Father Knows Best

So last week was a bit of a mess.  Oooooobviously.

I spent more time on the phone last week than I would have liked, passing along the rather sparse medical updates my father gave only via email except to those pushy enough, persistent enough, and lucky enough to catch him on the phone and make him talk about what the hell was going on with my mom (me, me and me).  This post is about what happened during just one of my zillions of telephone conversations.

Tuesday night, my sister BJ called for an update while Scott and I were bathing Brynn. Not 3 minutes after I call my sister back, my baby runs down the hallway into the den naked as a jaybird, laughing as though she's just heard the best joke in the world.

She stops.
She smiles slyly.
She looks me in the eye and then slaps her hands onto her thighs just before she squats down to pee on our rug while laughing hysterically.

The next five minutes played out like this: I yelled.  Scott squawked.  Scott ran.  Brynn ran. Brynn escaped. Scott triumphed. Diaper deployed. Scott puttered. Brynn escaped.  Brynn ran.  Brynn grabbed. Diaper cream smeared. Brynn laughed. Hands covered. Wall covered. Stuffed bear covered.  I yelled.  Scott squawked.  Scott ran.  Brynn ran. Scott wiped.  Bear washed.  Brynn escaped.  Brynn tookeverypapertoweloffarollandranawaywithittrailingoutbehindher.

Everyone yelled.  Everyone squawked.  BJ scoffed.

I laughed.  I laughed so hard it hurt and I suddenly knew everything was going to be ok.

It was awesome.

Embolisms of the Pulmonary Persuation

I woke up on last Saturday morning to a totally unexpected news flash: my mom is mortal.

My dad had to take my mom to the hospital the night before for what turned out to be a pulmonary embolism (a blood clot in her lung).

Whaaaaat?

How is this possible?

I grew up thinking my mother was a cross between Dirty Harry and Charles Bronson.  I always figured that if someone was ever stupid enough to shoot her, she'd pick the bullet out with her bare fingers and it would end up on the mantle as a reminder to everyone not to fuck with her.  She's not a violent person but she's got nerves of steel.  This whole experience sure has shown me I'm not so lucky.  My nerves are shot!

Daddy's Little Girl

I carried her for longer than the required 9 months.

I got fat for her...for awhile.

Every day I pack, chop, cook, sort, fold, scrub, tidy, wipe, sing, read, change, cuddle, comfort, carry, shop, brush, chase, feed, plan, clean, and play for her.


So, of course, I'm her fave, right?

Nope. Lately she most definitely daddy's little girl. He's the shiz and I'm most definitely shiz-less.

For example, when we all walk to and from the car we ask, "Do you want to hold Mommy's hand, Brynn?"  Her eyes get as big as dinner plates while her little eyebrows pull together. Her little feet stomp and she looks me right in the eye as she wags her finger frowningly and says, "Noooooooo" as though I've got razor blades glued to my palm.

I sound bitter.

Yup. Bitter.

Blogs Away!

I’ve been working on a project lately that made me realize I’ve been at this awhile.  Blogging, I mean.  I’m currently taking my blog and slurping it into book form so I can horrify my daughter once she’s old enough to read my rather colourful vocabulary and subject matter without either asking what “^%!@” means or staring horrified at the page.  Of course, if she’s anything like her mother and her Auntie Heather, I’ve got to get a move on because she’s overdue to begin swearing like a drunken sailor.  (She’s already repeated a few gems she’s overheard when the "Dinglie Danglie Doodle rule" was being ignored but those were isolated incidents.  Really.  They were.  Just isolated incidents and not part of a larger pattern that should cause anyone any concern, ok?  Ahem.)

For this book project, I went back to the beginning of my blogging “career” and it made me realize how much I’m enjoying this.  Yup.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I like writing.  In a perfect world, it is what I would do for a living.  Writing, I mean, not blogging.  Well, to be honest, if some benevolent stranger were to come to me and promise that I could make a living blogging I wouldn’t say no so I guess technically anything that involves creative writing is “ma thang.”

Sooo…anyone willing to pay me to do this? 

Any takers? 

…Anyone?

Aaaaaaaanyoooooone?

Sigh

Alrighty then.  Well, I honestly thought I would make my way in life as a writer once I came to the painful realization that Hollywood wasn't comin'a' knockin'.  Yup.  At one time, it was me or  some pouty chick named Angelina but because I wasn’t willing to make a complete idiot of myself by faking – badly – a bored British accent in every second film while wearing next to nothing and pretending to act, she got the big break.  Since I’m not willing to abandon what little dignity I have left or my love affair with Sir Mars of Bar, you can bet I’m not holding my breath for a late break into film stardom either. 

Anyway, I haven't exactly been burning up the pages with my creative stylings lately either...other than my bliggedy blogging...and I want to try to change that.  So what I want you all to do is tell people about my blog.  NOW.  Of course, what I really mean is that I want you to tell people GOOD things about my blog (I'm a big believer that specificity is important – careful what you ask for and all that).  That way, when I eventually pound out my Great Work of English Language Fiction, my huge fan base will read about it in my blog and they'll be so excited they'll all rush to the bookstore to buy it en masse.  

It will - of course – then end up on the NY Times Bestseller list and I'll be whisked off on a whirlwind book signing tour where I'll be showered with gifts of expensive shoes and designer clothing so I can look fabulous when I meet all my screaming fans.  Aaaah yes.  Truth be told, I’m a sad, shallow little artist trapped in a white collar day job who, yes, has indeed read that blogging with readership-building in mind is a no-no but TO HELL WITH THAT.  I WANT READERS.  I WANT TO KNOW I’VE GOT REGULAR READERS.  I like the thought of people enjoy reading mah dahm scribblin' so sprehd the gud wurd, fulks.  

I'll just sit here and try to feel the love in the meantime.  Oh, and I’ll even throw in a bit of work once in awhile 'cause that's just how I roll.