.::still blinking::.

My baby is one year old and he has opinions about everything.

What to eat for breakfast? I, the baby, the one who is in charge here, will take applesauce, half of whatever you are eating and I would like you to go and get me some fresh sausage, and some 4 minute eggs.

Don’t change my diaper. I am aware that there is poop leaking out all corner of the universe and I like it that way. And as soon as you open the flap I am going to get up and leave you with the mess. Why would I, the prince of the house, clean up something so obviously disgusting? I can see your face and I do not let bothersome disgustingness occupy my time.

I want to play in your bathroom drawer. I know that there are toys in my parents room, in the hall, in my room, they are everywhere. But you are getting stuff out of your bathroom drawer and I want to get it out of there also. I don’t care that is bobby pins and mascara remover, you are getting joy out of the drawer and not letting me have any happiness.

I don’t want to get out of the tub. You put me in here and now that you have given me a complete pat down, you want me to get out. I don’t think so, I would rather climb the walls of the shower with my little soapy seal body than get out of the tub. And when you lay me down to wash my hair I am going to kick so hard that I tranfer all the water from the tub to the sweater that you are wearing. I don’t care that this is your eighth wardrobe change of the day, I like variety in my life, except when it comes to anything that you want to do.

I want you to sit on the floor all day with me. Not that I need you so that I can have fun. No, I need you as a stepping stool so that I can reach the things that you put out of my reach. And if I crawl away from you that does not mean that you can move. It means that my attention has been temporarily diverted to something else, but if you get up and move than it will immediately come back to you. I will let you know how little attention you spend with me by screaming as loud as I can.

I will scream at you when you don’t get my food fast enough. I will scream at you when my bottle runs out of milk because I, like I little parasite, will drain everything that you got. I will scream at you when you are not looking at me. I will scream at you when I am tired. I will scream at you when I have just waken up from a nap, because you were not in the room watching me, waiting for when I would wake up. I will scream at you when you get me dressed. I would rather go around all day with no clothing (just like dad). I will scream at you all day long, maybe for no particular reason at all. Just because I am bored and you are not that entertaining.

He is so opinionated, and I don’t know where he gets it.

I really wish that people would stop bringing up the fact that I am not pregnant, nor do I plan on becoming such anytime soon.

I am aware that Gentry needs a family, and luckily for him he was born into a family of a mommie and daddie who love him.

However, I do not enjoy feeling like puking for 9 months, never actually doing the act, but wishing like crazy that it would happen so that you can go on with your life and feel better.

I don’t like the nerve damage that occurs making it impossible to recognize that you have a bladder, only to realize to late that you did just drink a liter of water and that it is now running down your leg.

I didn’t enjoy ripping so badly that my gastroenterologist is recommending a remote control rectum if I don’t get control back with other methods. But a remote control would not be so bad you would have absolute control, unless you lost the remote, than I wonder what would happen. I also did not enjoy the rectal exam. I will leave that to your imagination.

I did not enjoy bleeding from my boobs for 2 months and thinking about my baby drinking my blood the entire time. Which is actually ok, the doctor knew about it and said that it would eventually get better. It did, but the thought of it never really made me feel great. I especially did not like the bloody spit up.

Then there is the postpartum depression and pre-partum as well. We will just leave that debate up to Brooke Shields and Tom Cruise (who would probably actually benefit from the medication).

Thanksgiving was great. jj made a pumpkin, apple, and pecan pies. I only tasted the pecan, because really why would you even make the others. It was very good. I made a turkey and some stuffing. I think that my turkey needed a bit of work, I thought that it would be amazing with all the cooking wine and butter I put on it. The name of the recipe is “Worlds Best Turkey,” but I think it did not cook long enough. It was long enough to be safe, but not long enough to be tender. However, I did make some stuffing that was amazing. So good. The recipe follows:

Cranberry, Sausage, Apple Stuffing

Yum, it calls for vegetable broth, but does not say what to do with it, I dumped a cup on the stuffing in the pan before I cooked it. I also did not cook it inside the turkey. I really do not like the idea of shoving bread and otherwise good food into the internal cavities of animals.

I went to McDonald’s yesterday with some of my neighbors. I finally surrendered my hopes of not ever going to the germ infested play land with the golden arches. Gentry played, I watched from a distance and talked to the neighbors. They watched their kids from a distance also. From a distance your kids really are cute. It is when they are screaming in your arms and beating their head into yours that they are really not that cute. It is those times that you want throw them back across the room so that they can become cute again.

It was the first year check up for my son today. He was doing fine until the nurse came in with a sachel full of needles, (immunizations, they call them). He had SIX SHOTS today, including his flu shot. I felt so bad. He had three in each leg. The nurses finished up and blew the smoke from their smoking pistols. Gentry and I both left in tears.