Updates of a Hatchling and other random stuff

1. You know what’s nice? Having friends who invite you over for dinner and make pulled pork, macaroni salad, baked beans, and fruit, followed up by homemade blueberry pie, all of which is so good it’s probably illegal in several states. YUM. (Thanks, Eric and Scott!)

2. Funny Hatchling story: so we’re having brunch with the sibs this last Sunday, and the Hatchling is playing on her own in the living room while the rest of us gorge on bacon and pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream. Mr. Squab, who is sitting where he can see the Hatchling, starts to chuckle. “What’s she doing?” I ask. “She’s pouring herself shots,” he says. We all turn around, and sure enough, she’s taken the cap from one of her bottles (which is shaped remarkably like a shot glass), set it on the coffee table, and is pouring out little tots of water from her water bottle into the “glass,” downing the shot like a seasoned pro, and then pouring herself another one. I swear to god, I don’t know where she gets it.

3. Toddler grammar is weird, and the Hatchling’s especially so. Like lots of little kids, she substitutes “me” for “I,” but she also tends to invert the usual subject-predicate order when she’s making requests or statements. “I want” comes out as “Want me”; instead of saying “I eat” or even “me eat” when she’s hungry, she says “Eat me.” (I know, I know.) There’s also “Up and down me” (when she wants to get down from the table or out of her crib), “Outside me,” “Book me” (when she wants you to read to her), or “Stuck me” (when she needs help getting out of or off of something). The emphasis is definitely on the “me,” and she adds in a little helping syllable between the predicate word and the “me,” so “I’m stuck” comes out sounding like “Stuck-a-ME” It’s the damndest thing I’ve ever heard, but she’s perfectly consistent about it and I guess it makes a weird kind of sense. I’m putting it down to her superfluity of Kraut blood. Stupid Prussians.

4. Mmmm … iPhones. The new ones look so very yummy. I think Mr. Squab and I will be getting some, as a combo Mother’s Day/Anniversary/Father’s Day present to ourselves.

5. And speaking of the anniversary: we went to a great Cuban restaurant for dinner where we ate delicious food and drank Red Stripe beer while sitting on the patio. We then went to see Indiana Jones 4, which – well, you know what I thought of that. You will be pleased to know that I did, in fact, wear underwear. As to whether or not I had to use my snakebite kit … a lady has to have SOME secrets, dammit.

6. Finally, and I can’t believe I almost forgot to blog this, today while running errands at Target someone mistook me for the Hatchling’s GRANDMOTHER. Admittedly, it was a grandmother herself doing the mistaking, so … maybe her eyesight wasn’t so good? And she felt terrible about it afterwards and kept apologizing and complimenting my hairdo (which is a total joke since I had literally not washed or combed my hair in two days), BUT STILL. Fuck. I either need to invest in some trendier clothing or start applying cover-up to my chronic under-eye bags or SOMETHING. Do I really look as tired as I feel? Y’all would tell me, right?

Merely Resting

I’m not dead. Sorry for the lack of posting – it’s just been one of those weeks. It’s not that we’re particularly busy, it’s just that there’s insomnia, and summer colds, and errands to run and playdates to schedule and somehow the blogging doesn’t happen. We’ll try to be better this weekend.

More Accurate Titles for the Latest Indiana Jones Movie

1. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal SUCK.

2. Indiana Jones and the Travesty that Besmirched the Franchise.

3. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crap Screenplay.

4. Indiana Jones and His Creators Phone It In.

5. Indiana Jones and the Unbelievably Lame Use of Unnecessary CGI.

6. Indiana Jones and the Movie that Confirms that George Lucas Should be Banned from Filmmaking or Possibly Just Taken Out Back and Shot.

7. Indiana Jones and the FUCKING ALIENS? Are you SHITTING me?!!?!?

8. Indiana Jones and the Pointless Waste of Time.

Don’t see it, is what I’m saying.

Cutest. Book. Ever.

I just found this new-ish Web 2.0 app, Lookybook, which I foresee using the crap out of over the next few years. They’ve scanned a ton of picture books into their server – not just excerpts, a la Amazon, but whole entire books – so you can preview them before you buy them. So extremely cool – because who has time to peruse picture books at the bookstore when your two-year-old is threatening to demolish the entire CD section? This site has lots of ways to search, and you can collect books on your personal bookshelf so you remember them, and … well, me likey, is what I’m saying. Here’s a book I found on the site that I have got to get for our library, because HOLY LIFE-THREATENING CUTENESS. Check it (click the eyes in the upper-right corner for a bigger verison):

I don’t think I even want to know

So Mr. Squab and I are discussing the weekend plans, and I suggest that we ask BFF about watching the Hatchling on Saturday so Mr. Squab and I can go out somewhere to celebrate our anniversary (six years on Sunday!).

“It’s already taken care of,” Mr. Squab says smugly.

“Oh really?” I’m intrigued. “Is there anything I should prepare for?”

“Hmmm …” Mr. Squab thinks for a minute. “Don’t wear any underwear.”

I snort. “Uh-huh.”

“And bring a snake-bite kit.”

It’s no wonder they get irritated

The Hatchling is at that point where her vocabulary is growing by leaps and bounds (like, 4-5 new words a day, lately), but her pronunciation is lagging a little behind. Most of the time I can figure out what she’s trying to say from context, and she’s remarkably good natured when we can’t understand her, but I’m sure she occasionally wonders why we’re so stupid. Take, for example, last night. As a special treat, we’re watching some Noggin before she goes to bed, and they’re showing an episode of the Backyardigans, a show she hasn’t seen in a while. I’m showing off my knowledge of the character names to Mr. Squab (because I’m awesome like that) when the Hatchling starts pointing in the direction of the TV and saying “Bugga.”

The Hatchling: Bugga.

Mr. Squab (to me): What’s that mean?

Me: I have no idea.

The Hatchling: Bugga.

Mr. Squab: Bug?

The Hatchling: Bugga.

Mr. Squab: Bugger?

The Hatchling: BUGga.

Mr. Squab: Booger?

The Hatchling: BUGGA. Bugga. Bugga!

Stumped, we redirect her attention to something in the show. About five minutes later, a little light goes on over my head.

Me: Boo-boo, were you saying Backyardigans?

The Hatchling (looking at me, like, DUH): Yah. Bugga.

Really, she’s very patient with us.

Bwahahahaha!

God DAMMIT, this cracks my shit up. Whew. (via eWAC)

SATC

I went to see Sex and the City on Friday with two of my chicas. Unlike some people, we did not go all-out glam, but Ali wore some serious fuck-me shoes and we had a very good time. I found the movie extremely satisfying. It ain’t Godard or anything, but it’s a damn good chick-flick. (I thought the scene where Samantha feeds Carrie her breakfast was really beautiful – in fact, the whole portrayal of Carrie’s depression was brilliantly done.) And watching the audience was almost as good as watching the film itself. Even in the lobby, it was extremely apparent who was there to see SATC and who wasn’t. The entire theatre was crammed full of hetero-women in their 30s and 40s, drunk off their asses on cosmos and wearing clothes that really would have looked better on their daughters, and gay men, also drunk on the cosmos but generally better attired. We sat down just as the usher was telling everyone to be sure and move all the way in. The man I was sitting by asked if they could tell people not to try and save whole rows (the answer was no). I looked around and realized we were in the midst of an enormous group of extremely tipsy, extremely loud women.

“Are those the people you were talking about?” I asked the man.

“Hell, yes, honey,” he said. “They told us they were saving this row, and I was all, ‘You might *think* you are, but we are sitting HERE.”

I laughed. “What I like is that not only did you sit in their row, but you took the very best seats!”

“Damn right,” he said, “if they are going to have the paleolithic gall to save an entire row on opening night, they deserve what they get.”

Paleolithic gall. I dunno what it means either, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try to use it at least three times this week.

Fatigue and Funny

Holy Jeebus I’m tired. The Hatchling got up at 4:15 this morning and would not go back to bed. I’m beginning to question whether she’s actually my child. Except I know she really is, because a) stretchmarks, and b) she’s just waking up from a nearly 4 hour nap, in which I could not join because I had stupid adult crap to take care of while she refreshed herself. I hate adult crap.

In completely unrelated news, this is fucking awesome. (via eWAC)

Review: The Yummy Mummy Manifesto

When it comes to mothering, at least in this culture, there’s a lot of pressure to do it all. Be a combination of Martha Stewart, Marmee from Little Women, June Cleaver, and – oh yeah – make sure you’re still dynamic and sexually attractive. For god’s sake don’t lose your style!! Because, you know, we aren’t under enough stress as it is, juggling the kid(s) and the career(s) and the relationships and the housework and all. So when I see the term “yummy mummy” it tends to set my teeth on edge – I associate it with a very judgmental perspective on being a mama. But I have to say, Anna Johnson’s The Yummy Mummy Manifesto does a really nice job of reclaiming the term for what it really should be all about: loving yourself and finding a way to be a whole, passionate, vibrant personality, even while you’re caring for a small person who regularly coats you in their bodily fluids. Here’s a representative quote:

I will tell anyone in the first year of mothering to hang on to her pregnancy rights (the cravings, the emotions, the attitude, and, yes, even those ten pounds) and to fixate less on going back to what she was before. Once you’re a mother, it’s all about more. … It isn’t easy to be expansive in a culture that is constantly urging women to contract, shrink, and diet to the point of disappearance, but that is probably the greatest challenge of Yummy Motherhood: to feel delicious every step of the way. Proudly so. Pregnancy is the milestone we carry up front. This is the most glorious moment to be all of your many selves. Never will you occupy so many variations of one body in such a short space of time. And, hopefully, never will you feel so free, in high heels, in overalls, or in nothing at all.

Johnson’s free-ranging tome covers everything from pregnancy style (key message: embrace the flamboyant), to sex, to fighting fair, to throwing a yummy birthday party. It’s not a radical book – the underlying assumption is that the reader is a heterosexual woman who finds makeup and fashion at least a little bit fun – but Johnson has a fundamentally kind and caring approach. This is not a book that will harangue you into exercising and getting that baby weight off (thank god). This is a book that will encourage you to find a way to move your body with joy, and eat things you love, and wear clothes that are both comfortable and beautiful, and damn the torpedoes. There are lots of handy links to web resources for SAHMs and WAHMs (stay-at-home and work-away from-home moms), along with recipes, craft projects, and ideas on how to be more of an eco-mom. But I have to be honest – I think my favorite part of the book is the design. The pages are lushly illustrated, in rich colors with botanical motifs – the whole visual experience of the book exactly reflects the “yumminess” the author is promoting. Does The Yummy Mummy Manifesto offer any amazing new insights into modern motherhood? Nah. But it’s a loving reminder that life is more fun when you approach it with humor and zaniness and passion, and that – as Martha would say – is A Good Thing.

(Reviewed as part of the MotherTalk blog tour.)