Catching Up On My Correspondence
June 08, 2006
Dear Project Fang, the Sequel:
You, sir, are an ASSHOLE.
So here I am, all happy and joyful that Project Fang, the Original, was through the gums of my preshus baby la la laaaaaa, when I notice that lo, THERE IS ANOTHER TOOTH. TWO TOP TEETH, coming in within MINUTES of each other, both causing ire and misery and woe.
Besides the fact that you are refusing to cut all the way through, just to drag out the drama, your appearance now means that I am a mother to a child with two front teeth. Two! Like a grown-up human person! THE FUCKING TEETH HAVE EATEN MY BABY.
Hate. That is all.
P.S. Tell your neighbor, that damned lateral incisor, that I see him skulking around under Noah's gums and I am just not going to stand for it.
Dear Household Swear Mug,
Dear Broken Coffee Maker,
I hate you. I hate you so very, very much.
Dear Diet Dr. Pepper,
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE. I LOVE YOU. COME GIVE US A CUDDLE.
Love forever and ever, until you give me cancer or something,
Dancing? You dance now? Who taught you to dance?
We bought you one of those activity tables for you to stand up at (you only want to stand up now, by the way, but I will tell you this: you will spend most of your adult life looking for a nice place to sit down, particularly in malls), and you quickly fell in love with this little spinny thing that plays an assortment of songs. Because you learned that if you spin it, Mama will sing like an idiot for you.
I know about five of the songs, and then there are four that I don't know, and I make up nonsense lyrics for these. Like this: "I don't know this song at all and yet I sing aloooong. I really have no effing clue so let's go hit the boooong."
(Pls. reference above letter to swear jar. I am trying, but you try accompanying a plastic frog with a banjo for eight hours a day.)
Anyway. You started doing this thing where you'd spin the spinny thing and then immediately look at me, waiting for me to sing. And then you started...swaying to the music when I sang.
And now you dance! You sway and shake and even headbang a litle bit. I put on our Sesame Beginnings DVD and sing like a crazy fool for you and we stand and hold hands and you shake your diapered tailfeathers. Whenever you hear something new you sit there with this awesome, enraptured look on your face, just like you did the first time I fed you vanilla yogurt. You love Dan Zanes, Nicolette Larson, Jack Johnson and the Beach Boys.
Johnny Cash makes your head explode, you rock out that hard.
I've never liked singing. And your Daddy has never liked dancing. But now that's all we do for you. And there's always music playing in our house. Always. For you. And we love it.
P.S. If you need me, I will be over at the Swear Mug, unloading a roll of nickels.