My Fresh Hell
Life in Scribbletown.

Which Came First: Chicken or Racoon?


Okay I’ve added a few more recital pictures – and there’s one of Red, too. I expect notes, people! I mean, I give and give and what do I get?

*sound of crickets on a still summer night*


Anyway, we leave for the beach tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow is also my husband’s birthday so last night Dusty and I made the cake. We will ice and decorate it at the beach but this way I don’t have to actually bake it using strange pans and a strange stove. Plus, I don’t have to bring eggs with me. Don’t you just hate traveling with eggs? I certainly do.

Dusty loves to bake and we’re always looking for an excuse to do it (“Don’t you think we need brownies?” “Why, yes, now that you mention it.”). Last night’s ten minute baking session, though, turned into an odd little pro-choice conversation of sorts. Or at least the beginning of many future similar conversations.

Dusty is fascinated by eggs, mainly because I never let her touch them because of salmonella and things of that nature. These were organic eggs (at $576.80 a piece), though, but the rules remained the same. So, I’m cracking them and adding them to the cake mix (sadly, my husband likes his cakes from a mix; I am a from-scratch kinda gal. I let him have his sad little way on his birthday.) and Dusty says,

“What if you opened those and there were chicks inside?”
“I would be very surprised.”
“But, they aren’t.”
“No, they can’t be chicks.”
“Because they’re not fertilized.”
“What’s fertilized?”

And a conversation ensues about how the eggs are simply, in and of themselves, POTENTIAL chickens. In order to become chickens they have to be kept warm and cared for by the hen. And, I’m sure you can see all the other unsaid thoughts I had that ranged from stem cell research to DNA testing to a woman’s right to choose, etc.

Man. The shit – by which I mean this whole “raising children” thing – gets heavy sometimes. I didn’t have to think too hard about stuff like this when they were little. Just wipe their noses and their butts and move on…

And Red just keeps getting bigger. She’s becoming a real kid (as opposed to a pretend one). She’s really enjoying little kid play now like using the doll house for its intended purpose rather than as a jungle gym. She likes to comb Dusty’s Sasha Doll’s hair and has become attached to a new stuffed animal. Green Bear’s got competition now and its name is Raccoon. Red, though, thinks raccoon is a cat and calls it “mau-mau.”

Raccoon was Dusty’s. He was a Valentine’s Day gift a few years back. He wears a red mask and carries a red sack (which once held chocolate) for all his robberies. Raccoon must now be carried around at all times. When Red goes to bed, she grasps Green Bear in one pudgy arm and Raccoon in the other. Which is awkward when you’re me and have to carry a 25 lb almost-two-year-old and her special friends as I sing her into oblivion. Sometimes Red gives up trying to make everyone fit and tosses Green Bear into her crib so she can devote both hands and all her love to Raccoon. Poor Green Bear – it’s hard to lose pride of place. I think he better get used to it, though. Because Red’s not a baby anymore.


So – with that, I’m outta here. Back on Monday. LEAVE ME A NOTE AND TELL ME HOW MUCH MY KIDS RULE. Or else.


9:37 a.m. ::
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