April 11, 2011


I read the Tina Fey book in one sitting. One and a half sittings, and oh my, HOW I GIGGLED. I fell off the three books a month reading pact due to the psychic impact of the fucking Keith Richards book that made me hate him and the medium itself for a few weeks. But now, now this Tina Fey book, with it's large font and pithy feminist jokes has rebirthed me, joyously, unto the world of literacy! Huzzah! I recommend it with all my heart.

I am glad I do not have to do my reading on the bus, like Matt does en route to work, and have to stifle my laughs so as not to catch looks from the passengers on the #66 Hell Bus. Matt often comes home and recounts stories about like, a dude talking full volume into his cell about taking a woman he pimps to Victoria's Secret "to get her sex on". Or men trying to pick women up on the bus. Or women yelling a disgusting, obscenity-laced story animatedly in front of children. These common place in-public type situations are just a few of the numerous reasons I work at home.

My day is far more innocent. Just changing diapers and cursing the cats and taking the lives of ants at will, letting Ukranian nanas flirt with my son on our walks. William is tolerating our strolls, I think, mostly for the squirrels and birds. He crawls-crawls now, and this weekend even pulled himself up to standing. Dude wants to go on his own, not get pushed around in a wheeled seat with Sofie Le Giraffe as his lonely co-pilot.

I thought we would have more time until he was standing up and pulling all the records off the shelf. He is only 8.5 months. And lo, this morning I walked away for just a second, and upon my return, William had pulled a 7" from the shelf, removed all it's protective layers and was a-chomping upon the little records edge with all 2 and a half of his teeth. This will be the next several years of my life. Chasing a baby around the house, pulling shitty band promos out from his jaws.

Sometimes I worry, well, it's pretty low grade on my list of worries about his future, so maybe it's more like "a lite anxiety" about being funny. To him. Right now it is so easy to goof around and entertain him--all it takes is making a honk when he grabs my nose and giving him a little stainless steel bowl to play with, or one of his own socks and he is just delighted. I know that soon enough he will be a fickle toddler and be over old tricks like the honking and the shiny bowl and the sock. And then he will be a teenager boy and smell like cold cuts like all boys that age do and we will have to have frank talks about why not to do drugs. I AM ALREADY WORRIED ABOUT IT AND IT'S AT LEAST 12 YEARS AWAY. His feet are only like 3 or 4 inches long and I am worried about gateway drugs. This is the nature of parenting, I blv, in a nutshell*.

(* for every parent except Keith Richards, the guy in Georgia that tattooed his 3 year old with a "DB" for Daddy's Boy while in a blackout and the lady with the Kangaroo baby (see previous entry)).

Posted by jessica hopper at April 11, 2011 10:52 PM | TrackBack