Saturday, December 01, 2007


I know, right? November is totally over, and yet here I am, ready to tell you about my day. Don't get too excited, internets. I have a paper I'm supposed to be working on, and you're just a hair more interesting. Also, I just spent three hours being told what to do by a tiny person who CAN'T EVEN TALK, and I need to decompress.

Ok, so Jared is my favorite baby (no offense to the rest of you who have babies, but I don't know them) and his parents were at a wedding today, so I got to cure my baby-fever by hanging out with him for the afternoon. Now, it's one thing to hang out with a baby at care group, say, when his parents are right there and if he gets tired of you, you can just hand him over. It's another thing entirely to know that you have him until they get back, and that your only hope is to make him forget that they exist. Which is fine, because babies have goldfish memories. They're all 'Nooooo! Don't leave me, daddy! If you walk out that door, we are so over! Oh, I am so abandoned! My life is so - hey! Something I can put in my mouth!'
So, awesome. However, this means that you can't say 'mama' or 'dada,' you can't sing the songs mama and dada usually sing to them, you can't go anywhere near the door, because that's where mama and dada were seen last, and you must, above all else, keep them from crying because once they start, you can't rely on their golfish memory anymore. They'll be all like 'Maaaaaaaaaaama! Oh, woe is me! Wherefore art thou, mama? Where...wha? Oh, good, a cookie. Wait...this cookie tastes like tears. Salty, wretched tears! My tears! Why was I...oh yes. Maaaaaaaaaaaama!'
So Jared and I are in the office, which is the furthest from the offending front door, and I'm letting him bang on the computer keyboard and chuck my water bottle on to the floor so that I can pick it up for him so that he can chuck it again and I'm blowing raspberries into his neck-fat to make him laugh, and we're having a great time, and then every so often the door will catch his eye, and his brows will come together, and his upper lip will curl, and he'll look at me all 'I'm about to cry. What are you going to do, hotshot?' to which I of course respond ' Chew on my cell phone for a bit. It has flashing lights.'
So no, I don't need to have babies for a bit. They're really needy and demanding, and I'm not sure I can out-shout one of them. But as proof that Jared and I really had fun, and that he wasn't alternately weeping into his whiskey and back-handing me the whole time, here he is smiling.

It's because I let him eat whatever he digs out of there.

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