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hoppity hoppity

I grow weary of all my angst-filled posting, so I bring you fluffy bunnies. Look, the bunnies. They are so fluffy.

We found a place to have Happy Fun Baby’s birthday party (yay!) and as soon as I have the time/energy/misc. I will figure out invitations and food and suchlike. I think I have a loose theme in mind: frogs. The kid, he is obsessed with frogs. Like so many things, he says the word backwards (’gof’), which makes me snicker every single time, because I am 12. (Anyone who frequents my favorite message boards will recognize the ‘GOF’ acronym, and will probably snicker accordingly too.) But, yes. Frogs. I think I might doodle up a frog illustration and make it into a shirt for him, either as a stencil (easy) or a felt applique (…less easy, but still not hard). Oooh. That gives me an idea for gift bags. Score.

I just discovered that the kid carefully placed his uneaten banana segment inside my running shoe. There are things you expect to say as a parent, but an earnest dissertation involving the words “Please do not put your banana in my shoe” is not one of them. I don’t think it had much of an impact, anyway - our shoes are currently host to his Boy Doll (stuffed head-first into Not So’s slipper), a small plastic cow, and several Duplo blocks. And, uh, apparently some (dry) corn flakes, which I totally would have missed until I tried to put that shoe on. Sigh.

It’s a good thing he’s so damned cute…

only 36 more shopping days…

Today I got the newest email from the in-laws, looking for a Christmas list for Happy Fun Baby. Christmas. Isn’t it way too early to think about Christmas? Except that clearly isn’t true, since it’s only a little over a month away.

The thing is, I haven’t even really started thinking about the kid’s birthday, which is December 13th and will require a celebration of some sort, obviously. A party, one might say, except that we can’t have a party at our apartment because we like our friends and do not want to have to conduct some sort of Party Lottery to determine the lucky three people who will be able to fit in our living room. (Did I mention our apartment is small?) So I need to find a venue.

Here’s the problem with that: it has to be someplace toddler-friendly but also low-key and somewhat inexpensive, which sort of invalidates my favorite idea (party room at the Children’s Museum). “Why not something like Chuck E. Cheese?” says Not So, whose other suggestion was glow-in-the-dark miniature golf (for a bunch of two year olds, which - the mind, it BOGGLES). I responded by saying that if we did Chuck E. Cheese I might as well just wear a shirt that says “THAT Mom” across the chest, because - two year olds. All a two year old requires to have a good time at a party is cake and some toys. They do not need video games and giant animatronic singing mice. Rats. Is Chuck E. a mouse or a rat? I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. Weird.

Also not the point, because whatever arrangements I was going to make should have been made weeks ago, as I am almost certain that every other December birthday-having kid’s mom did. Because there’s only one day we can do the party. Because I like to live on the edge.

And don’t even ask me what we’re going to get him for his birthday. My brain only holds so much.

the winter of my damn discontent

I was feeling all peaceful and mushy yesterday, until I spoke to his damned caregiver. Let me say: if he did not deliberately engineer his own death just so he wouldn’t have to listen to another word out of that woman’s mouth, I will be very, very surprised. During the course of our “conversation” (for the record, the only reason I called her was to find out what we should do about his motel room) she recited, unprompted and as if by script, a list of “wonderful” things about my father, including the fact that he had just been approved for Section 8 housing and would have been moving into his own one bedroom apartment on Monday, if he hadn’t gone and kicked the bucket; how “funny” and “kind” he was (to which I say HA); and how sweet she thought it was that he kept every single letter my sister ever sent him. NICE.

Then she wanted to know when the last time I’d seen him was, and when I said “Oh, about 12 years ago” she was all “Oh! Oh! My!” like she hadn’t realized she was talking to Antichrist Incarnate. Dude: whatever. WHY DON’T YOU TELL ME ANOTHER STORY ABOUT MY DEAD FATHER’S GREAT SENSE OF HUMOR? Which she did, because the woman could not stop talking. And then she wanted to know where his memorial would be, and when I was arranging it. DO THE WORDS MIND YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU? Not that I’m bitter. But I don’t need some stranger with a crappy career telling me I’m a bad person because I don’t want to arrange a fucking memorial for my dead abusive father. SO SORRY. DOES THAT GO AGAINST YOUR WORLDVIEW?

I am misusing the caps lock. If you are wondering: yes, I am shouting. For no reason. Because why do I care whether my father kept all of my sister’s letters and none of mine? (These were all old letters, obviously.) It’s not surprising; he’s always held me to a higher standard than her, so I’m sure the fact that I refused to play his games was a bigger deal for him. Or not. It’s possible, you know, that he just didn’t like me. WHATEVER. Dead now.

I wonder what stage of grief this is?