Here’s a chocolate-covered baby.

Listening to:  Beatles — I’ve Just Seen A Face

Granted I’m not putting us into the poor house, but The Child has a better wardrobe than I do. I absolutely adore the Urban Explorer and Little Lady lines from Old Navy. The colors don’t assault my senses and the patterns aren’t overly cartoonish. And don’t even get me started on Baby Gap. *squee!* I’ve never been so girly about shopping. Granted Shake’N'Bake could probably care less what she’s wearing as long as she’s comfortable and not freezing to death, so getting such adorable clothing is completely useless. The same goes for toys; am I buying them for her or am I really buying them for myself?

Here’s to hoping our next little one is on the pink team or else we’re going to go through this all over again with the boys’ collection.

We’ve cut our first tooth.

A hermit.

Nah, it’s just one of those days.  It’s not a bad day, really, it’s just kind of blah.  It’s overcast, too, but I love it when it’s cloudy which is perhaps due to an early childhood spent living in Oregon.  It’s just a move away and live alone in the woods with no modern conveniences kind of day.

My parents have a great acreage on a lake up in northern Wisconsin that some day, finances provided, Mr Husband and I will be getting a little spot on.  If I have my way, we’ll put a little cabin up there and it won’t have a phone or internet or cable or anything.  Husband would probably go into withdrawals, but if it gets too bad I can always send him over to my parents’ place.  They’ve got all that stuff.  I just can’t imagine going up there “to get away from it all” and spend a summer doing all the same things we do at home.

When we were kids we’d stay at the Big Cabin and it didn’t have things like cable, air conditioning, phones–there was even a time when it didn’t have hot water but that, mercifully, was remedied.  Over the years the Big Cabin has evolved and even grown in size.  It’s now owned by my aunt who takes excellent care of it.

I miss the summer days I spent up there when I was little.  My sister, and later my brother, and I would spend hours playing in the lake or in the woods.  Digging up mud to make clay pots that we would fire in the fire pit.  Fishing.  Hiking and picking berries along the way.  Catching toads.  Building things. Playing cards.  Roasting hot dogs or marshmallows.

And I want that for my daughter, but I don’t see it happening with all the distractions of the modern world.

Man, I gotta get away from all this stuff.

Sent the newest pictures of Shake’N'Bake (see sidebar) to my parents and my father responded with, “Thanks.  I got them and made email-size for mom.  They look great.  Pretty soon she’ll be blowin’ the froth off the ale.”

One half of me wants to nod with pride (Hells yeah, she will!) and the other wants to deny that she will even know what alcohol is until she’s 30.

Self –

From now on, please make a bigger effort to secure the Velcro on all bibs before tossing them into the wash. Failure to do so results in a spectacular tangle of baby clothes and blankets.

That is all.

I was able to escape the apartment today to get myself a pair of pants that I might enjoy wearing, as opposed to a pair of pants that I would fear bending over in. Really, what the hell is up with the low-rise style these days?

Maybe I’m abnormal. See, I have this thing. It’s firmly attached to the tops of my thighs. It’s called a butt and it’s something I prefer to keep covered, thanksmuch.

So, anyway, I went to Old Navy and I did manage to find a pair of pants. I’ll still have to get them altered because I was blessed with a small waist and cursed with ginormous hips. Jeans will fit nicely around the hip and thigh region, but I’m left with enough material around the back side of my waist to make a good sized sail. I’m going to have to take these new jeans in to the tailor to get a large triangle shaped piece cut out of the back waistband just so I don’t have to worry about people dropping pencils down the back of my trousers to see if they’ll stick.

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. I got my pants and that’s really all I wanted. REALLY! But goddamn it, wouldn’t you know it? Old Navy was having a 40% - 50% off sale on all children’s and baby clothes.

And they were *says hatefully* sooooo kyooot.

So now I have a pair of pants that need altering, two outfits for the Shake’N'Bake, and a large helping of shame over my lack of will power.

The Chief just wrote something over at his place that I can really relate to.

Before I joined up with the U.S. Mutantninjaturtle Club I never swore. I’m one of those smallish female types who felt that when she swore it sounded comical. Hell it still does. It was even worse when I sounded off (once I even set a whole slew of boys into fits of sniggles when I was made platoon sergeant in school) but that’s a story for another time. The point is, I never used crude language and swore that I never would.

Mr. Husband begged to differ and bet me that I would be forever changed.

I didn’t believe him.

Fast forward to several months later. He showed up at my gradumutation and grinned like a fool when every other word out of my mouth began with an ‘f’ or an ’s’. I think ‘friggin’ was in there a lot, too. You know, like the song? Anyway, it didn’t compare to my parents’ reaction.

So for once I’ll admit that Mr Husband was right. I was wrong. He knew better. (He better enjoy this moment.)

The problem is that I am no longer a subscriber to this particular religion and yet I’m still afflicted with its vocabulary. I don’t even realize what I’m saying until the people around me either chuckle (see? it’s still funny) or eyebrow@me. There really does need to be some sort of rehab–a class offered when they give you the TAMP debriefing. They make you sit through that god awful How To Get A Job and Write A Resume class (guh, I had to sit next to this captain who thought she was the shit). They should offer you some sort of diction or speech class to ease the transition. A support group (”Hi, I’m Cpl H and I say ‘fuck’ more often than necessary”), something.

Really, though, this is something that I need to work on. I’ve got a small human living with me and she’s got a mind like a sponge.

I’ve had a few queries as to the (ever changing) wonky color of my hair and all I can say in explanation is this:

You’re only young once. Color is fun. And. I’d rather my daughter came home with unnaturally colored hair, piercings and tattoos than a mini-skirt and an A+ on her pregnancy test.

Mr. Husband went to pick up the pictures I took of Miss Shake’n'Bake and ordered prints of this evening. This was sitting on my desk when I got home from class.

Seriously, this totally made my entire holiday season bright and squishy like radioactive taffy.

(Do I need to tell you to click the thumbnail to make it bigger?)

Apparently the guy in charge of the Wal Mart photo counter was giving Husband the stink-eye and interrogated him as to who REALLY took the photos. Copyright issues?

I guess those photo classes I took in ancient high school really payed off. It would probably pay even more if I took pictures of babies for a living.

I don’t.