Tinkle Queen

Big Baby E likes to take baths. Baths get her excited. By the time she is down to only the diaper she is clinging to you like an iron-grip koala desiring transport to the bathing facility. Once the tub is ready, we proceed to remove her diaper with a bit of ceremony. I think we started to add a little extra to make the bath more exciting in the beginning, but now it is just a part of the routine.

For the ceremony, I sit on the toilet holding her under the arms, standing, facing away from me and start the song. Da-NA-na-NA-na-NA, t-tsch...t-tsch. Yes, I am teaching my daughter to strip to music; seductive music. Maybe not teaching, but at least creating an association with "fun times ahead." Is it ever too early to discourage a career in the broadly-defined "adult entertainment" industry? I am an adult by age and am entertained by this.

Yesterday, she was indeed very excited about bath time. As Christa held the freshly removed diaper cupped in her hand, the Squirt Burger laid one on me. I don't claim to understand much of the inner workings of the female parts, but I am always impressed by the specific directionality of the flow. This one shot right to my inner thigh, a good three seconds.

My first thought was "Squeeze your legs together." WHAT!? Why was I trying to protect the tiled bathroom floor? Why was I SO OK with being peed on that I wanted to keep as much of the pee as possible between my legs? This was not just a fact of parenthood. This was me trying to turn my legs into a watertight flesh cup to retain as much urine on and about my person as possible. The urine was not providing relief from a jellyfish sting. It was simply pee on me. And I apparently wanted to keep it that way.

I wish I could say it was out of love, but it makes more sense that I love the tile floor in that scenario, since E would more than likely have stepped in my pee pond had the retaining walls held another couple seconds. And desiring your child to step in a urine pond is not very loving.

E Speak: T-Day #2

Saturday Nov 29th, 2008 (Oh yea, I can do dates.)

We had another Thanksgiving. This time with Dada's (Lloyd) side. This time in MY HOUSE! Again, people eating and looking at me. But this time there was a different one, Harrison, my cousin. He is like a less-nimble, less-furry version of Mr. Puddy. Mr. Puddy is the cat. Mr. Puddy is sometimes entertaining, but far from useful. Mr Puddy can manage to get off the floor by himself. I can't say the same for Harrison, currently.














We all sat down at the table and since he can't move as well, just stared at his Dada (Matt, younger brother of my Dada) wondering "What in the hell do I hear breathing behind me?"















It is I. The Smoochie Monster.














"Dada spin me around for a look at this thing," he said. "Holy Jesus! It's huge. But I like it."














He then tried to get fresh with me. Warning: Mature content.














You can't out smoochie THE SMOOCHIE MONSTER! He seemed a little alarmed by my confidence and assertiveness.















He then tried to impress me by being held vertically. Unfortunately, been there, done that.














Anything else kiddo? Then he did the best penguin impression I have ever seen. I went for the high five, but he held character. A man of principle. Very noble. Knightly even.















Then he said, "Try and get this face out of your mind."















I am thankful for your intensity, Harrison and for Nana, Pop, Unkie Matt and Auntie Danza for visiting.

Until we meet again,
E

E Speak: You Wean-E, You Suffer

My mom has a nice pair. Here let me show you.

"Emmy we can not take and post pictures of Mama's breasts."

Whatever. You know you'd like a shot of them too. Anyway, they are nourishing and comforting and have always been there for me. Until a few weeks ago, when they started to visit less frequently. I used to get tired and there they were, then I would wake up and there they were again. They were like my two best friends. I named them "Good Morning" and "Good Night". Good Night is on the right. I created a song so it was easier for me not to confuse them.

Good Morning is where the milk is pouring
and is a wonderful start to my day.
Good Night is on the right
I visit when it's time to hit the hay.

I break into it like Michigan J. Frog from Warner Bros. and then quickly revert back to being a baby.
















Well, needless to say this was agitating. Every week my friends would visit one less time. They didn't go on vacation, they just became shut-ins during the day. I would wake up, head over and knock politely, but no one came out to play. I pulled back the shades and looked in and they were certainly still there, but sleeping or something. I poked and grabbed at them and nothing. MAMA I NEED TO PERFORM CPR! I THINK THEY NEED TO BE MANUALLY REVIVED!

"They are hibernating," she said.

THEY ARE NOT FREAKING BEARS!

"Let's just snuggle."

SNUGGLING IS FOR WUSSIES! I got up 30 minutes early so I could see my friends and now ALL I GET IS A SNUGGLE! I AM BOYCOTTING ALL NAPS AND AM GOING TO HOLD MY BREATH UNTIL IT COMES OUT THE OTHER END! YOUR BREASTS WERE BORN FREE JUST LIKE MINE AND I DEMAND YOU SET THEM FREE!

"Why don't we try some big girl milk."

WHY DON'T I THROW MY POO AT YOU!

"Watch Mommy try some."

I've seen what you eat, and that does not boost my confidence. I completely understand the fact that you don't want me to come home from middle school and expect to tap the teet after some Cheetos, but come on! At least trade me some Diet Coke or Starbucks.

"You're a big girl."

Compared to what? The cat? An eggroll? Bigger girl means bigger caloric intake which means more boob time. Try and shoot a hole in that logic Plato. If you're short on time just grab the pump cups and tap them both. I'll use a straw. I'll call it the boob tube. We'll make millions.

"Your father would be proud."

Hell, yea! What was I talking about?

"Saving the planet."

I know you're lying, but I can't produce any evidence to prove it.

Later,
E

Diaper Rash Flashback

Currently, we are experiencing our first significant case of diaper rash. We think this may be a part of the aftermath of the ear infection antibiotic. I didn't take a picture of it (the rash) but it is adding a little topography to the normally smooth surface of the E moon. I personally would not want it and certainly not there. We were using Boudreax's Butt Paste, a honey mustard looking formula, but it did not have the power we needed, so we upped the ante and went to Desitin. It goes on think and white, equal parts zinc oxide, Colgate and ranch dressing. That is not the actual secret formula just my attempt to describe the touch and feel. We apply it at each changing and are seeing good progress as we enter the fourth full day using it. Why is this information important?

Well, I was born in the mid-70's, what seems like a while ago and apparently light years ago in terms of infant care. It seems I too had a diaper rash post ear infection, according to my Mom. Who was a good Mom and raised a mostly-balanced individual. But did she soothe my burning buttocks with a creamy salve? No in fact she did not. She told Christa that she laid me down buck-naked, gave me a book to read and proceeded to stick an illuminated light bulb into the crack where the sun is not supposed to shine. She torched away my dirty porthole's ailment with the help of Sylvania and the electric company. And the doctor told her to do it! Was medicine that antiquated just 30-odd years ago? I don't recall leeches either, but I may have blocked that out.

What do you get someone for Mother's Day that says "Thanks for lighting up my ass in order to kill the rash."?

My Mom said, "The bulb was placed near your butt to help dry the rash, not in it."

E Speak: My 1st Birthday

Hello Peeps. One day a couple months ago, my parents threw me a birthday party. Whatever that means. I don't know what Boy and Girl Genius were thinking. Let me take you through the day.

First, what in the hell is this on my head?

"You're the birthday princess."

No, this is a party store tiara that makes me look like a cheap pageant show baby.





















"It's time for cake!"

Alright, things are looking up. Holy Crap, this is homemade organic! I wouldn't feed this to meal worms. I wanted chocolate!!! I wanted chocolate!!! With Fairy sprinkles and Magic icing!!!





















"It's time to open presents!"

Yes, anything to stop this torture. I am very excited about my new collection of live furry animals. Where are they?

"Wow, look at that pretty shirt."

This is neither live nor pretty.















Seriously, this pile of inanimate clothes is my birthday take?





















Let me plug my mouth with this festive, beach-going bear to keep from hurling.















"I think she really liked all her presents."

"Yes, and look at all the new pretty outfits."

Morons, simply morons.

"Emmy are you ready for your big present?"

Finally, the purple furry elephant is here. Wait, a wagon??? You had the entire universe to choose from and you got a wagon. I just wet myself in disappointment. Seriously, I did. Right down here, where the puffy is.















Needless to say this was a letdown. I don't know why my parents were so excited. Might as well go to bed. Wait...Wait...Do I hear running water?





















OH YEAH!!! OH YEAH!!! PUT ME IN!!! PUT ME IN!!!
















This is heaven. I am drunk on pleasure.





















THIS WAS THE BEST BIRTHDAY EVER!!! Honestly, compared to the head-squeezing terror slide, followed by orifice-poking of last year, this was heaven. When can I have another?















Smoochies,
E

E Speak: Winterizing

I am sometimes called a diva, sometimes high maintenance; but I am totally worth it. I have survived one winter already, without even owning shoes. This year I told my parents that if they even think about taking me out for anything holiday, they better find me some more appropriate footwear. Not Dora snow boots from Wal-Mart. Baby needs some Uggs.

"I don't think Uggs that would fit for only one season really constitute an "investment" in your wardrobe. I don't think Clinton and Stacy's advice fully applies to baby clothes and accessories."

Dada, I say this with love, but you are not the person I model myself after in a fashion sense. This is an investment in, not only my fashion future, but in my personal well-being. Feet covered in luscious sheepskin are 42% less likely to enable colds than feet adorned with normal Wal-Marty footwear. And you do remember how many times I woke you up during the Ear Infection of 2008, don't you?

"Well argued; rationale and mostly fact-based reasoning, while attempting to elicit empathy. I am curious as to the source of your research and to know what corporate/government entity sponsored it. Since I appreciate baseless random facts, I am willing to compromise. I will get you some Uggs, but you have to wear them everyday."

Yes! I have successfully manipulated my Dada once again. I want chocolate brown and WANTED THEM YESTERDAY!

"I anticipated this and I have them right here. They are just like Mama's"

Seriously? You really got me Uggs! I am too good at this.

"Yes, try them on."





















You're a bastard.

Love,
E

Misplaced Stuff

Do you ever misplace stuff? Put it one place and not find it there later. Sometimes Christa "cleans" or "reorganizes" around the house, which always results in my things being taken from there "special place." Their "special place" being somewhere I can find them, usually by sight. Christa is much more of a infer the location of things person. She has a connection with the inanimate, often running into them, like the bedpost, at the foot of our bed. Sure it's covered with a blanket and below eye level, but it is always there. Why is it the bed's fault? Would it be better if we moved it everyday?

Unlike the bed, my half-dirty shorts get moved to new and exciting locations like the laundry hamper or back into my shorts drawer. If it was dirty, I would put it in the laundry. I understand that basic concept. But they are half clean; worn, but not ass-nasty. Therefore, they should not go back into the drawer. That is for the clean shorts. So I give them a "special place" on the floor within a two-foot radius of my dresser. Now, to be clear, I don't have an infinite number of half ass-nasty shorts laying around. I go from half- to full-ass to laundry before selecting another pair.

There are a multitude of factors to consider when assessing the ass-nastiness of a given garment, including: description and duration of activity, temperature, and pre-existing conditions of the user and the garment. For example, 8 hours sitting around a climate-controlled house, watching TV, having showered that morning would contribute no more than a half-ass of nastiness, so depending on the initial ass-nastiness, this pair would get the hamper or return to the "special place." Whereas, 30 minutes, riding a vinyl-seated bike on a Midwest summer day to and from a port-a-potty where you reunited last night's curry dinner with the good earth from which it came, could take you from zero to double-ass-nasty, regardless of your bathing record. I could build you a formula, but you can use the nearly as reliable sniff check.

I can't blame Christa for all of the issues I am having with "disappearing" stuff. Honestly, I think the baby does it on her own. I put her down to play with something and then go make a snack and run an errand. By the time get back she is no longer where I left her. How am I supposed to keep her safe if she is moving around unsupervised all the time? Regardless of what Christa says, my shorts have never gotten up and put themselves in the hamper. How come that's where I always find the baby?

E Speak: Flowbeed by Mom and Dad

I am an attractive young woman. A natural beauty, no make-up, no products, 3-4 baths a week. Yet, somehow these older people who live with me, keep monkeying with my business. Listen to them.

"Do you think her hair is bothering her?"

"I am not sure she comprehends it that way. But, it would probably bother me."

"Should we cut it?"

"As long as she doesn't look like a charity case. Are you talking just the bangs?"

"Yes, bangs only. If we twist it in the center and then take one snip, it should fall pretty nicely. That's how they did my bangs."

Sounds innocent enough, doesn't it? Let me tell you that I have fine, delicate fairy hair that goes predominantly straight forward. Sure it makes me blinky, but that's just how I grant wishes. So, Mom and Pop genius over here twizzle me up and before I can say "WTF Pops?" he snips me.

NOT HAPPY!!! DO I LOOK HAPPY?

So, now they are discussing whether they did a good job.

"I think it's cute."

"I think we are bordering on baby-fairy mullet."

While I sit and ponder about how big a doofus I must look like. Did you consider my face shape?












I went into the bathroom to see if I could repair my departed innocence and I was so shocked at my appearance I must have blinked three times, because NOW I CAN FLY!!! THE IS THE BEST HAIRCUT I HAVE EVER HAD!!!





















You do realize I have no other haircuts to compare it to, so I am merely making my so-called barbershop-savant parents feel better. Sometimes I'm surprised they know at what end to feed me.

Peace,
E