Short but Amusing

I refer to both this blog post and The Small One. Both are short, both are amusing. At least in my estimation. Your estimation may vary.

This morning, upon waking, I realized that the headache I had gone to bed with was just about to turn into a migraine. Not good. Migraines are evil. I hate them with the fiery burning of a thousand suns. But, that is not the point of this blog post. The point is, whilst lying in bed bemoaning my fate (silently, as I did not want to wake The Small One, she awoke anyway.) Due to a serious need for sleep, The Man of the House opted to sleep in the nursery while Small and I slept in our bed. I don't blame him, my nasty cough keeps everyone awake.

Anyway, The Small One woke up and laid there for a moment, sideways with her head on my midsection, as per usual. Then she sat up and solemnly declared that she was "soggy boggo" and promptly began to remove her clothing. She is not one to wait around, she makes a decision and gets down to business. After divesting her thin frame of its clothing (and hurling the offending garments into the corner), she sat on the bed for a second. "I feezing" she tells me. I groaned. My head hurt. I lifted the covers and motioned for her to climb under the covers with me, but she demurred. She looked over at her crib, next to the bed, saw the blankets therein and made a decision. Crawling over to the crib, she grabbed her pillow and fluffed it, just as The Man of the House does, pulled and straightened the covers, one of which is the electric blanket she stole from her dear daddy, scooted up to the top of the bed and shinnied down into the pleasant warmth with an audible sigh of pleasure.

I looked at her and laughed. She is her daddy's daughter. Warm and cozy, buried under a pile of blankets, is the way to be. Although, she particularly likes to be buried in warmth whilst naken.

I asked her if she was comfortable. "I comfable," she replied, "my own daddy turn my blankly on for me." Then she demanded a bottle. It had to be warm as well. Fortunately, her daddy had provided one before he left for work. All I had to do was hand it to her.

Pleasantly, she remained like this for nigh unto an hour. Long enough for my meds to kick in and allow me to feel like facing the day. Bless the child.

More adventures from The Small One

Who is getting to be not so small! Not sure I like that plan!

This morning, once again arising earlier than I prefer, The Small One announced that it was time to get up. Not only was it time to get up, but she had to go potty. Normally, she is quite capable of going potty by herself, but it was a rather darkish morning and the lights weren't on. I groaned, not wanting to get up as I had a rather sleepless night. She was demanding. But...ah, blessed baby. She wanted Daddy to be the one to come help her. Hallelujah! At least from my point of view. Not from his. Lazy beggar didn't want to get up either.

After going potty, she returned to the bedroom, where she spied my bottle of Powerade. I don't particularly like Powerade, but I was stricken with a dehydration headache last night, so got Powerade instead of water for the bedside. Over trots The Small One, picks up the bottle and looks me straight in the eye. Dis my juice. Okay, you can have it. Dis MY juice. It for me. Not for Mamma. Fine, you naughty stinker, take the juice. And again, with finger pointed my direction, for emphasis. Dis my juice. You not cannot hab any. And turning on her heel, she marches out of the room. Ah, my sweet, generous, sharing baby. Not.

We read scriptures and say prayers at night and The Small One is learning how to do it herself. The other morning, she climbed into bed with me, grabbed my Scriptures and opened them. I will read scritures to you, Mamma. Ok, baby, that would be nice. She flips a couple of pages, settles back into the pillow and says, An it came a pass, (blah, blah, nonsense words), an it came a pass, (more nonsense words) and it came a pass! I all done! With that, she shut the book, got down and went to watch Spongebob.
You should hear her say her prayers. Let me tell you, this kid is grateful for EVERYTHING!

She is becoming more and more independent by the day. Somehow or another, she figured out how to buckle her carseat buckle, but it takes FOREVER for her to do so. Then I get frustrated that she is taking so long and try to "help" her. Thanks, but no thanks, she does not need (want) help! So, as we are getting ready to leave a parking lot, my mom, in the passenger seat, turns around to help The Small One buckle up. NO! DON"T BUCKLE MY DOTTOM!!!!! Yeah, she didn't want help buckling the bottom buckle. I tried to warn my mom, but alas, she would not listen. But now I tell The Small One to behave or I will spank her dottom. She looks quizzically at me when I say that, because, you know, the little folk hear themselves saying the word correctly, but when you mimic them, they just don't get it. Silly baby.

Well, if I can get my battery charged and download my camera, the next post will contain photos and video. You are sure to get a laugh!

Tootle

The Small One refused to take a nap today. This is happening with increasing regularity, which does NOT make me happy. She is far too young, in my humble opinion (and mine is the only one that matters), to be discontinuing her naps. Her naps are my free time, my quiet time, the time during the day in which I am allowed to work. If she gives up her naps, I could conceivable lose this time. This is a daunting idea. Of course, there is always quiet time, but this is something The Small One has a difficult time with. She is not good at the quiet. But, come on! She isn't even two and a half yet and wants to give up naptime? Although, my mother says she is two going on five, what with the way she talks and struts about the place. There is certainly something to be said about the confidence of The Small One.

Anyhow, so she refused her nap, which, come evening time, left her very tired and a bit cranky. I did not want to let her go to bed too early, because then she will wake up too early and, as I am sure to have mentioned before, I do not like to get up early. I also do not like to make The Man of the House get up too early on the weekends, as he does it during the week. Point being, if The Small One gets up early on the weekend, I have to get up with her.

The Man of the House, being the chivalrous gent that he is, went over to the church to print off the monthly Church Newsletter for me as I prefer not to be in the church alone at night. Creepy. So, I remained behind to put The Small One to bed. She whined piteously at me that she was ready for bed, so I asked her if she wanted her jammies. She did. Off she trotted to the nursery to find them. I clothed her in her nightwear and asked if she would like to go to bed now. She said yes. So, I took her and laid her in bed. She sat up. "I need my Tootle!" Your what? I queried. "My Tootle! I need my Tootle!" Your Tootle? I queried again, perplexed. "My Tootle! My dog!" Ah, now I understand. She needs her little stuffed poodle that Memma gave her yesterday. Her Toodle. I rousted out said Toodle, gave it to The Small One, she said thank you (unfailingly polite, she is) rolled over and went to sleep.

P.S. Would you like to know the names of her other dollies and things? Of course you would!
She has several dollies (not babies, so don't call them that and don't refer to her as their Mamma. She doesn't like it) They are named-Georgina, Alsatia, Blue and Purple. The other two don't have names.
She has two kitties, Grey and Tabby.
She has a Kangaroo named Pop.
And now she has a Poodle called Toodle.

Oh, and we cannot forget Torres, the Wonder Pup. He is one of those little soft lovies that babies have.

Sniff, sniff

Smell is perhaps the most evocative of the senses. It most assuredly is, for me. Certain scents can stop me in my tracks, dragging me rapidly back to a certain memory here or there. And certain scents remind me of the people to whom they belong. For instance, my older brother, who used to have waist length hair, used Pantene shampoo and conditioner. It was a very long time before I could use it on a regular basis because when I did, well, I smelled like my brother! Not that there is anything wrong with my brother, I just didn't want to smell like him.

The Small One, of course, has a readily identifiable scent. I love it, it makes me happy when I lay down on one of her blankies and can smell her.

There are two particular scents which overwhelm my mind with memories and images whenever I catch a whiff. The first is Dewberry, from The Body Shop. Oh, the fond memories this evokes. Dewberry is the smell of my London apartment. Every time I smell it, I am transported back to my tiny, cramped flat in South Kensington. I remember the noise of the traffic on Queen's Gate, the sight of the little French schoolgirls, dressed like Madeline, parading down the street to their school. I recall the tininess of our postage stamp sized kitchen. The sound of the (very annoying) pigeons which roosted on the back courtyard. It brings back memories of my flatmates, costume designers, all, and very quirky.

From Drop Box

I attach the scent of Dewberry to my flat in London for a very good reason. Shortly after arriving there, I was shopping in Covent Garden and my hands were VERY dry. I hate dry hands. And I am OCD enough that once I realize my hands are dry, I cannot stop thinking about it and must remedy the situation immediately. So, upon realizing, I promptly began searching for said remedy.

Covent Garden is crowded with shops and I did not think it would take but a moment to find a chemist and get some lotion for my poor hands. Alas, there was no chemist to be found! What was I to do? Then I spotted it, The Body Shop. This was well before they were here, so I had never heard of them, but could guess it would be rather outside my price range. But, what could I do? I couldn't enjoy my excursion if all I could think about was how dry my hands were. So, I went in.

There were only a couple of bottles of lotion small enough for me to afford, so I sniffed and bought the one I found least offensive. I did not particularly like it, but I was in need, so there you go. My hands found relief and the bottle of lotion went into my bag, and consequently, into my makeup bag back at the flat. I didn't want to waste my money and so I used the lotion whilst in London, though I did not care for the smell.

Fast forward, back to the states. I had been home quite some time when I walked by a Body Shop in Salt Lake. It had just opened and there was a girl at the front handing out those little paper strips with perfume on them. She handed me one and I took a delicate sniff. The shock was almost like an assault, but very pleasant. I was stopped dead in my tracks. The scent she had handed me was Dewberry. It had been a year or two since London, but it was like I had stepped back into my flat and was getting ready for another day of adventure. I could see and hear everything so clearly! Since then, I have purchased Dewberry rarely. I use it sparingly as I want it to continue to remind me of London, I don't want it to gain any other associations as that particular association is a very happy one for me. To this day, when I open a bottle of Dewberry Lotion, the memories are as clear as when they actually happened, sigh, 13 years ago.

Which reminds me. I haven't had Dewberry lotion for a long time. Perhaps I ought to try and remedy that.

For Kaytee

Kaytee thinks I don't post enough pics on this blog. I expect she is right. So, here, for the benefit of Kaytee and all other interested parties, are some pics. Possibly with captions.

My adorable and adored Small One.

From Drop Box

The Small One and The Man of the House enjoying a bit of leisure time. Note the requisite lack of pants on the part of The Small One. And the ever-present popsicles.

From Drop Box

This is what happens when The Man of the House gets The Small One ready for bed. It makes my sensibilities ache.

From Drop Box

The Small One figured out she could make a "splinkler" by sticking her thumb in the end of the hose. This was a daily occurence when the weather was super hot. She is "watering the garden".

From Drop Box

And here she is hauling around her giant bag of...stuff. It contains Georgina and Blue, a towel, a blankie, some binkies and a couple of books. You know, the important stuff!

From Drop Box

I hope that takes the edge off your hunger for pics. At least a tiny bit.

I have discovered an easier way to post them, so I hope it worked. If it did, there will be more pics in the future. Just for you Kate. Just for you.

You know those security words they have you type in on certain sites? So they can make sure you are not a computer? Sometimes, they are hysterical. Like today's little soldier in the world of Spam Prevention. Today was...fordspog. Hehe. Fordspog. Sounds like an epithet a Dodge owner would throw at a Ford owner. Man, that dude is such a Fordspog!

Don't you think?

Wishful Thinking

I had the pleasure of IM'ing a very dear friend of mine today. She was stressed out about work and whatnot and mentioned that she wishes she could take a two month vacation. A real one. Not one of those quick vacations where you run about trying to sightsee all there is to see and not blow all your money and know that you have to come home to your messy house and a pile of laundry and that you are tired in every bone and need a vacation to get over your vacation. (How was that for a run on sentence?)

No she meant a REAL vacation. The kind people like us don't get to take for a variety of reasons. Between us, we came up with the ideal, relaxing vacation for us. Which we would take together.

Would you like to know what it involves? Of course you would!

For starters, it has to be far away from where we live. She lives on the West Coast, I live in Utah. Far away would be the East Coast. We think Maine. And of course, it needs to be ON the coast.

So, a beach house in Maine. Oh, lovely. This beach house would be older, charming, hardwood floors, BUT it would have one very, very important upgrade. A gourmet kitchen. Now, the friend is not sure she would want to cook, but I assure you I would. For a couple of reasons. One, I would have at my fingertips the freshest seafood obtainable. Oh, the joy! I have had East Coast fresh seafood before, during a delightful sojourn in Charleston, SC. (Possibly one of my most fave trips EVER!) I know whereof I speak. That is some tasty eating. I guarantee I would be inspired to cook. If I had a gourmet kitchen, I would be doubly inspired, since I currently the not too proud owner of a small, non-gourmet galley kitchen.

In addition to the gourmet kitchen, the beach house would come equipped with a sleeping porch, fully equipped with hammocks and cots. Have you ever known the joys of a sleeping porch? Me either, but imagination tells me it is a good thing.

Also, a sittin' porch. With rockers. And hammocks. On both porches, because, you know, some of us might like to rock supine, whilst others prefer to remain upright.

It would be fairly sparsely decorated, I think. Bedrooms painted cool blue with bright white bedding and a few cosy rugs. A front room with an internet connection, but NO TV. A couple of lambswool rugs and a fat couch with a canvas slipcover. Some lazy chairs and a lot of good pillows.

The bathrooms are important. Clawfoot tubs are a requirement, you know. I do know the joys of bathing in an enormous clawfoot tub. I own one. It occupies the vast majority of my tiny bathroom, but I would not trade it. No way.
Clawfoot tubs, with a separate shower.

Oh, I forgot, right off the porch would be a shower tiled in natural rock. For the rinsing off of beach sand, of course. We don't want to track too much of it into the house, it is uncomfortable on bare feet with wood floors.
And in that mode of cleanliness, there would, without a doubt, be a housekeeper. No question there. We are not vacationing to clean house or do laundry or dishes. Heaven forbid!

And last, but hardly least, it would have a well stocked library. This is of the utmost importance. We plan to be very lazy most of the time. Of course, we will work off the abundant extra calories by taking a morning swim in the surf. But the time not spent cooking, eating, swimming or sleeping will be spent reading. All of the books we have been wanting to read but haven't had the time.

It is sort of wrong, you know, to not have the time to read. No, not sort of wrong. Very wrong. I would of course, bring along my knitting. And possibly teach my friend how to knit. She has learned crochet, time to branch out.

What do you think? Does it sound relaxing? I think I will start planning now, I need to save up!