it’s not about you

Thanks to Kelly Nygren for knitting Judah the uber-cool hat and scarf.

via Burnside Writer’s Collective.

Let’s be honest with ourselves. We all get angry. Anger is a natural part of our daily lives. For most people, anger may be felt once or twice a day. For those more serious about their religion, it may be felt a greater number of times. Like 4,000. One of the ways we express our angry feelings is with words. Bad words.

I get so offended when people swear in front of me. It hurts my ears, and it makes me feel bad for them. The Bible tells us to feel bad for people who aren’t Christians.

However, being a Christian myself, I refuse to swear. That is heathen talk. Profanity. The word profane means “of the common people.” Do you really want to be associated with common folk? Of course not. No good Christian in his right mind would. I mean as Christians we are supposed to be elevated above the common folk. That is also why I am a Republican, amen.

But I had a problem. How was I to express all this anger? I couldn’t say those bad words, so I had to figure out something else.

I thought about using euphemisms, like calling the toll booth operator a female dog, or the guy at Burger King a fatherless child, or an anus, or a bowel movement-head. But that would simply reduce my intended word-blitz from volatile verbiage to little more than an aborted word-eunuch.

Then it hit me: letters. Yes! Instead of actually saying the profane words that dribble so abundantly over the drunken, slutty, cold sore-encrusted lips of the un-churched, I could simply designate a letter to represent each hateful member of Satan’s lexicon.

Click the link the read the whole article. I laughed so hard, I almost snotted. This is the kind of stuff I wish I was writing.

A couple of days ago I was helping Judah “go potty.” I got her all situated and left the bathroom to tend to Killian, telling her that I would give her some privacy. Judah’s always trying to go in the bathroom when Joshua is in there and I tell her that Daddy needs some privacy, or I tell her I need some privacy when I’m in there. I think she understands the concept. Then again, I’m not so sure.

After I told her I would give her some privacy, and as I was closing the bathroom door, I heard her say, “I want some privacy.” A pause. “With cheese.”

Killian was 12 weeks old yesterday. I had thought I would/could post his ten and eleven week pics while traveling, but without my computer, alas, I could not. I uploaded my trip photos this morning, and alas again, I haven’t enough disk space for them. So those two weeks will have to wait. Amazingly enough, I did manage to get this one loaded. Glad I popped this card in first.

He’s done all kinds of new things the past three weeks, including fly on an airplane for the first time and go camping for the first time and laugh for the first time. That’s right, he laughed. Monday night, when we got back home. He couldn’t have done it sooner for his grandparents, no, he waited until he was back in San Francisco. Maybe he was just happy to be home. And we got it on video. Let’s see how long it takes for me to upload that.

He’s staying awake for longer periods now and is getting more involved in the conversations I’ve been having with him. He’s started eating his fists - he figured out how to grasp things and bring them to his mouth. Now all his blankets and clothes have wet spots from him gnawing on them. It’s reduced his need for a pacifier, which is fine by me, and I’m wondering if he’s ready for a chew toy.

He’s now a pro at holding up his head, and whenever I lay a very droopy-eyed Killian on his tummy for a nap, he decides he is no longer tired and must use his new-found ability to check out his surroundings for 15 minutes instead of going to sleep. Before, the weight of his head made him give in, but no longer. No longer.

I had an appointment at my midwife’s office yesterday, and was asked how he is doing. I said he’s doing great and the midwife said “he seems like a mellow baby.” I assured her that he was. He laid contentedly in a bouncer for the entire visit. A little too contentedly. Apparently he spent the entire time I was there pooping his pants. I had no idea his body cavities could hold that much of anything, much less the amount of poo that I wiped off of his bum and legs and stomach and between his toes and up his whole chest and out of his belly button and off the back of his shoulder blades and well, I hope you get the idea. Unfortunately, I only had four wipees and no change of clothes.

I had to wrap his outfit it one of those large pieces of paper gown they give you to cover yourself during a visit and stick it my non-purse bag. I used a bunch of wet and dry paper towels to clean him off after my four wipees gave out. He, of course, dispelled that mellow baby myth (it was a compliment, Killian!) and screamed bloody murder the whole time. I mean, wouldn’t you, if you were laying on an exam table under fluorescent lights (bad enough), naked (worse), while someone cleaned you off with wet, cold paper towels (over the edge, you know)?

I had planned to go to Ritual afterwards, but we had to go home to give him a bath, continue the bloody murder screaming rampage, and burn his clothes. Okay, I didn’t burn them, but I though about it. A lot. They actually sat in water in the tub all day until I had a chance to get to them. That definitely wasn’t one of yesterday’s “highs.” Nothing like a one-piece outfit covered in baby poo to make you so happy you decided to become a parent.

He then cried for most of the rest of the day. Mellow baby - whatever. Except really, he usually is. I didn’t know what his deal was until about 12:40 this morning when I woke up to the sound of one very congested Killian slinging snot back and forth through his nostrils. He’s taking after his sister, you see, who got sick a couple of days ago. It was then I realized one of the multiple-children-parenthood’s joys - when one of your kids gets sick, she will invariably pass it along to the other.

I think we’re gonna need more tissues.