A Day on the Farm. For a 35-year-old, repeat play will eventually cause your brain to partially tear loose of its moorings and attempt to escape from the left eardrum, but I guess it’s better than having them spend 6+ hours purposefully spitting in each other’s mouths?
• Riley’s 6-year-old cousin Brodie is a stunningly sweet-natured soul who doesn’t seem to have an impatient bone in his body. Which makes him a very tolerant playmate for Mr. Loudmouth Dictator-Pants.
(“IT PUTS THE BOARD AGAINST THE STEPS TO MAKE A TRUCK RAMP. IT DOES THIS WHENEVER IT’S TOLD.”)
• If you wait to have the birthday party until early afternoon when the winds come barreling down the river, you are going to have to group-fake the candle blowout scene.
Later, there will be a tender moment when your child turns to you with Bambi Eyes and says, “But what happened to the three inside me? It didn’t get blowed out when I turned four because the candle didn’t light.” Compounding the confusion is the fact that your child’s actual birthday isn’t until the 31st, but whatever, the candle do-over means he’s FOUR, dammit.
• Dylan thought Inc.’s list of America’s fastest-growing private companies was complete crap, primarily because it did not include a cow.
• Nothing in the world is as fun as throwing rocks in a river.
• Someone always be fucking up the fambly photos. Wafflebombed!
Aug
20
No one mentioned my CLEVER use of the word “Twilight” in yesterday’s post title. TWILIGHT. Because he bit me, see? And it was in the middle of the night? Get it? It works on so many levels! HA HA HA HA ehhh.
Anyway, whether it’s teething (every time I peer into his scream-hole there seem to be more and more teeth erupting from his gums, further and further back, possibly in double rows like a goddamned shark) or just plain 18-month Hellfire Missile stage, I am suddenly noticing that Dylan is biting everything lately. I’m the only one that’s experienced teeth-to-skin contact so far, but whenever he’s angry he runs off to bite sofa cushions, furniture, toys, his own hand, and random passing wads of dog fur. When I was changing his diaper yesterday and he was pitching his usual fit about the great injustice of having someone wipe smashed-flat poop remnants off his ass, he groped wildly behind him, snatched a book off the changing table, and furiously chewed the cover while staring at me with murderous eyes. His meaning could not have been more clear: I WOULD GNAW YOUR FACE-FLESH OFF IF I COULD, WOMAN.
Ah, biting. It’s always something, isn’t it? I remember when Riley went through a hitting stage and in throes of a tantrum would raise his little fist to us and we’d be looking at him like, are you kidding me right now? I know there are all sorts of techniques for dealing with small children who physically assault you, but my first reaction is always incredulous anger: you sure you want to start this? Because man, you be writing checks your tiny ass can’t cash.
The only thing that makes the parenthood pendulum survivable is that after it goes swinging through the Bad Place—after you’ve actually felt your your patience get up, briskly dust off its hands, mutter “fuck this”, and saunter away with a GONE FISHIN’ sign left in its wake—it always goes hurtling back in the other direction. The same kid who just spent five minutes screaming and drumming his angry little hooves into your belly while you had the audacity to pull a pair of jeans over his thigh-rolls is suddenly giggling and burying his face in your knees, clinging to you like a happy barnacle. And so it goes. All you can do is hang on during those times you’re dragged into the shit.
And if you’re really lucky, you’ll manage to snap a photo that provides you with endless, wicked cheer, that seems custom-made for lifting your spirits when you’re neck-deep and floundering.
Ohhh, head-bonk. Yeah, that’s gotta suck. Everyone okay? Yes? Cool, just let me get another picture or two, then.
Tomorrow we’re heading down to the cabin in Oregon for one last summer outing. Although Riley’s birthday isn’t until the 31st, we’re having a family celebration on Saturday, which should be fun. I also plan to try out my newly acquired swimming skills in the Umpqua River, and hopefully do so without remaining laser-focused on that one time I saw a dead seal in the water. A DEAD ROTTING SEAL FLOATING JUST UNDER THE SURFACE OH MY GOD.
Tell me, what are you guys up to this weekend?
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