My baby, Stella, is now 16 months old, a toddler
already. And you know how toddlers
are: Though they’re still developing those verbal skills, sometimes it’s not too difficult to
know what they want, and what they’re thinking. I often wonder what Stella’s daily journal would look like, if she could
write or type (after all, Doogie Howser, did it). Here’s
a sample of what I think it might say.
I pooped in my grandma’s potted succulents collection
today. APRIL FOOLS!
We are at my grandparents’ house for a few days. My mom and older brother decided to take a spontaneous road trip to visit them. I personally think it’s because they were spooked by the latest
earthquakes we were having in L.A. and wanted to avoid “the big one.” I tried to convey to them in a series of consonant
sounds, “Don’t run from your fears.” But
then I’d only be making myself a target for hypocrisy accusations because, the vacuum cleaner.
I love being
here with my grandma and grandpa. They
give me whatever I want. And sometimes I
don’t even have to ask for it. It’s like
they read my mind. This morning, just to
test their mind-reading skills, I stood in front of the pantry for four seconds,
and they immediately got me a handful of marshmallows. It’s downright spiritual, our connection. Meanwhile,
my mom’s over there cutting up carrots for me, totally clueless.
We drove back to L.A. today. Since my dad is out of town, my mom did all the driving, which was
scary. She’s always bragging about her
driving skills, saying things like, she grew up on a farm and can drive a truck … yada, yada, yada. I may only be 16 months
old, but I have to think that shouting with angry face at every car in front of
her and muttering “oosh bag” under her breath are not skills but more
a sign of high blood pressure. And in case you were wondering, seven hours in a car is a toddler’s
living hell. I’m strapped into an
old food-encrusted chair for seven hours. OF
COURSE I’m going to cry for five of those. One hour crying was because I was uncomfortable. Two hours was because I NEVER got what I wanted at those gas stations
(beef jerky and toilet-shaped ashtray). And two hours was out of sheer boredom.
Where does a 16-month-old have to go to get a horsey ride?
I spent most of today trying to break free from the prison I
call clothes. Why must I wear them? Not only do they cage me with their mostly
cotton madness and rub against my skin all day but, to get them on and off, I
must lose the ability to breathe for at least three seconds; only to trust that
I’ll come out of it all alive while my mom hastily and rather carelessly pulls
them over my head. My mom doesn’t seem
to understand my plight. She points to
her clothes with a smug look and says something about how she has to wear
clothes, too. OK, mom. When you are forced to wear smocking and
bodysuits and clothing donning ridiculous things like ballerinas and a kitty
named Hello, THEN we’ll talk.
It’s been a little while since I wrote in my journal. Partly because my attention span is about the
same as a baby golden retriever’s, but mostly because my mom does most things
in her power to keep sharp objects, such as pens and pencils, away from
me. It’s actually really artistically
and emotionally stifling both knowing that I am being kept from fully
expressing myself on paper and also knowing that she has little faith in my motor
skills and judgment. This probably has
something to do with the incident in which I tried to shove the chopstick I
found on the floor into the electrical outlet. If my mom had really been using her brain, however, she would have
realized that lacquer is a really poor conductor of electricity. OK, now I’m bored and don’t feel like writing
My dad gets home from his business trip today. It was weird not seeing him for so long. I’ll be honest: He’s a lot nicer than my
mom. He more readily answers my requests
(e.g., giving in). And, let’s face it, he
has a MUCH nicer sounding voice than my mom. His British accent and choice of words always have him sounding like
Remington Steele. Meanwhile, she’s over
there sounding like a cross between Gary Busey and Roseanne Barr. Anyhoo, I’m super excited to show my dad my
new tricks, which includes how much I’ve grown in three weeks and some really
impressive vocab words which can’t be pointed out and showcased enough. I may just wake up in the middle of the night
to spend more time with dad. My mom has
suggested that to me, even.
My dad has been home for a day now, and he’s been sleeping
more than my favorite stuffed cat. He
tells me that it’s this thing called “jet lag.” I don’t care what it is; he’s been gone for three weeks, and I want some damn
horsey rides. My mom doesn’t seem very
sympathetic, either. She said she has
“waking-up-with-the-baby-for-three-weeks lag.” Where does a 16-month-old have to go to get a horsey ride?
Today we went to the beach for some family time. My dad and brother played rugby while my mom
tried to make a sand castle with me. But I just wanted to feed those big white birds my Pirate’s Booty. They were REALLY hungry, those birds. And I ate some sand. It was a pretty fun day.
Someday I’ll show Stella this, and we’ll probably
laugh. And she’ll tell me that maybe
it’s what she was really thinking. And
then she’ll go write in her journal about how she thinks her mother is bat sh*t