Re-launched, but still slightly under construction. :-)

Monday, February 28, 2005

Have a cuppa

Scott hates rap. He sees no redeeming value in it. Well, except Outkast. But I’m always trying to point out that there is a redeeming quality to rap, if you understand the socio-cultural and historical placement. He insists it isn’t music.

Anyway, I continue my efforts while flipping through iTunes. I try the “Knight Rider Remix” from Punjabi DJ. The bassline makes him laugh.

“Here, you might like this one.” I put on Rage Against the Machine’s cover of “Fuck the Police.”
“I’ve never considered Rage Against the Machine to be rap.”
I look at him, incredulous. “What?!“
“Well, first of all, I can understand what the guy’s saying. It’s not misogynistic. It’s not hate-filled.”
“Um, have you ever listened to them?”
“They’re a protest band.”
“A hate-filled one. I mean, honey, they’re called Rage Against the Machine, not Happy Tea Party Against the Machine.”

Saturday, February 26, 2005

If you see this man, give him a hug

Saturday, February 26, 2005 By , 1 comment

Scott decided to go to the store with both the dog and the baby. He must have had a head injury to do that. After he dropped Scrabble at Petsmart for a nail trim and flea bath, he went to Wal-Mart. Emerson helped him look for shoes by screaming the entire time.

"I finally went over to the baby section, tore open a package of pacifiers, and shoved on in her mouth. This pregnant lady was looking at me like I was desperate."

I wish I could follow him around with a video camera. It must be hysterical to watch.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Everyone Please Go Away

My husband was picking up dinners in 75-80 degree weather. Some old lady walked up to coo at Emerson and said, “Ohh. Did your daddy bring you outside without a hat?” Yes, but usually we just leave her head at home.

My mother-in-law came over to visit, and yelled at Scott every time he tried to touch his own daughter. “Wash your hands!” she shrieked. She called later to ask how things were, and he mentioned that they had picked me up at work. “Oh, no!” she cried. “You put Emerson in the car?!” No. We strapped her to the top.

Finally, we were at a birthday dinner and Allisonwas holding Emerson, who was being passed around and fed by about 10 different people - all the while Dot saying that she was eating too much. She usually drinks between two and four ounces - it depends on how she feels - and she was up to three. “If you want to feed her, see if she wants the rest of the bottle. She won’t drink it if she doesn’t want it.” Anyway, Allie didn’t burp her, and I wasn’t watching because I was talking. When she handed her back to Dot, Emerson spit up on her. “I knew you were feeding her too much!” Dot said, in a weirdly triumphant way. She went on while I apologized and offered to have her shirt dry-cleaned. She told me I was being ridiculous. But it was really annoying to have her go on about this like we were shoving the food down our daughter’s throat. I mean, the pediatrician said that she wasn’t eating enough.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Crossed Words

I’m back at work from maternity leave (2.5 weeks later; must be a record) and I miss Scott and Emerson so much it’s painful. When I get home after my second day, Scott gives me a play-by-play on what they did that day.

Scott: We slept in the bed together, we had a bottle, and we did the crosswords together.
Me: You did the crosswords together?
Scott: Yep.
Me: How many did Emerson get right?
Scott: Oh, she didn’t get any right.
Me: None?
Scott: Well, none of the clues were “eh!”

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

The Exorcist

Our normally complacent infant has been screaming her head off all day. After 5 straight hours of nap-free fussiness, during which I cannot manage to take a shower or walk the dog due to the ravings of my little hellmonkey, Scott comes home and offers to take her off my hands.

“Please!” I sigh, relieved that she’ll be bursting someone else’s eardrums for a while. Instead, she immediately settles down in his arms and goes to making great big goo-goo eyes at him.

Just when I’m about to threaten him with divorce if he ever pulls a trick like that again, Emerson erupts like Vesuvius, spewing formula all over the front of Scott’s jacket.


Thursday, February 10, 2005

Baby Signs

We’re Emerson on simple baby sign language like “mama” (a hand brushing her cheek) and “dada” (tapping your hand to your temple). Normally in sign language the sign for an individual is the first letter of their first name, which you make the sign for and tap against your chin.

We’ve decided not to do that. Instead, we’re going to teach her more appropriate, individualized signs. Such as the following suggestions we’re kicking around:

Granny (my mother): devil horns
Aunt Kelli: rotating index finger at your temple (the sign for “crazy”)
Uncle JD: holding your nose like you smell something bad
Nona (Scott’s mother): picking your nose

Feel free to make suggestions!

Sunday, February 06, 2005


Mom: “So Target next?”
Me: “No, I forgot the gift card. We’re going to use it for some Baby Einstein toys for Emerson.”
Mom: “Some what?”
Me: “Baby Einstein toys.”
Mom: “Oh! Well, as long as they’re not Baby Frankenstein toys...”

Friday, February 04, 2005

New Baby Smell

Me: She spits up a lot.
Scott: I changed into my Queen shirt because she knows not to spit up on it.
Me: Really? What’s that on your shoulder?
Scott (checking out the whitish stain on the black shirt):“Uh... Spit up. Dammit.