Yes, I am listening to Motorhead. But it isn’t what you think. John has downloaded a bunch of cds on to the new computer (for our own cd-owning personal use only you ascap people, you. Yeah, you, the ones who made us switch from cds to musac when I worked at an espresso bar in 1989. I still hate you. I’m even sticking out my tongue at you.) and they are randomly playing. In fact, I took so long to say all that mess that now it is changed to Skyclad.
I’m not so fond of heavy metal. Most of it just is amusing to me; like overly-earnest poetry or something. I do love me some Led Zepplin, though. I miss the local rock station because they had ‘get the led out’ at 5 p.m. during the workweek. And I know that they are not one and the same, but a few times when I was visiting my dad in Houston we saw the ZZ Top car on the road. Sadly, it was long ago, in the days before digital cameras and I didn’t have my big old polaroid on me.
Lexy slammed his broken arm arm in the sliding van door today. Hard. I was sure that he’d broken it, AGAIN. It seems okay now, though impressively bruised.
Willow is talking rather well these days. She sings along with songs that she knows and she likes to point out her siblings’ possessions; "Lexy chair! Nate packpack! Fofie pants!" Her only impediment, beyond the general baby pronunciation, is an inability to make an ‘N’ sound at the end of a word. She can say ‘N’ clearly at the beginning or middle and ‘Nate’ was one of her early and most frequent words. But things like man, come on, and can sound like ‘mat’ ‘amat’ and ‘cat.’ She really likes TinTin, or, in her language, ‘TinTit!" Tin tit. Now that’s funny.
Sophie has two boxes she’s fond of that are making me want to get the fireplace up to code. One is an empty Paas easter egg dye kit. Every day she clutches it to her body like the dear priceless possession that it is and we talk about which eggs on the back she will make at easter time. This is followed by a forty five or so minute discussion about when easter will be making another appearance, followed by, "Is it easter in the morning?" The other is a Softasilk cake flour box that I kept for reference after putting the flour in a canister. I’m not sure how she acquired that one, but it has pictures of cakes on it and her birthday is coming. The most prominent cake on the front is a seventy-two layered chocolate with vanilla frosting. The smaller picture is of an even more stacked wedding cake with flowers and butterflies and unicorns and lace and fairy princesses and swans and general sugar happiness. I have been ordered to make both cakes for her birthday.
I foresee some level of disappointment.
I keep meaning to record some of the pre birthday chatter, though. The party is at the evil chuckieee cheeze establishment because she worships the creepy rat and who am I to tell her no? I was not much older than she is now when I fell hard for Gunther Gebel-Williams, so I know where she’s at. Mostly she wants to know specifics about the thing; like is it a real mouse or someone in a suit? She is so looking forward to dancing with him at her party, and told me that Willow said she wants to dance with chuckieee too, naked. I told her Willow has got to wear a diaper. (otherwise, she’d be a party-pooper!) Some days she doesn’t talk about much else. It’s; "chukeeeee blah blah blah chucke blah blah (insert several hours here) oops! peed in my pants again! does chuckieee ever pee in he’s pants?" The best one, though, happened when we were getting ready to nap. Willow and Sophie and I were on the bed, and Willow was curled up next to me (not nursing) and starting to get the eye roll/deep breathing thing going when Sophie piped up with the chuckee questions. I said to her that I NEEDED some quiet so Willow could nap and that we’d talk about chuckee in a few minutes. "But Mom," she said, "it a mergency! I NEED to know. . . when chuckiee cheeze is home, all by hisself, what does he call hisself? is it just "chuckie" I mean, mom, you know, what is his nickname???" I laughed and woke up Willow.