Tag Archives: Singing

The True Meaning of Superbowl Sunday

8 Feb

Someone found my blog yesterday by searching, “Bitch doesn’t think I can multitask,” and that impressed me so much I’ve decided to make it my motto. This website’s never had a motto, mostly because I’ve never thought about  having one before, but I think I’m going start now: every month (or every other month, or however this turns out) I’m going to choose a new motto based on a search term someone uses to find my blog.

Bitches, in case you didn’t know, I do know how to multitask.

Isobel picked out her own outfit

Last weekend a couple of amazing things happened:

1. Isobel had a real poop(tm). It was a miracle; a blessed nugget from heaven. Anyone who’s changed two straight weeks of poopy diapers will tell you, regular poop is a fucking relief after dealing with rancid, painful diarrhea.

2. I have talked so much about Isobel’s diarrhea lately I can now correctly spell “diarrhea” on the first try. I still cannot spell “gonorrhea” correctly without spell check, a flaw I sincerely hope I always have.

3. I found another wasp in my kitchen. I FOUND ANOTHER MOTHERFUCKING WASP IN MY KITCHEN. This is not okay, but it is technically amazing: a wasp is in my kitchen because global warming has granted us an unseasonably warm winter, thereby waking the wasps early, thereby allowing them to invade my sacred dining room. Oh, you’re waiting for the amazing part: I guess some people still don’t believe in global warming. To them I say: I hope your kitchen is infested with wasps.

We went to the store on Superbowl Sunday. We went early, around noon, thinking that everyone would be at home watching the game. Apparently we still had several hours till the game started and everyone and their Cheesehead buddy (I don’t know what you’d call Steelers fans; Weld Heads? Alloys?) was at the store picking up beer and party platters. Isobel was in fine spirits after days and days of ear infection, and she passed the time while we shopped by singing Happy Birthday, the ABCs, and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Isobel likes to create hybrids of songs that she knows with the same melody. Recently she combined “Frere Jacques” and “Where is Thumbkin?” and to save time she sings, “Where is Jacques?”

While browsing the aisles I picked up a lime-green bucket for toy storage, and by the time we reached the produce department, Isobel had put it on her head and was singing HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU at top volume. A great start to any Sunday.

We ended up playing Castlevania and making soup and I reflected on the True Meaning of Superbowl Sunday: my intolerance of spicy food. I’ve always been intolerant of spicy food, a fact that I’ve long lamented. If I could chose a regular special power, I’d totally choose the ability to eat extremely spicy things. I regularly miss out and my friend Jacob has said that I win the White Prize. Which I’m assuming is a jar of mayo.

Anthony firmly believes I just need to increase my spicy food tolerance, and I’m cautious, but I’m game. I asked him what I should start with and he suggested Taco Bell Mild Sauce. This does not bode well for me working up to a taco truck burrito, but this summer, I’m going to go for it.

I’m almost done here but no post about the Super Bowl is complete without mentioning the commercials. There’s no point to them anymore, people. The best commercial ever has already been made: enter The Nannerpuss. Somehow Denny’s thought that the Nannerpuss would convince people that they wanted a serious breakfast, but all it did was convince me that someone needs to give that nanner a reality show.

 

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Isobel the Bard

12 Jan

 

Isobel’s developing a penchant for story telling. She uses basic, two to four word sentences to get her point across, but it’s startling to see that she not only has a pretty good memory, but enjoys recounting her experiences. Like the time she left the half-eaten banana peel on the window sill, and it became covered in ants. Out of the blue she’ll tell you EW EW GROSS BANANA YUCKY. She also has reminded us (repeatedly) about how she accidentally hit the forward button on her  motorized toy truck, and how it bumped her foot (TRUCK! FOOT! OUCH! FOOT OWIE!).

She’s learned to chant for things she wants, but really, this isn’t surprising at all: Anthony and I have modeled this behavior for her dozens of times. Accidentally. We never expected her to repeat it back. Ever since she knew Jake gave us cookies, it was not uncommon to hear her chant COO-KIES! COO-KIES! when she wanted them. Which was only about five times a day, or whenever she saw us opening a cupboard.

She’s becoming too smart for her own good, too. I tried sneaking bites of dark chocolate while I was folding laundry the other night (thanks, Stef!) but she caught me. PLEEEEEEEEEEASE! she asked, making her baby sign for “more, please.” No, I replied. Chocolate is yucky. It is ew. She responded by shouting EW EW YUCKY GROSS YUCKY! She even stuck her tongue out and made barfing noises. I was silently congratulating myself when she turned to me and said PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE?

And sometimes my frustration gives way to hilarity. Like the time I thought I had finally, finally gotten her down for the night, two hours past her bedtime. The dark room had gone quiet; her flailing limbs ceased their movement. It was still, and nearly eleven o’clock. Then, as if the silence was merely her gathering steam, she busted out singing LA CUCARACHAAAAA! LA CUCARACHAAAAAA! at top volume.

When I’m home with Isobel during the day, I usually lay down with her a bit to get her to take her nap. Who are we kidding, though? Mama needs a rest as much as baby—or more so. There’s nothing I love more than curling up against my sweet baby and closing my eyes. Isobel softly pats my cheek with a touch so tender and light I sometimes think I imagine it. Right when I think I finally have her drifting off to sleep she’ll whisper to me, “Mama. Wake up.”