Now with more whining!

I just wanted to take a second to thank all of you fabulous ladies out there who've come back to comment even though I abandoned this blog for the best part of a year. It's nice to know that even after this long, I'm not just pissing in the wind.

Speaking of pissing and wind... (did you like that segue?) the symptoms of my infestation are becoming slightly more pronounced. The frequent potty trips. The flatulence that can kill. Mr. DD has given me a free pass to let rip whenever without ridicule, but I have no such bargain with the Prawn, who will shout, "MUMMY TOOTED!" and laugh like a howler monkey before I managed to get the obligatory "pardon me" out. (Yep, she got my sense of humor. That's her inheritance; fart jokes)

The nausea is a LOT more pronounced at the moment than it was when I was carrying the Prawn, so I've found myself an avid consumer of Hoops (Spaghetti-O's for our American viewers) as it's the only thing that does NOT in fact make me want to hurl. Here are a list of things that DO make me want to hurl.

a) felt
b) buttons
c) the internet
d) my kitchen
e) my daughter's shampoo
f) everything else

WTF, hormones? What CONCEIVABLE reason could you POSSIBLY have for keeping me away from crafting products, the web and the place where I can get sustenance?

The sudden break from anti-depressants is also proving to be a bit of a trial. My depression has returned in much the same form that it took before I began taking Ciprolex, although I am willing to stick it out and see what happens after the first trimester. The way I feel right now would make the most pernicious Pollyanna into a cold, hard bitch, so I don't know if it's the best time to judge the seriousness of my emotional state.

Today, we had our second visit with Dr. Bow Tie Guy to check on the progress of said blob. The Prawn accompanied us today after much reassurance that while we WERE going to a doctor, it was not a doctor that was going to be touching HER. Despite these reassurances, she clung to Mr. DD for dear life until she became very sure that Dr. BTG had no evil designs in mind, such as trying to listen to her heartbeat or something similarly sinister.

She became much happier in the scanning room when the light was turned off and the Blob (New and Improved! Now with heartbeat!) was located very quickly. "BLOB!" she shouted happily, reducing the attending nurse to a fit of giggles. (and then more somberly, "Docta no poka Wren." which caused me no end of amusement, as it was what I promised her before we came into the building)

So the tale of blob continues! See the drama! Feel the nausea! Stay tuned.

The Old, the New and the Ugly

So. A week of snow. A lot of time to sit indoors and concentrate on the things taking place in my nether regions while being the subject of constant demands for juice, milk, crayons, music, Baby Einstein, lollies and many other things too numerous to list. (Not that I begrudge the Prawn any of these things, but she's gotten to a stage when she believes that things with happen quicker if she repeats herself 457 times in a row.)

6 weeks is still FAR too early to count chickens, but since starting on the progesterone supplements, I'm beginning to be plagued by nausea, which, while hideous, it is a comforting thing, since I experienced it with the Prawn. It is also comforting since I never actually tossed my cookies while pregnant with the Prawn, but just felt rather unpleasantly like I had a bad hangover for 14 weeks.

Also? An Angry. I haz it. The Rage didn't hit me until later in pregnancy with the Prawn, but I seem to have gotten my hate on earlier this time. Maybe it never really left or maybe it has something to do with the fact that, the moment I saw the two lines, I had to quit my SSRI cold turkey which is the thing in the directions printed in bold saying, "FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, DO NOT GO OFF THESE THINGS ALL AT ONCE OR THERE IS A VERY REAL POSSIBILITY THAT YOU MIGHT RUN OUT INTO TRAFFIC." So, that's been fun. I checked with my GP to make sure that what I was doing was okay and he seemed to think that it was better safe than sorry, although he DID admit that a lot of drugs were probably okay for preganant women, but not enough research was available on the subject. So, on top of the normal uncontrollable weeping at advertisements on tv, I've got some serious brain chemical hoodoo working against me. It's a party.

There are two new factors this time around; one being a super boisterous Prawn and the other being a shiteous flare up of IBS. It's been pretty much non-existant until about 3 months ago when it decided to turn my bowels into a cramptastic fun zone and my stomach into a bloated nightmare.

I think this is going to be a longer 9 months than the first time around. Still, I'm thankful for this blob and all the mischief that it's causing. Keep on keeping on, little blob.

Good Luck Charm

I'm just trying to remember how all of this works.

I got in for my first consultation with Dr. Bow Tie Guy on Friday. I'm constantly reminded of the disparity between the NHS and private care when I have the pleasure of attending clinics at Dr. Bow Tie Guy's base of operation. A beautiful waiting room with lovely, comfortable couches and a complementary coffee machine with ACTUAL MUGS to drink out of. Oh, and did I mention that the receptionist didn't look as if she wanted to spit on me when I arrived? LUXURY.

Dr. BTG's first questions for me related to my previous experiences in delivering the Prawn. "Normal birth?" he asked. It was lucky for me that I'd finished my coffee in the lobby so that there was no liquid to snort out of my nose in a distainful manner. As I wove my tale of 3 days in and out of labor and hideous internal examinations culminating in an emergency c-section, his brow furrowed.

"Where did this HAPPEN?" he asked.

I told him and he seemed supremely unsurprised. Hooray for the birthplace of my speculative second child!

Then came the moment that had been making me want to throw up since the moment I saw the two pink lines on the pee stick: the scan. I have, at least one other time, found out some of the worst news of my life while lying on my back without any underwear on, so the chance to put myself once again in this position had been making me feel completely nausious.

After parading down the hallway in a bathrobe slightly too short for purpose and exuding the supreme confidence that only someone wearing socks with no trousers can, I got straight back into the all to familiar stirups and held my breath.

So.

Theres a blob. It's the right size. It's where it's supposed to be. So that's going to have to be enough until I get to have another look the next time I'm summoned. I've been supplied with enough progesterone to shove up the tradesmans for the next month and a half, so we'll have to hope that said blob is happy enough in Chez Womb to stick it out.

Today I made myself a talisman. During my pregnancy with the Prawn, I made myself a small silver pendant adorned with a moonstone, meant to represent women, childbirth, etc, etc that I wore for the entire 9 months. However, due to the fact that it kind of cramped my fashion choices (the cord was red; the Chinese luck color. Yes, I'm a total gimp) this time, I've opted for a bracelet. So, me and the blob are all charmed up.

Fingers crossed.

Another ride on the Ferris Wheel

I have to admit...it's been a while. Trying to balance 3 different blogs while simultaneously looking after a todder and running a moderately successful home crafting business have left little time for sitting down and tickling my keyboard. But I'm back for a reason.

In the last few weeks, I've been spending some big money. The first big blow out was on plane fare for the Prawn and myself to visit my parents in September. The other was for a membership at a new indoor snowslope that's opening right down the road.

So, on Saturday night, I discovered that I just wasted about 700 pounds.

That's right. The infamous pee stick came up with double pinks.

I went to my GP this morning for a new referral to Dr. Bow Tie Guy. I feel infinitely more positive about this pregnancy (which was TOTALLY wanted, btw, but came a little earlier than expected) knowing that I'm going to be under his care again and doing his utmost to make sure I get a live, take-home critter at the end of this experience.

Guns at the ready. Here we go again.

???!?!

Excuse me, may I just scream at the world for a second?

WHY IN THE NAME OF HOLY HELL SHOULD I BE ASKED TO PAY FOR MY DAUGHTER TO GO TO NURSERY ON DAYS WHEN A) SHE'S NOT THERE AND B) NO OTHER FUCKER IS THERE EITHER? EXCUSE ME? I'M PAYING FOR DAYS WHEN SHE IS NOT ONLY ABSENT BUT THE ESTABLISHMENT IN QUESTION IS CLOSED??? HOW IS THAT EVEN A LITTLE BIT LEGAL?

Screaming over. Fuming remaining.

Not So Stupid

The question is not "where have I been?". The question is rather "where HAVEN'T I been?" Either way, I've been utterly rubbish at blogging.

This morning, I was reminded more strongly than ever that I am now in possession of a fully fledged toddler. I know this because I realized I can no longer pull one over on her.

As toddlers are wont to do, The Prawn has two favorite stuffed toys. The loss of either would spell immediate doom. I blogged some time back about the loss of dear Humphrey, who, fortunately, had a stunt double waiting at home. This loss upset me far more than it did the Prawn, who immediately accepted the double as if he were the original. The double, I might add, is, at present sitting on the coffee table looking FAR tattier than the One True Humphrey EVER did. The only reason he has been allowed to get to this state is because Humphrey III (yes, there is a Humphrey III, soon to be joined by Humphrey IV for our travel to the States) was the victim of a late night vomit attack and is languishing in a very large pile of washing.

Humphrey's second in command is Moo. Moo has been with us for nearly 4 years now, as I bought him in anticipation of the baby that we tried so hard for finally arriving. So you can imagine how chuffed I was when Moo rose up the ranks of her affections. However, Moos too get filthy and due to our schedule, it's difficult to push a load of washing through in one day (Our dryer is also "quirky". Quirky meaning that it doesn't always dry things.) and a night without Moo would obviously just be a nonstarter. Keeping this in mind, I ordered MooToo; a duplicate from Nordic Kids, which I just have to plug as being totally chock full of cool stuff.

MooToo arrived this morning (not the first time our postman has seen me braless and in my pajamas, I might add) along with a rather cute shirt that I bought for the Prawn. However, when opening MooToo's packaging, I was horrified to discover one small difference. While The One True Moo's horns are green with white spots, MooToo's horns are WHITE with GREEN spots.

"Do you think she'll notice?" Mr. DD asked.

"I don't think so," I said, inspecting MooToo. "at least not yet."

However, after cunningly sweeping Moo into his washing pillowcase and replacing him with MooToo, the first thing the Prawn did was to point accusingly at his horns and remark:

"DOTS."

Well, shit.

Despite this realization, she doesn't seem actually ADVERSE to MooToo, but I think we may have to refer to him as what he is.

NotMoo.

Junk

Okay, okay, so I’m back for a minute. I know it's been a while, so mea culpa.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the past few days about clutter. This is due to the fact that our flat currently looks like a testing ground for a new and advanced brand of demolition equipment.

It all starts with parents. I grew up in a beautiful home that my parents created from the ground up. It’s a haven of tranquility and although I remember clutter in certain rooms (i.e. mine) while growing up, the living spaces were almost always free of excessive detritus. (Although, being the offspring of two teachers, half graded piles of schoolwork just blended into the background.)

It is perhaps a little unfair to compare my living environment to my parent’s lovely home- first and foremost due to the fact that our flat would fit into their house three times over. Secondly, they have a great deal more storage space than we do, so it’s not that they don’t OWN a bunch of useless crap, but it’s definitely better hidden. Our useless crap is currently all residing in the lounge like a load of unwanted and slovenly houseguests.

My parents are arriving tomorrow afternoon for a visit on their way back from a whistle stop tour of Italy. Mr. DD and I often use these visits as an excuse for a life purge of sorts. However, this time, we might just have left it a bit late.

I spent an hour or so spelunking in the space that we generously call our attic on Saturday, (Mr. DD, being 6’2”, feels a bit like a giraffe in a coat closet up there, so any marathon attic sessions are undertaken by me.) determined to find things that needed to be expelled from the premises. (So that I could make room for MORE useless crap that needed to be stored) I discovered 4 bags of charity shop clothes that had been slung into the crawl space in frustration on previous visits that were unceremoniously flung back down through the hatch, startling the Prawn. The remnants of our “weird drawer” (don’t try to deny that you’ve got one, because EVERYONE does.) from our days on Galileo were dumped into a trash bag after a quick inspection. An old bathroom cabinet that had come with the flat and had TWICE been shoved into the gods finally came down to go to its final resting place. (The tip.)

Despite feeling as though we had managed to purge rather a lot of stuff, the flat is still left looking like hell on toast and although I’m fairly sure it will be shipshape and Bristol fashion by the time my parents walk though the door, I’m ready for it to be done RIGHT NOW. Both Mr. DD and I and even the Prawn have been left feeling quite unsettled by the clutter. It leaves me wondering about the mental wellbeing of people whose lives are lived amongst clutter on a day to day basis. The people who are featured on shows with titles like, “Holy Shit, You LIVE Here?” I’ve felt unsettled, grumpy and anxious amongst the piles of paper, bedding and things that I didn’t even know we still owned. The Prawn too has been more antsy of late. So how do some people managed to live their lives voluntarily surrounded by clutter, in many cases much WORSE than ours? How do they relax? How do they not want to see the floor? How do they not want even the slightest bit of ORDER? I mean, I’m not anal by any definition, but I know when I find bits of toast and cheese on the floor, it makes me crazy. (Toast and cheese are the two elements most likely to be found in odd places now that we have the Prawn. Cheerios are just a given.) Being surrounded by heaps and piles makes me pretty miserable.

So I am looking forward to tomorrow morning when hopefully all of the heaps and piles will have miraculously dissolved into the ether, leaving my home clutter free.

At least until the Prawn has breakfast.

Sick, Sick, Sick

The moment that I have been dreading as a parent with weak constitution finally occurred at approximately 3 am this morning.

My mother told me that she too was notoriously squeamish when it came to all matters scatological until motherhood, as it does universally, beat just about all of the queasiness out of her.

Except when it came to sick.

She particularly remembers an incident that took place when I was about 8 and came down with a violent stomach flu. After emptying the contents of my stomach on the floor by my bed, she sent me to take a shower and steeled herself to clean up the mess. Only when she arrived at the scene of the carnage, she discovered that the Crime Scene had already been tampered with by our painfully brainless lab/cocker mix, Lady. This alone nearly sent her sprinting for the porcelain herself.

So, when I heard the unmistakable sound of Cardinal Chunder early this morning, I braced myself for the worst.

And the worst was what I got. After awakening Mr. DD with the words, "Honey, the Prawn has totally hosed all over her bed and I need you to hold her", I had to get to work stripping the sheets, which was a painful test of my newly hardened parental stomach. The Prawn, meanwhile, was happily charging around the living room in her pants, (having been stripped by Mr. DD) quizzically repeating, "Window?" as if to ask her father why the hell the world outside was all dark and broken and smelling like a bad night out in the city centre.

My reluctance to push the laundry through before bed came back to bite me in the ass, as, at 3.30, I was forced to fold everything in the dryer, (that luckily contained a clean shirt for Lady Barfalot) take everything out of the washer and put it INTO the dryer and chuck blankets, bottom sheets and the indomitable Sir Humphrey the Second (Lord Humphrey now, I reckon) into the washing machine.

I am pleased to say that I survived with no ill effects other than waking up for work this morning feeling like I had a hangover.

I rued not having at least chugged down a whiskey or something before returning to bed at quarter to 5 to feel like it was well deserved.

Update

Before becoming a mother, I never would have expected to utter the phrase, "STOP RUBBING TOAST ALL OVER THE DRYER!" to anyone.

It's been a while since updating this blog. Life has kind of taken over. The Prawn is now 17 months old, has a vocabulary of over 100 words and finds new ways every day to delight and frustrate us. She is currently stomping around the living room like a T-Rex shouting "OBAMA!" and spreading crumbs everywhere. We're not those parents who try to turn their kid into a walking billboard or anything, but Mr. DD bought his book last week and since then, she's spent a lot of time pointing at the cover and saying,

"Daddy!"

"No, darling, that's Obama."

"Daddy!"

"OBAMA."

"OHHHHH-BAMMA!"

So he is now her favorite person on earth. The Democratic convention, what little coverage of it we're getting over here, is a dream come true for her and a balm to soothe the gaping hole that the Olympics left in her life. "LYMPICS!" she'd yell the moment she came into the living room in the morning. But now that there is Obama, everything is all good.

There is no denying her toddlerhood now. It is upon us fully with all of it's screaming tantrums and obsessive behaviors. She knows what "no" means, but mostly chooses to ignore the word unless she herself uses it. She can say "please" and "thank you". 3 seems to be her favorite number. Spaghetti bolognaise is a firm favorite in the food department, although Ken Hom's salmon, lemon and ginger stirfry doesn't go amiss either. She wants to walk most places, but isn't a fan of holding hands. Her favorite toy is a set of stacking blocks with numbers 1-10 on them, all of which she can recognize.

The Prawn marches on.

Rock Your Sock Off

The Prawn likes Queen. We know we are doing something right.

She had her first taste of the mighty Bohemian Rhapsody yesterday evening while watching her grandfather’s Queen DVD on his amazing new massive telly. Her eyes grew large. Her legs began to twitch. She flapped her arms arhythmically. And most importantly, she went totally apeshit in the right parts.

“Can you say Freddie?” we asked her.

“FWEDDIE!” she shouted joyfully, cannoning into the coffeetable.

To further our delight at her interest in rock and roll, she provided us with this little performance in the car.

NOM NOM NOM

Now that the Prawn is de-pocked and there doesn't seem to be any sign of the disgusting little blighters on me, I can concentrate on better endeavors. Like eating.

I don't often share recipes because there are a lot of people on the web who are much better cooks than I am, but seriously, this one? BEST THING I HAVE EATEN. EVER.

Ken Hom is a minor culinary god in my book. My second favorite dish of all time is one of his as well. (Chicken and Pineapple Stir Fry with Cashews) But for your eating pleasure...Salmon Stir Fry with Lemon and Ginger.

450g/1lb fresh boneless salmon fillet
2 tsp salt
4 tbsp groundnut oil
1 tbsp finely chopped fresh ginger (I sliced this into fine strips)
1 tsp sugar
1 tbsp lemon zest (I sliced sections of the skin off and chopped them into fine strips as well)
1 whole lemon, peeled, segmented
2 tsp sesame oil
salt and freshly ground black pepper
basmati rice, cooked according to packet instructions, to serve

Method
1. Cut the salmon into 2.5cm/1in wide strips. Sprinkle the salt evenly over the salmon strips and set aside for 20 minutes.

2. Heat a wok or large frying-pan over a high heat until it's hot. Add three tablespoons of the oil. When very hot and slightly smoking, turn the heat down to medium and add the salmon strips.

3. Fry the salmon without stirring for about two minutes, then gently turn over and fry until the salmon strips are golden-brown on both sides. Take care not to break them up.

4. Carefully remove the cooked salmon strips with a slotted spoon and drain on kitchen paper. Wipe the wok clean with kitchen paper being careful not to burn yourself.
5. Reheat the wok and add the remaining oil. Add the ginger and stir-fry for 20 seconds, then add the sugar, lemon zest, lemon segments, salt and freshly ground black pepper and stir-fry gently for 1-2 minutes.

6. Return the salmon to the wok and gently mix with the lemon mixture for one minute.

7. Add the sesame oil and give the mixture a gentle stir.

8. To serve, remove the salmon and lemon slices from the wok and place onto a warm serving plate with a spoonful of cooked rice alongside.

Your mouth is going to thank you for this recipe and beg you to make it every night of the week.

Hmmmm...

Okay, so we've now established that the Prawn has a deep an enduring phobia of doctors.

Strangely, none of them have ever done anything heinous to her so far like stick something up her butt or anything. If this were the case, I could totally understand the unrestrained screamfest that accompanies every visit, but so far, none of the doctors she's ever seen has done anything worse than attempt to listen to her heart or look in her ear, both of which are near impossible when the subject in question is wailing like a banshee and squirming like an angry squid. The nurse, however, who, every time we see her, gives the Prawn a jab....she has no fear of whatsoever. Go figure.

We have a really lovely GP who actually gave us a diagnosis at first of hand/foot/mouth, but who, when consulted today with the Prawn's multitide of spots, was like, "WHOA! Sorry about that. That's DEFINITELY chicken pox." He probably couldn't get a good enough look due to the extreme wigglage of my offspring.

So, great for the Prawn. She gets chicken pox over and done with. I don't have to worry about me conceivably getting knocked up again some time in the future (ha!) and having to leave the house if she comes down with them. I also don't have to worry about her getting them (or me getting them) right before my brother-in-law's wedding. But at the moment, I have to scrupulously check for dots and have the doctor on speed dial should they appear. I'm guessing that since I was exposed so many times as a child and didn't contract them, that I probably have an immunity, but the Universe has been vomiting mouseparts on my bedspread for some time now and I'm not holding my breath.

Fuck My Hat

The Prawn has chicken pox.

This would not normally be a problem.

But I've never had them.

I'm at itchcon 1.

Fan Girl

During Wimbledon, we had the telly on pretty much from the moment we came home until 9 or so when the tennis finished. I'm not a huge tennis fan, but I like watching Wimbledon. It's lovely background noise; quiet punctuated with applause.

During the final, we were rooting for Roger Federer to beat the record of 6 victories in a row, so Mr. DD taught the Prawn to say "Ro-JA!" (Her chanting of "Ro-JA" was also punctuated with exclamations of "WIN!" with accompanying arm lifts, that we taught her when she was only about 10 months old. )

Yesterday, while attempting to get her to eat at least a 3rd of her dinner, Mr. DD was quizzing her on words she knew.

"Can you say "cow"?"

"gow!" she said with a mouthful of egg.

"Can you say "dog"?"

"dog!"

"Can you say "Roger"?"

Her eyes grew wide and her face shone with unadulterated glee.

"RO-JA!" she whispered rapturously, as if remembering some great lost love.

Ah, summer romance.

Hairy Problems

So, the march toward toddlerhood continues.

I've asked other parents if their children had gone through an insatiable grabbing phase during which ANY item, no matter how mundane or uninteresting, must be kept out of sight or reach lest an explosive episode occur. Surprisingly, a lot of them have said, "no", leaving me to think I may have a slightly compulsive child on my hands. Or a budding shoplifter.

Everything in our house has now gravitated to the middle of tables resulting in abstract piles of jewelry tools, mail and coffee cups appearing with startling regularity. The Prawn would have them all, if she could.

Strangely the most knotty problem of late has to do with her hair. (See what I did there?)

The Prawn had some good hair genes to draw on. Her father, damn him, has a long, luxurious mane of thick, strawberry blond locks. Sadly, her little genes determined that she would have hair the consistency of her mother's (the finest of the fine) combined with CURLS, which is a sure fire combo for the worst snarls in the history of the world, resulting in a 15 month old who uses more hair care products than me.

She has varying degrees of tolerance for barnet maintenance operations. It is only recently that she has submitted docilely to hats and hair clips, which has been a great relief. However, washing and conditioning is quite another thing altogether. Suffice to say that both of us need toweling off after her baths. And don't get me started on the hairdryer.

The obvious solution would be to cut her hair but since I rarely have enough luck to get her to stand still enough to eat a grape, my guess is that a trip to the hairdressers would require restraints if not sedation. Plus, I wouldn't do that to my hairdresser, who I would like to continue cutting MY hair.

Any suggestions out there for unmanageable toddler tresses?

Music Critic

Being the musos that we are, we spent last Saturday at the Hard Rock Calling festival in Hyde Park. We had toyed with the idea of taking the Prawn, but once we were there, we were down on our knees thanking the common sense gods that we'd left her with our friend The Barmaid. The line up included John Mayer, Sheryl Crow and Eric Clapton; all artists the Prawn has been listening to since birth, but the heat of the day and the enormity of the crowd would have made toddler wrangling a chore and a half.

We recorded a bit of the finale on our camera, although we found that someone else got a MUCH better video from where they were standing.



Upon returning home the next way, The Prawn toddled over to where Mr. DD was watching the playback on the camera. As John Mayer stepped up to play, she remarked, "GEETAH!" gleefully. She then looked more thoughtful, pointed, said "Babe!" and watched Mayer's solo rapturously. (I was so proud!) Eric Clapton was next up to the mic. The Prawn was less impressed and pushed the fast forward button.

Old Slowhand may be married to a 32 year old, but he's losing his touch with the younger set.

The Prawn Hits 15 Months

It's been a while since a little photo shoot, so here is the Prawn in all of her glory. :)

Changeling

I remember a fairy tale from my childhood about goblins who were wont to spirit away children and leave changelings in their place- a child that looked exactly like the original but behaved like wild animals. I'm beginning to think that if they ever come back, I'm going to trap one of those little fuckers and force them to give me back my baby.

Yes, I have a toddler.

I don't know how it happened. It seems like just yesterday that she was just a happy little spud rocking out on the carpet while Mr. DD played guitar, but all of a sudden, it's become apparent that we have something living with us that has a WILL. That must be obeyed. RIGHT NOW. ON PAIN OF LOUDNESS.

It seems to have happened overnight, really, which is why it's so weird. One day, she's a relaxed little soul and the next day she is replaced by a whinging, whining ex-pat from the planet Tantrum. The slightest delay in the execution of necessary tasks, the slightest roadblock to her finely laid plans, ANYTHING brings about Hurricane Cranky.

Functioning on 4 hours sleep as I am, (she decided at 1.30am that sleeping was for pussies) it is hard to be objective. All I know is that I started drinking BEFORE I started Sunday dinner yesterday, so it was quite a day.

On a positive note, her vocabulary is improving. She can count to 5, say "bum" repeatedly and whenever she farts, she cracks up and shouts, "TOOT!"

My mother thinks we need to break her of the last two habits, but I'm not so sure.

Here's a video of her taken in a rare moment when she wasn't behaving like a wolverine this weekend:

Lolbaby

How to tell if you have been spending too much time around the house talking like lolcats:

When your child drops her juice on the floor and shouts, "OH NOES!"

Crap.

The Accidental Racist

Now that it's become quite obvious that The Prawn has become a small playback machine, more than ever we are watching our language. ("Melon Farmer" has become a staple word in our vocabulary.) My virtual sister-in-law even takes it upon herself to thwack my brother-in-law when he lets a choice word slip. And as for her grandfather...well we just make sure that she's too far away from him to hear what he's saying when he's in a mood.

My virtual sister and brother in law just recently purchased a Wii, which I now covet highly. We spent a lot of the weekend playing on the unique console, trying everything from tennis (which nearly resulted in broken furniture and the dog getting stepped on more than one.) to ski slalom. (which was about 10 times harder than it looked.)

Our biggest group effort was in bowling, however, and we all had a rather good time trying to thrash eachother on the virtual and scarily accurate lanes. The dog, who was recovering from tennis was obviously excited as 6 people seemed to be THROWING THINGS. IN THE HOUSE. So he bounded around, the concept of virtual reality too baffling for his tiny, doggy brain, wondering WHERE IN THE HELL ALL OF THESE THINGS WERE GOING before looking up at us ruefully as if to say, "You know, this looks like it should be fun, but it's really not."

In the Wii world, one chooses an avatar to represent you. For reasons too difficult to explain, my father-in-law's team was represented by a black "Mii" in their sporting exploits. The bowling program has an announcer who comes up from time to time if you get a strike or a spare who, rather predictably, shouts, "NICE STRIKE!" or "NICE SPARE!" The Prawn, of course, was sitting around, observing quietly (although her view of the proceedings was probably not all that different from the dog's.) and eventually toddled up to the television screen to see what all the fuss was about.

Just as father-in-law stepped up to play with his Mii of color, the Prawn happily shouted, "SPADE!"

It would have been pointless at the time to point out to my howling family that she was obviously trying to say, "spare" which had been shouted at top volume frequently over the last 10 minutes.

I've talked about how I feel about racial humor before. My feelings, in short, are that the best way to take power from something is to laugh at it. In an era where everyone lives in terror of words, racism can become stronger quietly, since everyone is afraid to talk about it for fear of using the wrong term, the wrong combination of words, the wrong tone of voice. Someday I'll have to have a conversation with the Prawn about hurtful words and I hope that while she takes my advice to heart, I also hope that there is never a combination of letters that makes her afraid.

One person who definitely ISN'T afraid to mock just about anything is Kevin Smith. In this scene from Clerks 2, terminal slacker Randall Graves makes a serious faux pas. Not in the least bit Safe For Work.