After repeated run-ins with my evil genius, I have come to believe that if I don’t do something soon to enhance the enrichment she already receives, that she could wind up on the State Department’s watch list for terror states and rogue toddlers.
And while I sort of believe that a future of building nuclear reactors for the Iranians, North Koreans and other members of the Axis of Evil could ultimately wind up benefitting yours truly and he who has spread his seed (aka “The Hubs”), I also believe that our little minx needs, oh, extra learning opportunities that will teach her how to operate in polite society until then. Those who feast at polite society’s tea parties do not nibble knucka sammiches, or kick and throw punches at people trying to change their soiled diapers. They say pwease and thank you. They share their stuff and don’t mind it. They don’t go all Old School Johnny Depp and trash a hotel room when they don’t get their way.
They are pint-sized delights, full of humor and bonhomie.
Yes, the quest for a preschool has officially begun. Though we have dropped her little name on random waiting lists here and there over the past year, it was this morning that I picked up the phone and started blitzkrieging the hell out of nearby nurseries and the like, telling them I had a kid who needed more and soon.
I’m coming to visit you, I told them.
What’s more, I’m coming to visit you on Monday, I added. That’s right. Monday the 26th, suckahs. Get ready for my azzz…
Just tell me what I need to do to, send me all the information you can, whatever, in the meantime, I tossed out there.
Mom — or “No” which seems to be my new name — is all up in it.
At the present time, I am hopeful about two of our options (fingers crossed, wood knocked, all that other good luck shit one does), dejected at the sheer amount of waiting lists that one faces, and wondering why one school would tell me that they would lump my kid in with a class of younger kids just to give her a space.
And with that, I became that mother.
“Younger kids? You’re not lumping MY BRIGHT CHILD in with a class of younger kids. That will NEVER work. It will never work because her mind works like Baby Stewie’s on ‘The Family Guy’; she will get bored and start stirring up sh, I mean…stuff!!!…if she is not challenged. MARK. MY. WORDS. I see it every day.”
Um, okay…so we’ll see you on Monday?
Damn right, you’ll see me on Monday!
In other news, Aunt Tutu and Uncle Nony are en route to their new habitat in Connecticut. Not to bust my sister’s chops or anything, but nobody for one instant believed they would be in their cars headed north yesterday by 8 a.m. as she claimed they would be.
Nor did we believe that they would be happily nibbling a seafood dinner in Virginia Beach sometime in the early evening hours.
In the midst of my efforts to get young Avery straightened out, school-wise, Aunt Tutu called to report that they didn’t leave Atlanta until just past noon yesterday and didn’t reach Virginia Beach until 11 p.m. Why? In a scene that could have been in any National Lampoon Vacation flick with Chevy Chase, this pair decided that it would be best to let Oliver the cat roam free in Aunt Tutu’s car. That would be better for Ollie. And to reward them for their genius furry Ollie puked not once, but three times, one of them on the fair Tutu’s pants leg. So there was a lot of unexpected cleaning yesterday and not enough spare pants for the ride.
May the rest of their trip go better than this.
A big howdy to all you MILFs who may be stopping by over the next couple of days. Just FYI, I didn’t weigh in this morning because I was tired and forgot. So let’s just say things stayed put on the scale and call it even. I’ve been doing all the same things I’ve been doing — watching the booze intake (though it has been difficult), minding my portion sizes, drinking lots of waaaaater, getting my Pilates on, blah de blah blah — and am feeling pretty good these days.
Yesterday, because the weather was nice, I went on a nice long walk with the bambino that went through the local cemetery (I was trying to get her in touch with her Southern Gothic side) over to the local park and then back to our house. The jaunt was a few miles, all in all, and let’s just say the old thighs are feeling the burn from pushing the stroller uphill.
Bow chicka bow wow, indeed.
You know the shit is hitting the fan, week-wise, when the fucking Diaper Genie breaks. I thought these things were supposed to be indestructible, just sweet-scented vessels of baby crapola. But no. Mine has proven to be an unwieldly, sour-smelling lemon.
One day in my efforts to wrestle the little one down and change her diaper, I flipped the lid up and it went crashing into the goddamned wall. No, we could not put it back together, either. The freaking hinges cracked. So after a couple of days of taking the lid off, putting the diaper in, putting the lid back on, sort of twisting the thing around as best as I could…I just gave in and went to Target and bought a new one, even though I firmly believe that those are things that are things you register for and let someone else buy.
Is there anyone out there that has actually purchased a Diaper Genie for themselves?
Maybe the point is that Diaper Genies suck so bad, you’re supposed to register for two or more of them.
Good God this baby business is a racket…