My Fresh Hell
Life in Scribbletown.

Baby's First Jazz God

2004-11-24
Apparently, Red has become a Miles Davis aficionado. Last night while attempting to nurse her, Miles was playing in the kitchen (yeah, he regularly shows up at our house, in person, to serenade us white folks ‘cause we all know how much he loves white folks, and never mind that he’s been dead for 13 years), and Red kept turning her head toward the music and with every loud trumpet blat she’d let out a giggle. Blat (giggle), blat blaaat (squEEEEEEAAAAl), blat de blat BLAT (hee hee HEE!). Like that. So, Dusty’s got her Thelonius jones and Red now has her own Jazz God. And she’s only 5 months old. Gotta love some Redness.

Until she wake up screaming in the middle of the night because she is teething all to hell and her nose is stuffed up and causing things like breathing to be difficult. Eventually she was nursed back to sleep and I got, oh, maybe 5 hours of sleep, all told. But then, so did she. Dusty got to wake her up at 7:40am this morning. Ah, sweet revenge. Sort of.

Thanksgiving should be interesting this year. We are celebrating, if that’s the term I want to use, at my sister’s mother-in-law’s house (which makes her what, my mother-in-law once removed? My mother-in-law to the second power?). Since Dusty has decided that 98% of all food items are “disgusting,” we’ve had little chats about manners and what we say and don’t say at other people’s houses.

And, her fourth birthday is this Saturday (!!) so we’ve also discussed what to say when we receive a gift that’s not top-drawer in her book. “No thank you” is the proper response when offered any of the following: turkey (being as we’re vegetarians and all), gravy (ditto), mashed potatoes and green beans (“I’ll like them when I’m five.”), peas (“I don’t like the little ones OR the big ones.”), cranberry sauce, etc., etc. You get the picture. So, what does that leave? Pretty much pumpkin pie and bread. We’ll be bringing the Dusty staples: PB&J, walnuts, raisins and an apple. She might deign to eat cheese – yellow, not white (“I only like preschool’s white cheese.”). Christ.

When given a present, whether we like it or not, we say, “Thank you.” That’s all. Dusty asked, “Can I say ‘thank you, sir’ ?” “Of course. That would be fine.”

We’re also cramming into this crazy four day “vacation,” a trip to the bike store to get Dusty her first bike. It has to be pink, I’m told. And, as much as it goes against everything I believe in, I guess I’ll be buying her one of those ridiculous helmets to match. It really chaps my hide how overprotective the universe has become in regards to children. Should I just cover her in bubble wrap and make her sit in a corner until middle school? That would be the simplest way to avoid all the millions of dangers awaiting children. I managed to make it to the ripe old age of 38 without cracking my skull on the sidewalk while riding my bike or breaking any bone in my body. And, considering all the stuff I got into as a kid and the distinct lack of parental oversight, that’s pretty miraculous. But now – maybe it’s all the stupid lawsuits but parents are just pummeled with alarmist information about EVERYTHING THAT CAN WRONG IF YOU LOOK THE OTHER WAY FOR A MILLISECOND. Even the “helpful” email newsletters I get from Parents.com are full of alarmist articles. Today’s gem is: If you’re giving your child milk, you’re also giving them bovine growth hormone. Um, yeah. That’s why my child has never had cow’s milk and drinks only soy milk. But, thanks for the reminder. And, please don’t tell me any more about all the bad things in food – genetically modified foods and all that because while I buy organic food when it’s available, I really can’t afford to buy it all the time. Sorry. I'm a bad mother because my children are ingesting poison daily. It’s enough to make you start taking depression medication.

But, to ward off all the inevitable unasked for “advice” from strangers, I guess I’ll need to camouflage Dusty so she appears to be just another middle class kid. Small price to pay to keep the soccer mom mentality at bay.


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9:35 a.m. ::
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