This day last year was my last day of work. I had pizza for lunch and sweated copiously. My 40-foot belly, resplendant in its pink tank top, came around corners 15 minutes before the rest of me. People kept telling me I might give birth in the elevator (and laughed when I declared I would then name the baby “Otis”) – a real possibility given the elevator’s age, health and extreme sloth. Other people thought I might give birth at my desk. So I took my stapler and CDs, shuffled home and sat on my wide, flat ass for another whole month before that baby came out.
Today’s nostalgic moment was brought to you by Curtis Mayfield, my second cup of coffee and this month called June.
The other day, Joanna’s suggestion to eat chocolate while wearing lipgloss was spot on. Apparently I am now one of those women who takes to her bed with The Vapours once a month so I may buy a case of Green and Black’s chocolate to keep on the bedside table. There are many other good chocolates out there, but the flavour that remains in my mouth after a piece of G&B’s is a bittersweet, almost espresso-like warmth that I have not tasted in these other chocolates. Ordinarily I am able to eat one or two pieces of chocolate and get on with my day, but the other day I ate almost a whole bar. I must need the iron. Body wisdom.
Arwen suggested this remedy for Trombone’s daytime sleeplessness: “Maybe he would like lip gloss? And a T-Shirt saying ‘This is what Ashley Judd looks like’. Because that would be fun.”
I think this is a fantastic idea. I did offer lipgloss but Trombone scorned it (though I am told that 4 year old boys often play with makeup so I will try again in 3 years.) We may have to make the t-shirts ourselves with Sharpies.
If anyone were to ask me, “Cheesefairy, do you have any regrets?” my answer would be, “One. That I never purchased the “Guns Don’t Kill People: Mario Van Peebles” t-shirt from t-shirt hell. (so very not safe for work)” Thus, one of the things on my “someday” list is to print my own t-shirts. In addition to the brilliant “This is what Ashley Judd looks like” and the almost as good “This is why I’m hot,” recent slogan ideas include, “Get out of my way and give me my bacon,” “Shhh, I’m in my authentic place,” and, inspired by a photo I took yesterday of myself where I look 15 weeks pregnant, (with arrow pointing to belly) “Old baby fat, not new baby bump.” I figure I can market that one to celebrities.
Or I could just keep going back to threadless and wish their largest t-shirt came in a size that didn’t make me look like a rocket about to blast off.
Hoo. And then, Merseydotes asked if Trombone’s hair was a baby wig. Oh no! She’s not kidding. Where the hell have I been? Not outraged in the UK, for one.
Trombone’s hair is one of the best things about him. It’s straight at the front and curly at the back and in some light it’s red and in others blond. He likes to style it himself using banana and cereal as pomade. There are trendy kids on Robson Street who don’t have hair as stylin’ as Trombone’s after breakfast.
If I were to get Trombone a baby wig 1. I would have to hurry because he is practically not a baby anymore and 2. I would get the Samuel L.
In my last entry, after the photo of Trombone in his surfer/stockbroker pose, Sarah justifiably asked if I would promise Trombone wouldn’t eat her kids. As you may know, Sarah and Michael and their children are coming to Vancouver for a week at the end of June so my kid consuming hers could happen. However, though his appetite is as enormous as the rest of him, Trombone has not yet shown any signs of taste for human flesh (yay, he’s not a zombie!) and has even responded well to my requests that he not bite me for fun. And anyway, he still only has two teeth insert much swearing, pounding of fists and pulling out of own hair here so I don’t think he’d get very far.
Speaking of Sarah’s beautiful children, one of them turns THREE today. Happy happy birthday, Rowan! It is unbelievable and wonderful that you are three years old. I wish you all manner of cakes and balloons and whatever makes you giggle gleefully. Except locking your sister in the closet. That’s just mean.
Also? Happy 3 years of parenthood to Sarah and Michael! because while the marking of a birth-day primarily celebrates the anniversary of existence of a fabulous little person, I think it should also acknowledge the hard work of that person’s parents. Until the little person gets big enough to move out of the house and then it’s all about the tequila and karaoke.
What? Are we the only ones? I doubt that very much.
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