Her, rushing breathlessly into the room for no apparent reason whatsoever: Stand up!
Me: Uhh why?
Her: Just stand up!
Me: M, you know that's not how we ask for things. What's the magic word?
Her: [Thinks for a minute] Abracadabra!
Me: [hysterical laughing]
Her, genuinely confused: Abra-stand-up-cadabra?
For my next trick, I'll make this cookie DISAPPEAR!
I don't like bees.
What? No no no, bees are good! They pollinate all the fruits and vegetables and grains we grow that get made into the food we eat. Without bees we'd be in big trouble!
Bees scare me.
Honey, you're scared of yellowjackets. Those aren't like bumblebees.
Yellowjackets aren't bees?
Well, no, they aren't bumblebees. They're different. Like how different breeds of dogs aren't all the same.
Some dogs say "woof!" and some say "yip!"
Exactly. And things like that depend on their biological makeup, and that makeup determines lots of things about how they look and act. Yellowjackets are more aggressive than bumblebees, for example.
Mom?
Hmm?
Can I tell you something?
Sure. What?
Dogs don't wear makeup.
. . . . .
5-year-olds: 1, Biological Determinism: 0
What is it with men and money?
To be more specific, is there something imprinted on their DNA that loosely translates to: Money is the salve for all ills, and the favored medium of communication with all other humans? Allow me explain why I ask.
After I picked M up from preschool yesterday we headed over to our local market to grab a few items for dinner that evening. In a fit of uncharacteristic optimism I allowed M to fully commandeer our grocery cart for the first time, which thrilled her to no end. You'd think I'd just solemnly bequeathed upon her the keys to the Space Shuttle, asking only that she not burn up on re-entry, such was her earth-transcending joy. Trailing slightly behind me as we weaved our way through the aisles, she swerved drunkenly left and right and back and forth, bellowing merrily "look at how good I am with the cart, Mommy! I'm so good!!!", and then, inevitably,"OOPS! IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, MOMMY!" when she plowed headlong into mid-aisle pyramid displays or the shins of unlucky fellow shoppers. Whenever I paused to inspect a grocery item I had to stretch my arm out rigidly behind me, palm flat, to stop her from ramming me with her, ahem, abundant enthusiasm.
This went on for a while. Then, about mid-way into winding our way through the rodent maze of products, an eldery gentleman approached us. "WELL, AREN'T YOU A GOOD LITTLE GIRL!" he screamed in that oblivious way people who are hard of hearing do. "YOU'RE SUCH A GOOD HELPER!"
M's entire face morphed into a question mark, and she glanced furtively from side to side, checking to make sure she was the only good little girl within a reasonable radius. Assured that he was, in fact, addressing her, she shouted back merrily "I'M DRIVING THE CART!!!!"
"WELL THEN, HERE --" he pulled a dollar bill from his pocket and thrust it toward her. "FOR BEING SUCH A GREAT HELP TO YOUR MOM!" he nodded toward me and winked.
"Ohhh, no no..." I protested weakly, but of course it was too late. M had snatched the bill, and was oggling it lustily. For a moment I thought she might actually lick it.
"Thank you" I sighed, not really knowing what else to do. The man smiled, patted M on the head, and disappeared down the far end of the aisle.
"Can I get something with A DOLLAR? Something I would like to play with for A DOLLAR? Or some candy with A DOLLAR?" Each time she said "A DOLLAR" the words sounded like the definition of disbelief. How was it that she, a mere girl of five, had been given the fabulous gift of A DOLLAR, OMG?!?!
Meanwhile, I was of course reeling from the uncomfortable mash-up of feelings that experience produced. Why did he have to give her money? Why was it necessary to turn that into a transaction, to make praise and appreciation seem like insufficient tender? I tried to shake it off.
As we were checking out, M chatted enthusiastically with our cashier -- a middle-aged African American gentleman who I often imagined must've been something of a cassanova back in his day, what with his smooth "Hey baby!" greetings and easy, charming banter. Using my debit card to pay, I'd selected to get $20.00 back, and as Mister Smooooth extended his hand toward us with the money I heard M GASP. LOUDLY. I looked at her, and could see in her eyes the astonishment: YET ANOTHER MAN WAS GIVING HER MONEY! WTF?!?
The cashier chuckled, "No, baby, that's for your Mommy!", and the man in line behind me laughed, interjected something along the lines of "Oh man, I wish people were just handing out money too!" I turned to M to explain to her the circumstances and why this money was being given to me, but her face stopped me. It was red. Beet red. She was blushing, and I'd never seen her blush before, ever. "I want to get out of here now, Mommy" she whispered in a voice audibly strained against near-erupting sobs. "Okay, let's go" I whispered back, turning to thank our cashier, and then turning back again to see M vanishing into the store's enclosed entry space.
When I caught up with her she was already in tears. "I want to go home, Mommy!" she cried, and I knelt down on the floor in front of her to wrap myself around her body as fully as possible. I saw in her at that moment my own sensitivity, my own tendency to jump to hurtful conclusions and take things the worst possible way, even when they weren't intended as such. It broke my heart to see this part of myself in her. I'd hoped she'd be spared it somehow, that her skin would be thicker than mine and that she'd breeze through life with a tougher shell enveloping her, one that would repel those tiny invisible arrows I always feel striking at me. No such luck.
Just then, Mr. Smooth burst through the store's interior door, having seen M's tears from his register, I suppose. "Oh baby, come here, I'm sorry!" he said, and reached one arm out toward her. In his fist was a one dollar bill. My heart sank.
Yes, I understand that the intention behind these monetary exchanges was good natured. I get that these men meant well. But where does this come from exactly, this sense that money is an appropriate conduit for emotion, a fitting and proper means by which to express feeling? Because that? That I just don't get.
Candy and chocolate on the other hand? Now THAT'S what I call a salve for all ills and a favored medium of communication. Silly menfolk, will they never learn?
Oh OF COURSE they're pink. Was there ever any doubt that they would be pink? (She selected them -- I won't be held responsible.)
After picking these up yesterday afternoon, M spent the entire ride home excitedly exclaiming about how she COULD! SEE! THINGS!!!!
Look, Mommy! Look at that bird! I see that bird! And that stop sign! I can see that stop sign down there! And that tiny cloud! It's SO TINY!!!
You all know I'm not one to get all unnecessarily mushy and stuff, but lawd did my heart strings get a few good hard yanks. It's like the world's new in her eyes all over again. I can't help but feel a few twinges of guilt over all the things she's missed seeing (or seeing clearly, rather) until now.
Mommy Guilt: It's What's For Dinner.
I love this photo because her goofy smirk really perfectly captures a big part of her personality, her silly, goofy sweetness.
Oh, my lovely girl.
. . . . .
PSST! We Covet! Don't say I never did nuthin' fer ya.
Here Truman deploys the classic pug head-tilt. I give it a 4.2.
Self Portrait with car seat (I don't know if I've mentioned this here before or not, but this kid's camera is by far one of the best purchases we've made toy-wise for M, like, ever.)
. . . . .
Sooo... not like you hadn't noticed or anything, but posting is going to be (and uhh is already?) kind of light this week (or L-I-T-E, if you prefer). Besides the launching of We Covet (yay!) and all that went with that, I'm going to Joisey today and won't be back until very late Friday.
I still love you, though. I love you very, very much, intarwebs. BRB, okay?
Do note, however, that I'll be surrounded by other bloggers during my 3-day stay in the Garden State, so there's a decent chance that drunken blogging will take place at some point or other over the next couple of days. Keep your eyes peeled and your fingers crossed.
Jamie was out of town this past weekend, so M and I spent our Easter morning at the Baltimore Zoo, enthusiastically participating in the continued enslavement and subjugation of our animal brethren FOR THE KICKS, BRO. Oh and while we were keepin' other species down, we also had breakfast with the Easter (totally fake, dude in a suit) Bunny, who is apparently in cahoots with The Man, and a traitor to his own kind. Bastard.
All told, it was a lovely day. And here's the photographic evidence to prove it:
Did your Easter involve animal oppression by any chance? Because I'm sensing a theme here.
This week is M's Spring Break from preschool, which means she's here at home with me -- bound tightly to my right leg like an enormous, fleshy barnacle coated in Disney Princess patterned cloth -- every day until April freakin' 1st. HELLO, THAT'S NEXT MONTH, PEOPLE.
Okay, so it's really only one week away... but boy oh boy does that whole flipping-of-the-calendar thing somehow make the time seem all the more daunting and epic. A DIFFERENT MONTH! APRIL, NOT MARCH! WOE!
Yes, I'm a total pussy. What of it?
So we're basically riding a slow-ass train to nowheresville this week, as I try (ineptly, as is my way) to balance all my various interweb work-type duties, my home/life duties, and the unrelenting spastic and needy insanity that is preschoolerdom.
Needless to say, there will be a whole lot of drinking.
But in the name of curbing my burgeoning alcoholism, let me also ask you, the all-knowing internets, for advice: what would you do to keep a 5-year-old entertained for one full week?
Any and all suggestions welcome, with bonus points and shiny gold stars for ideas that might also allow me to continue doing things like my work (dollah dollah bills, y'all!), household chores, and urinating and defecating alone.
I await futher directives from you, o mighty internet overlords.
Confronted with an unexpected, last-minute playdate cancellation yesterday, I decided it was time for me to bring out the big guns. Yes, that's right: I decided it was time to go rent "School Of Rock" and force M to sit down and watch it with me. Teh awesum rock funneh: let me show you it.
Simply and directly put, I demand that any child of mine like this movie. I mean, if she didn't enjoy Jack Black in that film, and laugh voluminously at his amped-up rock-geek antics, I'd pretty much have to assume that something went awry at the hospital, and our real daughter was switched at birth with a bland and humorless imposter-child. OMG, she'd probably hate on Spinal Tap, too. WOE!
(Meanwhile, I'd imagine our biological kid off somewhere in rural Virginia, tormented by her faux parents love of Contemporary Country-Western, openly poo-pooing "Coal Miner's Daughter" and instinctively condemning Loretta Lynn as "a second-rate hack wannabe Patsy Cline." Atta girl!)
ANYWAY, of course she loved it. So much so that now she's asking to go visit Jack Black, wondering aloud if he'd teach her to play electric guitar, if she could be in his rock band. Yeah, the line between fiction and reality is still a little blurry for our girl. I'm not clear on whether this ongoing fantasy-reality mash-up is normal for a kid her age, but we mostly try to roll with it. The other day she asked, quite earnestly, if we could hang out in our backyard that night and wait for Totoro and his ghost bunny friends to come play with her. Involuntarily, I chuckled slightly at this, and her error dawned on her. "Mommy, is Totoro a real thing, or not?" It pained me a little to have to answer honestly, to fulfill my duty to reveal the truth to her, and in doing so drain just a little more magic from her world.
PS: Have you seen how awesome and gorgeous the Self-Portrait Truthiness pool is getting? I am in AWE of you ladies, your beauty and bravery. AWE, FO REALS.
Her: Hey! Don't fast forward through commercials! I LIKE the commercials!
Me: They're just trying to sell you stuff, M. Stuff we don't need.
Her: HUSSSSSSH! HUSH, LITTLE BABY!
Capitalism: 1, Parenting: 0.
(Speaking of capitalism: Awesome Radiohead kids shirt and others yonder.) (We also got the Beastie Boys tee.)
As much as I love my daughter, and lawd knows I do in great big gobs, I may soon need to move to a residence separate from the one she lives in. Just for a little while. Just until she becomes, you know, SANE AGAIN.
I'm not sure when all of this began. Maybe two weeks ago? That's when I started noticing it at least, and coming to conscious full-stops in the face of her behavior, thinking to myself: Gee, what got into her? And WOAH, I guess someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning! And Hmm, I wonder if cocktails before lunchtime would be viewed by others as foreshadowing a drinking *problem*?
For example, last night I was struggling to get M into the bathtub, accompanied by the drone of her whining that she didn't want the water they way *I* like it (skin-sizzling hot), but how *she* likes it (tepid at best). So I ran the bath, erring on the side of lukewarm-ish, and directed her to please get in (PLEASE! I asked nicely and everything!). She dipped one toe in and jerked backward, recoiling as though I'd just pressed a red-hot poker to the tender sole of her tiny foot. "HOT! HOT! HOT!" she yelped, hopping up and down for hotness-emphasis. I dipped my entire arm up to the elbow in. It was barely warm, nowhere near hot.
Already exasperated, I slumped against the tub, arm still dangling in the water. "M, this is not hot. It's just how you like it. Now please, stop this and get in."
Her whole body stiffened. Her lips curled inward, turning white as she pressed them together. One leg lifted, then stomped down, BOOM. "NO!" she spat.
Let me say now that I would never hit my child. NEVER. I never have, I never will. I don't believe in corporal punishment, I don't believe in using fear and pain as tools to control anyone's behavior, least of all someone who isn't even old enough to wipe their own butt. But so help me god, there's something about the look in her eyes at these moments -- the audacious, open defiance -- that makes my blood boil and my fists involuntarily clench. It's almost like some kind of switch flips inside my brain when she shouts "NO!", turning me from mostly calm and stable Mommy into I BROUGHT YOU INTO THIS WORLD AND I WILL TAKE YOU OUT Mommy. At least twice in the past couple of weeks I've caught myself yelling at her. "NOW!" -- it's the blunt instrument approach communication-wise, raising the decibel level to compel action. And if that fails? I have no idea.
Think it's too late to return her, or exchange her for a different, more compliant kid? Something in a beige, perhaps?
This near-daily, ongoing power struggle is exhausting, and for the past two weeks I've found myself fearing these outbursts, hoping they won't come, dreading the thought that they might. I've been putting a lot of energy into imaginative pre-dreading -- you know, reliving past conflicts and extrapolating from them scenarios for possible future conflict which I then role play in my mind. Where dread is concerned, I find it pays to be prepared. Plus I'm skilled in psychological self-torment. It's a gift.
For the time being, we're trying to offer concrete consequences for her defiance. Not listening, "NO!"-ing, general belligerence, and tantruming all lead to privileges being removed, such as TV viewing, computer time, and play dates. Of course, removal of those things is also punishment for ME, because without them she begins whining incessantly, claiming to "have nothing to do" and to be "bored." It seems the grand and glorious imagination of children we've all heard tell of was GREATLY exaggerated, as mine appears to be lost without Nick Jr. (or Nick Jr. dot com, for that matter). Which probably just underscores what a bad parent I am, but whatever. She eats. Several times a day. It's all good, right?
Anyway, the taking-away-of-things-she-enjoys seems to be good incentive to not behave like an asshole monkeybutt doo-doo head. So far, so good. At times like these, I feel as if I'm getting a whiff of the future: a foretaste of a decade down the road, when I'll be taking away car keys and confiscating cell phones. I'm sure when that time comes I'll look back on all of this and laugh at myself, chuckle at my comparative greenness. And then I'll go to M's bedroom door and whisper a loving goodnight to her, secure the intricate series of iron chains and deadbolts I put in place there when she turned Thirteen, and set the hair-trigger ESCAPED TEENAGER ALERT alarm to "STAY."
(Last evening:)
Me: “Make sure you get a good night's sleep, because we have to go vote tomorrow morning.”
Her: “Vote for what?”
Me: “Tomorrow we vote for who we want to run for President.”
Her: “Oh. Can I vote?”
Me: “No. You aren't old enough to vote yet, sweetie.”
Her: “Mommy. That is SO not cool.”
Me: “Well, when our nation has a referendum on Cuddliest Cartoon Character, or on which Disney Princess is awesomest, I'm sure you'll be one of the first called to serve.”
Her: “Yeah. Called to serve MY BUTT!”
Why does everything have to culminate in something butt-related? Why, sweet baby Jesus, WHY?
But anyway, since we're talking politics, have you seen any of the “Yes We Can” parodies yet?
Well now you have. And aren't you glad?
In other news related to my spectacularly good citizenship, on Wednesday I have Jury Duty. I have never Jury Dutied before, in all my 37 years. I am a bit afraid of the duty, to be honest. (DOODY!! snort!) Any duty advice from those of you who've previously done the duty? Duty tips? Nuggets of (snicker) duty advice, as it were?
Oh god, I'm just as bad as my daughter, aren't I? (And I'm guessing the fact that I find something like this uproariously funny is just self-incrimination.)
PS: Humble thanks to Catherine for listing me as one of her favorite blogs in Wondertime Magazine. I'm all blushy and stuff.
Around noon today I received a call from M's preschool teacher, a bright and sunny, naturally blonde and almost impossibly buoyant woman, whose disposition resembles a cross between Doris Day and every character Julie Andrews has ever played.
(Well, except her roles during that unfortunate late Blake Edwards period. Sad, really.)
Basically, think a less grumpy and taskmaster-y Mary Poppins... Or a less Nazi Germany-bound Maria from The Sound of Music (Nazi Germany-based tales do tend to be just a bit of a bummer, you must admit).
Her voice tends toward the melodic and sing-songy, and bluebirds and small woodland creatures are drawn to light upon her shoulders... Let's just leave it at that, m'kay?
Anyway, Ms. Sweetness and Light rang to inform me, in the nicest and gentlest of terms, that my daughter was running a 105° fever, and so perhaps I wanted to come retrieve her before she became so hot that she just spontaneously burst into flames, hmm?
One hundred and five degrees... Doesn't the human brain just boil in its own skullcase aroundabout that temperature, making its own gravy? (mmm... braaaaaains.....)
So naturally I leapt into my car and motored over to the school at top speed to retrieve my freshly sauteed child. When I entered the classroom and made eye contact with M, she's was almost suspiciously matter-of-fact and casual about the whole thing from the get-go.
“Oh yeah, I have a fever... Say, Mommy, can you make me some Mac & Cheese, and can I lay down and watch TV? AND I DON'T NEED TO GO TO THE DOCTOR, OK MOM? OKAY??”
Hmm.... Odd.
I felt her forehead, and indeed, she was a bit warm-ish. So I bundled her off to the car, and then home, and once there filled her with pasta and cheese, and queued up “My Neighbor Totoro” for the gazillionth time.
And now? She seems FINE. Like, RIDICULOUSLY FINE. As in not even the mildest trace of illness, near as I can tell. So what was this parental panic-attack-inducing 105° fever crap all about? I DEMAND ANSWERS, SIR AND/OR MADAM!
My only explanation? The only thing I can come up with that rings true and makes absolute, perfect sense?
She's a Firestarter.
Oh come now, you can't tell me you don't see it:
Don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry.
On the bright side, at least she doesn't see dead people. What can I say, I'm just a glass-half-full kinda gal. snort.
She's home from school today. Freezing rain, the roads shining with sinister black ice.
Stretched out on the floor with a crayon and paper halo encircling her, she carefully draws a carrot, then a strawberry, then a silly green monster with gigantic elephant ears.
I look down at her, a ripple of surprise rushing through me as I note the absurd length of her body, how she's becoming less and less my baby. Bittersweet.
A wave of rain drums the window. More juice please, Mommy! More Spongebob, Mommy! A pink slipper shaped like Hello Kitty's head dangling on one foot.
She's still a little kid. At least for one more day.
Subtitle: This Little Miss Sunshine goes to ELEVEN.
Yeah, I'm probably going to hell for this... but I couldn't resist sharing M's first musical composition. No longer content to simply cover “Umbrella” and other songs, she's breaking out with a little original guitar-based rock. And the lyrics? PRICELESS INCOHERENCE.
Optimus Prime says:
“No sacrifice is too great in the service of freedom.... Well, except for listening to that song. That might in fact be too great a sacrifice. Come to think of it, you know what? FUCK FREEDOM, I'm outta here.”
[waves] Hi! Welcome to my I'm Done With BS moment! Please make yourself comfortable. An aperitif, perhaps?
Okay. So. There's a bit that comedian Louis CK does about his four-year-old daughter wherein he calls her “a fucking asshole.”
“Seriously,” he says, “if you're with a group of people who are trying to go somewhere, and you all can't go because a member of your party just refuses to put their shoes on? That person is a fucking asshole, okay?”
Ahem.
So M has declared, by way of a preschooler's version of an Official Press Release (MORE incoherence! FEWER bullet points!), that she does not want to go to school anymore. She's just kind of, well, over it. Besides, Cheerleader-Artist-Ballerinas don't need no book learnin', right?
And of course I'm all: dubbaya tee eff, dude? You're FIVE. You play all day AND HAVE SNACKS. What are you finding objectionable, exactly?
Then today at Bath & Body Works (shush!) she heaved herself to the floor and began flailing around beside a gigantic, precarious-and-fragiley-expensiveish looking home fragrance pyramid display, simply because I wouldn't buy her sparkly pink lip gloss AND some kind of ludicrous Build Your Own Lolita cosmetics palette she wanted. (NOTE: A small sketch of this exact scenario accompanies the definition of “Mortified” in the dictionary.)
She can't be serious with this shit. SHE'S NOT EVEN IN GRADE SCHOOL YET. This can't be right... [whisper:] Can it?
FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
(Oh, and to anyone preparing a response along the lines of “Oh mah gawd, what will her daughter think when she reads this in 10 years?! GASP AND FOR SHAME! WHERE IS MY GAVEL THAT I MIGHT JUDGE AND ALSO MAKE LOUD BANGY NOISES SO THAT PEOPLE PAY ATTENTION TO ME?” To you I say: let me skool you somethin'.
What will M think? She'll think: “Oh my god Mom, you crack me the hell up.” Because she's MY DAUGHTER and she will KNOW I love her, and -- perhaps most importantly -- SHE WILL HAVE A FREAKING SENSE OF HUMOR**. Which is something you should consider acquiring, incidentally. It comes in handy. And tends to make a person less of an asshole. BONUS!)
. . . . . . . . . .
*It being the day before the Communists arrive at the summer house doesn't help matters, surely.
**Because if she doesn't? Well, then we'd have to start with the beatings.
I mean, isn't that one of life's greatest joys -- the humiliation of one's own children? They are, after all, simply human-shaped repositories of comedy gold. For example:
For better or worse, she's just picked up on Hanna Montana being, like, THE BEST FREAKIN' THING ON PLANET EARTH, so I'm guessing this might be the first in a series of fabulous musical numbers. Try to contain your enthusiasm.
Her understanding of the internet: I want to play on the computer! Can you go to kidplay.com?
Her understanding of a career path: When I grow up I'm going to be a cheerleader/artist.
Her understanding of Britney Spears, via a magazine cover photo in the supermarket: Mommy, that girl looks sad.
Despite appearances, life has continued on pretty much unchanged here in the Sweetney household since Dog Photo Kerfuffle 2007 began its reign of terror. Well, except that Truman now has an agent, and is working on his memoirs and shopping a couple screenplays around. Confidentially, I must admit that I'm growing tired of his ceaseless shrieking to “GET HOLLYWOOD ON THE PHONE!” and bi-hourly calls for Red Bull and curly tail massages. But beyond that, it's all pretty much business as usual. Oh, but did I mention Truman's going to be on the next season of The Surreal Life? I think he'll make a fine Vern Troyer replacement. snorfle.
In other Sweetney family news, M is currently grappling with the knowledge that Meat = Animals, something that seems to have just fully struck her, sadly. As many of you know, we're vegetarians. Well, sort of. We eat fish and Jamie eats other seafood (primarily crustaceans, or “Disgusting Sea Bugs”, as I like to call them, loudly, to whoever will listen). I believe there's some fancy-pants term for this ridiculous sham type of vegetarianism, though I can't recall the precise terminology. Fauxgetarianism? Mylifeisahollowliegetarianism? ANYWAY, the point is that when we made the decision to cut out meat it was primarily for sustainability slash land-use issues, not because we couldn't bear to kill Babe and eat his delicious smoke-tinged bacony goodness. When M was born we decided that because we're lazy sods who apparently can't be bothered to volunteer or otherwise contribute positively to the society we'd just plopped our beloved first-born into, we should deprive ourselves of meat as a kind of environmental penance. But because fish don't really fall under the umbrella (ella ella aye aye aye) of earth-unfriendly corn-guzzling mammals, to them I say: I MUNNA EAT CHOOOOOO!
The problem is that this sorta-vegetarian program -- despite making perfect sense to us -- kind of complicates M's comprehension of the whole To Eat Animals Or Not To Eat Animals question. Because as far as she's concerned, if it's got eyes (or eye-like stalks) and can be enhanced through the magic of Disney animation into something squishy and huggable -- suitable for transformation into a cuddly stuffed toy friend -- then eating it is wrong. From her perspective, we might as well haul the lifeless carcass of Bambi home strapped to the hood of our car if we're going to go ahead and eat The Little Mermaid's fishy friend, Flounder.
Stupid anthropomorphizing Disney.
So lately M's taken to actively shaming us whenever the issue arises, which is A FUCKING TREAT, let me tell you. She's particularly aghast at Jamie's broad consumption of the ocean's potentially adorable creatures, while I seem to be getting off easier since I stick with fish and don't eat a lot of it. On our way to eat sushi the other day, she leaned forward from her position in the backseat of our car just to whisper to me, in hushed, conspiratorial tones: “Mommy! Daddy eats animals!” I'm not exactly sure what she expected as a response. “REALLY? Well let's tie him down and beat the murderous bloodlust out of him! Where did I put my ball gag and wooden ritualized humiliation butt-paddle?” Durr?
I hate to think of what's going to happen when she comes to the realization that eggs are the embryonic version of fluffy little chicks, or that milk is wrung from cows in a manner so industrial and mechanically efficient that most bovines hardly ever see the light of day, let alone frolic in green pastures with chatty bluebirds and friendly squirrels. Sometimes it's an ugly business, this whole being human thing. But the hard truth is that life requires eating life in some form or other, and coming to terms with that is a hard necessity. Has Disney animated any fruits or vegetables lately? God, I hope not.
No comment.
(Has eaten cicadas, wood chips, and his own feces, and so is in no position to speak on this matter.)
Well, it's getting pretty The Shining-esque over here today, that's for sure:
Everyone say it with me now: Poor, poor Truman.
And the shrieking? I don't get it. And DO NOT WANT.
Under the circumstances, what would you reckon is a reasonable hour to begin drinking, hmm?
Me, after hearing M crying upstairs as Jamie was helping her to get ready for bed: What was all that crying and stuff about?
Him: She was saying she was going to miss me when I died.
Me: WHAT? Oh no!
Him: And she asked if I'd still be alive when she was 6.
Me: What brought that on?
Him: I don't know.... maybe something to do with that book about dinosaurs you two were reading. Extinction, all that jazz...
Me: Oh yeah. Aww, poor sweetie!
. . .60 seconds later:
Me: Saaaaay... why wasn't she worried about when *I* was going to die, huh?
Him: Oh she asked about that too.
Me: And you told her I was going to be alive a long, long time?
Him: No, I told her that you were already dead inside. I said: “Mommy's been dead since the day you were born.”
Me: Great. That level of honesty is going to cost us at least two more years worth of therapy down the road, you know.
Last Thursday, as you may have heard, the Sweetney household was overrun by hostile foreign invaders a plague of locusts a sinister killer fog authored by Stephen King the Amalah family. I would've mentioned this sooner, but I spent most of Friday retching into a variety of household receptacles, while moaning piteously to no one in particular that my head might indeed explode at any moment, so BRACE YOURSELVES.
Such are the joys that friendship brings. Oh, yes.
Well, joys and three bottles of red wine. And some related head-poundy nausea. But no matter. FRIENDSHIP, PEOPLE! Let's remember what's important here.
My view of our shriektastic point-and-click Battle Royale, during which Amy took actual hostages. That's low, dawg.
Continue reading "Sung to the tune of “That's What Friends Are For”" »
M: Mommy, what eats birds?
Me: Umm... well, people do. Cats do, if they can catch them.
M: Cats eat mice.
Me: Yes. And our cats have even caught bats. Which are sort of like mice-birds!
M: I don't remember that!!! (!!!!)
Me: This was before you were born. Wallace caught bats two different times.
M: And then you had me. And I peeked out of your pouch: “Hi!”
Me: (?!?!) Wait, am I a marsupial now or something? When did I get a pouch?
M: MOMMY-SUPIAL! MOMMY-SUPIAL!
Yesterday, as I was digging through some old videotapes attempting to locate a headcleaning tape for our video camera, I stumbled across the long lost cassette containing video of M's birth, a small portion of which I'm sharing below.
Wait -- it's not what you think. I'm most certainly NOT giving the internet intimate knowledge of my nether regions. FOR BOTH OF OUR SAKES.
You see, during M's delivery, Jamie hurriedly set the video camera down on a chair in the room, pointing it in the general direction of my hospital bed, so that he could have both hands free to deflect the rapid-fire iron-fisted blows I was endlessly hurtling at him. But I guess he was pretty distracted and shook up and stuff (people, you will not blame him a bit once you hear my patented ultra-excruciating Dying Heifer Wail -- take that, Tom Cruise!), because he positioned the camera so that you can see almost nothing except part of my arm and the back of Jamie's legs. Smooth move, Ex-Lax.
But the audio, oh my god, the audio. It's two and a half minutes of recorded time that captures the climax to the most important day in my life -- so intense that it's almost difficult for me to process fully. When I watched it (well, listened to it) yesterday, it made my heart race and my eyes well up to again listen to my daughter's entry into the world, to hear her first cry on planet Earth one more time. Though I was at the time drugged and slurring in a manner befitting a certain Trimspa Spokesmodel (RIP), I still think “Oh my god!” is the ONLY reaction I could've possibly had.
So here it is. What the single most important moment of my life sounded like.
Imperfect though it may be, I'm so incredibly thankful that we have this document.
And here's what that looked like:
After they put her in my arms, I was so overwhelmed by joy I could do nothing but gaze down at her and cry.
FYI: Yeah, it pretty much hurt like a motherfucker.
Love, meet money: I have a new post up over yonder. Please to visit. Thankee.
For the past two weeks Jamie has been working ridiculous hours, often not getting home until I'm nearly in bed. It's crunch time for a web project they've been working on at his company, a project which I have vowed to not disclose details about to the internet under pain of death and/or dismemberment. But suffice it to say it's big and involved and high-profile, and that it has become a gigantic, soul-sucking black hole at the center of our family life. When I do catch the odd, fleeting glimpse of Jamie at home I now say “Oh, do you still live here?” -- and it's not much of a joke, really.
This weekend he worked the whole of both Saturday and Sunday, leaving me -- already exhausted and run ragged -- in the role of Head Stooge to one very unsympathetic five-year-old. More than once over the course of that 48 hour period I found myself reaching what I call Maximum Density: the point at which my skillfully constructed facade of sanity, patience, and calm begins to crack under the brute, head-poundy force of unrelenting preschooler irrationality. I begin hissing words through my teeth. My body tenses. My hair becomes rigid (okay not really, but you get what I'm saying). Words sputter and crash Tourettes-like from my mouth: IF I HAVE TO SAY THAT ONE MORE TIME... I'M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN... NOT ANOTHER WORD... NO NO NO... ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME... ARE YOU DEAF? (Answers: Yes, you will; ORLY?; But I have to tell you something!; Yes yes yes; No; Huh?)
All of which begs the question: how do some of you people do this all day every day by yourself and maintain some modicum of mental health and stability? I'm dead serious here. Because at times like these I honestly start to feel as though I may have a chip missing or something -- that my version of humanity came with a woefully inadequate supply of some essential Mothering nutrient that would allow for the much-extended dance version mix serenity and patience I see in many of my Momrades (comrades+Mom=). I just don't have that, whatever that is. Am defective, I guess. (shrugs)
While I'm thinking about this though, I should perhaps mention that I believe I'm also missing whatever it is that makes some parents actually appear to enjoy getting down on the floor and acting out elaborate action-figure-fueled scenes of their child's devising. Sorry, but I just don't get it. I mean, I'm all for imaginative play and such, but is it really absolutely necessary for ME to get directly involved? When did being your child's playmate become a parental requirement, exactly? And is there a loophole somewhere I can wiggle through? After all, I DO have a whole stack of New Yorkers sitting in front of me that desperately need to be read, and almost the whole season of “Tell Me You Love Me” TiVoed and patiently awaiting my eyeballs. PRIORITIES, PEOPLE!
(You may now pat yourself on the back for being better at this whole parenting gig than me. GO YOU! YOU SO WIN! If I had a medal or something, I'd award it. Or beat you over the head with it until your screams slowly subsided. I can't decide.)
And now that I've managed to drain away all your sympathy toward me and my harrowing solo parenting predicament, let me distract you from my inadequacies by pointing you to this here Great Mofo Delurk Blogroll as well as my impending participation in this year's NaBloPoMo (Kool-Aid? DRUNK).
Did that work? No? Okay, well then howabout this adorable whistling puppy?
SUCKA!
EDITED TO VERY RANDOMLY ADD:
I haven't laughed that hard in a while. Those hand claps sure do bring the rock. (Thanks, Bill!)
M is home today, as her entire school is closed for, and I quote, “Professional Development.” Nonsense, I say! Howsabout “developing professionally” by oh, I don't know -- actually working with children? As per your profession? I mean, what's on the agenda for today's skillset-building seminar over at the preschool, instruction on building more structurally sound block towers? The most expeditious way to hose down five-year-olds who've gotten just a little too enthusiastic with the acrylic paints? WHAT?
Perhaps a better (and infinitely more pressing) question would be: how many hours of The Wiggles do you think my daughter can watch today before her head explodes? Five? Six? Not that I'd allow that or anything. cough.
Anyway, this weekend was a whirlygig of a blur of Birthday Party Madness that must be shared. I got on that beastly carnival ride early Saturday morning and rode it hard, straight on til Sunday night.
The puking, as you might imagine, was INCREDIBLE.
Saturday the wee Noah was up to bat for birthday glory. He's the son of my friend Amy. She has a blog. Perhaps you've heard of it. snort.
Not-at-all-half-assed monkey party theme in full effect, hombre.
I love how my daughter weasels her way into shots. Like “Hey, this is *my* family too, right?”
Amy goes in for a desperately needed candle adjustment. THANK GOD YOU'RE ON IT, AMY.
I also got to spend some time during these festivities with the lovely Heather, who did an excellent job saving my comfy chair for me when I needed to temporarily abandon my during-party seating so as to obtain various food and beverage refills. Being a personal seat-saver is high on my list of Qualities Most Desired In A Friend, as I think of it as indicative of one's loyalty, fidelity, and willingness to piss off others while rabidly guarding a comrade's territory. = TRUE FRIENDSHIP.
Sunday was my own dear daughter's party, and OH THE SHAME, I HAVE NO PITCHERS. But wait -- before you write me off as a completely incompetent and unfit parent, let me explain.
It was at Chuck E. Cheese's.
And okay, so maybe that just confirms (nay, EMBIGGENS) my parental incompetence and unfitness in your mind, but in my own defense, that place is death to the photo op. If you've never been, imagine the animatronic horrors of The Country Bears Jamboree from Disneyland, with some Max Headroom, Studio 54, and child psych ward flava mixed in. I couldn't get my eyes to focus long enough to even think about snapping a photo. AND IT WAS SO GODDAMN LOUD, HOW IS A PERSON SUPPOSED TO THINK CLEARLY IN THAT PLACE ANYWAY? YES, I'M SHOUTING.
(sorry about the shouting.)
Anyway, the point (I guess?) is that SHE had fun. I mean, it wasn't MY birthday, fer crissakes. (Thank you god.) She wanted it, she asked for it, she got it. But oh lawd, that Upchucky Cheese place is mass-marketed wholesome family fun meets inner-city crack house, essentially. I swear to gawd, M and her friends spent a good two hours just twirling around in circles giggling maniacally, all hopped up on the reconstituted from 100% pure Pixie Stix sugar-dust “fruit punch” they were swilling. WHEE!!! CRACKATTACK!!1!!!
On the upside, she also made out like a bandit in the gifts department, meaning I shouldn't have to purchase a single got-damn toy for her again until christmas. So I call it win-win, man. A little crack never hurt nobody, right?
BUT to make up for my inability to provide you, teh intarwebs, with your recommended yearly allowance of birthday party photo goodness, here's a picture I took of M a mere 19 hours before her drug binge crackfest party, at our neighborhood's annual fair:
Do you feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?
Done! Now you nearly feel like you were AT the party, right? It's as if you can almost actually hear the strained retooling of Huey Lewis & The News songs to make them palatable to five-year-olds when sung by a 6 foot tall robotic mouse. And this without the singed corneas and aftershock-like post-strobe seizures you'd be enduring had you been physically present. Oh and the total loss of self-respect, of course. You lucky, lucky bastards.
Her, calling down to me from upstairs: “MOM!”
Me, sipping martinis & eating bon-bons downstairs: “Yes?”
Her: “What does credit card debt mean?”
Me: ?!?!?!!!
Me, using my words: “Umm... it's when someone buys things with money they don't have.”
Me, parenthetically: (???)
Her, incredulous: “How do they do that?!?”
Me, sighing: “I don't know, honey. I just don't know.”
They grow up so fast, don't they?
Good readers of Sweetney, my daughter is five years old today. FIVE. I can't fucking believe it. Can you believe it? All the fingers on one hand, people, ALL THE FINGERS ON ONE HAND!!!
(faints)
(struggles back to consciousness)
I want to say something here worthy of her, something that won't come out sounding saccharine or cornball or sentimental. But let's face it: not.gudda.happen. Because the truth is, in trying to talk about my daughter, all I have are words that are heavy and drenched with feeling.
Last night, as I was putting her to bed, I blew her mind: “This is the last time I'm ever going to read you a story when you're four!” She was suitably impressed with that mildly mindfucking factoid, and though I'd intended to make her smile and giggle, inside I felt the beginnings of a sob creeping up and across my chest as I said it. My baby, my baby.
Because whatever jokes I make (and clearly I make a lot of them), my daughter is the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me in my small irrelevant life, bar none. She is the sweetness, light, and endless joy of my existence. Her smile is the reason I get up in the morning, and having her here to wake up to each day is a gift, her life is a gift to me. And the love I feel for her is so ridiculous and enormous and absorbing it makes my heart ache and my eyes well-up with tears of happiness (seriously, does anyone have a tissue?), and yes, it makes me sappy as all hell. My baby, my baby.
These days when I call her “baby,” she protests. “But I'm not a baby!” she says, with the preschooler version of haughty disdain.
And I say: “You will always be my baby, no matter how old you get. When you're as old as Mommy is now, you'll still be my baby.” True, dat.
My baby five years ago:
My baby today:
I love you, my sweet birthday baby.
And now I must go wrap a Mt. Everest-sized pile of gifts.
. . . . . . . . . .
Please to be noting: A mighty mofo delurk is a-comin'. Be not afraid, my friends.
Last night I was watching TV, and realized we have absolutely nothing on TiVo suitable for both kids and adults. On the one end there's Kim Possible and Sagwa the Chinese Siamese Cat With A Long-Ass Stupid Title That Never Seems To End Oh My Stinkin' Hell Show, and on the other there's Californication and Weeds and Curb Your Enthusiasm. Oh and some World Series of Poker thrown in for good measure. We try to cover all the Seven Deadly Sins in our television viewing, you know. We're completists.
Watching the absurd follies of Larry David and his cohorts, it struck me that many, many people I'm close to have been having a horribly suck-ass time lately. Much more than usual. And not the comically well-timed sort either, sadly. Everywhere I turn it seems there's an excess of grim news, misfortune, and accident. Death darkening doors. Estrangement and desertion. I'm not sure what to make of all of it. Should I be plotting moon phases? Consulting old Farmer's Almanacs for insight regarding possible influences written in the changing seasons? Or should I just sit quietly, and wait for the fog to roll back out?
Its easy, at times like these, to feel that the world is coming apart. To let hopelessness take root. And so despairing, to lose sight of things.
But then, as often happens, I found myself at the end of the day perched on my daughter's bed with her, reading The Runaway Bunny and choking back sobs with the turn of every page.
The story is, of course, about constancy, devotion, and a selfless love that seems almost supernatural. It's a meditation on what is most important in our humanity, and how that is unbreakable.
It's about being a Mother.
As I read, all of this flooded into my mind: everything I needed to reminded of. Everything that truly matters floated back to the surface -- wood from a shipwreck that would buoy me to safety.
Well that and to put baby carrots on our shopping list. M loves those fucking things.
Having a kid is totally cramping my style, that much is clear.
You may recall some recent mention here of my husband's well-deserved victory in our CityPaper's annual “Best of Baltimore” issue, a win that bestowed on us the distinct honor and privilege of gaining entry to their exclusive BoB party last week. And since I am sort of moldering in middle-age with a child strapped to one leg (they should make holsters) and therefore rarely (okay NEVER) cavorting about town with the cool kids, I was beside myself with excitement about attending. A party! With adult-type peoples! The cream of Baltimore's hip, insider crop, in fact! Oh, and did I yet mention OPEN BAR?
Huzzah! A drunken octopus on yon invite!
Yep, roger that. I'm all over that shit like a monkey on a cupcake.
Knowing that this party was coming up, I had to -- like most parental units -- jump through several flaming hoops ahead of time just to be able to go. First, I had to secure childcare at a friend's house. Second, I had to synchronize my watch by atomic clock to make absolutely certain I'd be on-point to retrieve our child at a reasonable time, or at least before she turned into a whining, flailing pumpkin and our friend was driven to unceremoniously toss her ass out on their back porch, like sack of potatoes FILLED WITH PURE EVIL (worse yet: PURE STARCHY EVIL!). Third, I had to dig through my wardrobe and find clothing that 1) was befitting a hipster gala in the year 2007 (umm, good luck with that! (snort!)), 2) was (relatively) clean, 3) didn't smell of some odd combination of Cheerios and Gogurt. YES, THE BAR HAS BEEN LOWERED. AGAIN.
Having settled those issues (well, to one degree or other), the evening of the much-anticipated party came. I was, in the words of Alan Greenspan, irrationally exuberant. I dressed with care, changing my clothing selections multiple times for good measure. I put on fucking MAKEUP, man. I applied goddamn hairspray, fer crissakes. And then I waited for Jamie to get home so we could go.
And waited. And waited. Aaaaaaand WAITED.
We'd planned to arrive at the party right when it started at 6:30pm, so I could cram in as much adult party time (see: BINGE DRINKING) as possible, figuring if I left the shindig by 8:30pm I could retrieve M and wisk her home and to bed before her personal witching hour of whining & flailing doom began. That would give me two full hours. Two full hours of blissful I'm not just a parent, I'm a hoooman beeeing! time. Oh joy.
Jamie called from the road around 6:15pm. He'd hit some bad traffic on the way home. He'd be late. He'd be very late.
I wilted.
All told, by the time we finally got to the party it was almost 7:30pm, meaning I had just enough time to slam down a single drink (weeps) and snap these pictures before I had to turn right around and get back into the stupid car. POINTLESS. FAIL!
Revelers beneath the ominous all-seeing Domino Sugars sign
Baltimore cityscape as Missile Command screenshot
The Baltimore Museum Of Industry: presently spotlighting our city's two main products -- Gang Murder & Crack!
Justin, Jamie, Lauren & delicious beers. You're winners, babies!
And sadly, that was it. I raced back to our friend's house and arrived just in time it seemed, as the tension-filled countdown to Preschooler Detonation had clearly already commenced. After putting my daughter to bed at home, I watched some TV. I had some snacks. And I tried very hard to weep quietly, so as not to wake up THE ADORABLE PIGTAILED MONSTER WHO HAS STOLEN MY LIFE FROM ME.
Oh, but I kid the life-stealing monster! Umm, I mean THE LIGHT OF MY GOT-DAMN LIFE.
So now, in an attempt to exhaust this topic fully and thereby purge the kernel of resentment that's taken up residence in my heart, here's a few other things that having a kid has unfortunately put the kibosh on for me:
I could go on and on, of course. But enough of my festering bitterness -- what's on your resentment-inducing MIA since parenthood list? And late at night when everyone else is asleep, do you lie awake thinking about these things, and do the tears come?
There there, dear.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Aside: I've decided to relocate my Daily Photo (I prefer the generality of Daily Image, honestly) Entry over on a dedicated page, so as not to clog the delicate pipes of mah index page. Please to enjoy (like, every day! DUH!)! I'm also working on a Song Of The Week page, and I'll let y'all know when that's fully operational and ready to rock. Song Of The Week page ahoy!
And a Note to the three of you who care: No, we haven't yet replaced Nemo (or gotten a tortoise, per Mrs. Kennedy's influence), and Jamie and I are still deadlocked over the convertible issue (though I believe the resounding chorus of “BAD IDEA!” from y'all might've swayed him ever-so-slightly away from folly... fingers crossed).
Yesterday afternoon I went into M's room for episode II of my twice-daily Poking Of The Fish, and found Nemo face-planted in the colorful gravel at the bottom of his tank. OH CRAP.
Still not believing he could actually be dead at this point -- since he's faked us out more than once over the course of the past week, the little shit -- I retrieved our fish net and used the thin handled end to conduct a cursory physical examination. Poke, poke. Nothing. Not so much as a fin flutter. That was one dead fish, man. Don't think you can get much deader. This fish is no more. It has ceased to be.
As a side note, this week I couldn't help but be continually reminded of the Monty Python Dead Parrot sketch, and have been silently performing both sides of the dialogue in my mind:
Oh Monty Python, is there anything you can't make funny?
Not so funny, of course, was M's response to the news that Nemo had finally and definitely gone to the great fishbowl in the sky. Her genuine, heartfelt mourning over this loss was touching... if somewhat disturbing. Because she was, probably for the first time in her life, grappling with the matter of death, and clearly struggling to understand it. “Will Nemo come back tomorrow?” she asked, through tears. And later, perplexingly, “When I die will I still be in your belly?” It's as if she's searching for an out in this whole death thing, an escape hatch of rebirth or reincarnation -- something to temper the crushing enormity of death's permanence. But then don't we all?
I held her, dried her tears, and gave her a lollipop. I'm sure I probably could've handled things better -- made the moment into something exploratory and instructive about life and the world -- but all that seemed to matter was stopping the tears, the pain. Making things all better. Isn't that what Mommies do?
For the letter B, the little Sweetney selected Alien Bear, so named because of his odd (for stuffed bears) minty-green hue. I know what you're thinking: the lack of imagination is staggering.
And now the observation: 4 (well, now almost 5) year olds behave exactly like drunken elves. (Or rather, exactly how I imagine drunken elves would behave, not knowing any personally.) (Clearly I need to spend more time in the dewy forest. Or The Shire. Or Middle-Earth or whatever.)
That is all. As you were.
Isn't it a little, umm, early for this? I mean, I anticipated this struggle come puberty and teenagedom, but freakin' PRESCHOOL? This is not a good kind of precocious.
It's going to be a very long day.
In an effort to do something resembling actual involved parenting (and honestly, just typing the words “actual involved parenting” made me pull a muscle (though I won't say where)), tomorrow M and I are attending a Family Yoga class, which runs weekly thereafter. This naturally begs the question: does Costco sell Super Jumbo Mega sized multi-packs of Ben Gay? Because I'm going to be needing that shit in great quantities. And perhaps a full body cast. And a mobility scooter. And for those kids to get off my lawn.
Well all of our animals are still breathing. That counts for something, right?
And because I OF COURSE obey teh intarwebs in all things, I've decided to take the wait-and-see approach with Truman's boo-boo-cum-baldspot. He seems completely fine, and the ouchie in question appears to now be a much less angry pink than it was a day or so back (more of a soft, gentle pastel and less an eyelash-seering fuchsia). If he suddenly begins, you know, vomiting blood or something, well then obviously I'll concede that teh intarwebs don't know what the hell they're talking about and ferry him off to the soothing, antiseptic embrace of Vetland. Fingers crossed.
In other All My Pets Are Defective Turds news, we did finally get the test results back for Wallace, and guess what?! He's a neurotic basketcase! KITTY NEWSFLASH!
I am not an animal! I'm a hu -- Oh wait, nevermind.
Over the course of the almost five years of her existence, Jamie and I have spent a lot of time trying to expose our daughter to music we jointly deem Good. And, for the most part, we've succeeding in implanting a few small seeds of our own taste into her musical lexicon. She enjoys The Shins and Gnarls Barkley, John Vanderslice and The Mountain Goats, Elliott Smith and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and will often request to hear specific songs from these artists, much to the overabundant, self-congratulatory pride of her music nerd parents.
Though I should probably add that she does love the Kids Bop. Something must be done about that. Shall I commence with the beatings?
Continue reading "She doesn't wanna grow up to be a Debaser (sad, really)" »
Here's a little PSA for you: next time you find yourself in the position of having to drive in or around our nation's capital, do yourself a favor and STAY AWAY FROM THE I-495 BELTWAY. There is nothing but evil there -- EVIL, I SAY!!!
Thank you for letting me get that out of my system. Now back to our regularly scheduled fuckin' mommyblarrghing.
On Tuesday the girl and I visited the Amalah household in all its shiny, new-wooden-floored and freshly-painted glory. Amy met us at the door wearing a blindingly white full-length gown and a winking diamond tiara, with Noah squirming under one arm and a bottle of red wine lodged firmly under the other. “WELCOME TO MAH HOME!” she bellowed, gesturing grandly toward the entry foyer.
At least that's how I remember it.
How adorable and awesome is this poster?
Just bought one for M for her upcoming birthday... Shh! Don't tell her!
Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the bakery...
August 19, 2007
You may recall that my daughter made some muffins for our friends' dogs recently. Well, the reviews are in, and she's the talk of the local dogiverse! Fan mail has been pouring in: “They were super yummy!” “I ate the second one in one bite!” “Better than ass!” Yes, it's high praise and accolades all around.
