Friday, September 12, 2014


Lying on a blanket with Adelaide a month or so ago, I stick my feet up in the air, showing her my toes, tickling hers, hoping she’ll make the connection. She can’t find her feet, but I can find mine, and I realize two things: 1) There is a time in our lives when we do not yet realize we have feet (what other secrets is the universe hiding from us?), and 2) I have chocolate on my left foot.

How does one get chocolate on her left foot? I do not know exactly how, but I know who, and her name is Muffin.

The muffins were Grammy’s, and then they were Mom’s, and now they are mine. Mom made them on Saturday mornings. They were hot, and I would watch the butter melt. This is the taste of Saturday.

Now I have my own house, and I have them on hand not just Saturdays, but all days. Tonight they lured me out of bed.

“We are your muffins,” they beckoned. “Come visit with us.”

They are my muffins.

Last week, Husband says, “You have chocolate on your face.”

“I made muffins,” I say.

“Where are they?” says he.

“They are on my face and on my foot and in my heart.” (They are also on the leopard couch pillow.)

My muffins make me poetic.

Chocolate muffins
Perfect with a glass of milk
You are my dream food

Muffin calls my name
Taunts me like a game
This sleepy head
Is out of bed
Could I be insane?

Adelaide has an exersaucer, and she is content in this exersaucer for one minute less than it takes to make my muffins. I frantically scoop that batter into the foil tins and say, “Hold on, baby girl! Hold on!” Eventually I have to choose between my muffins and my baby, and don’t worry, I always pick the baby. But now I outsmart my baby and pre-make part of the muffin mix ahead of time, so I can have my baby cakes and eat muffins, too. Someday I will make them for her on Saturday mornings, and she will watch the butter melt, and she will know life is good. She already smacks her lips when she sees them, but she can’t have them because muffins are not typically recommended for 5 month olds. “Maybe at 6 months?” Husband says. He likes the muffins, too. “Sweet lamb,” I say gently, “it’s a good thing you’re so pretty.”

The muffins live on my counter, clothed in gleaming silver wrapping. They are beautiful, and they are mine. Sometimes they turn out kind of weird, but I never care. They are my muffins, and I love them even when they are having an off day. And Adelaide and pretty pretty Husband, I love you when you are being kind of weird and having an off day.

These muffins are made with gluten and redemption. Because even if the house is a mess, when there are muffins on the counter, the muffins remind me that I am domesticated and successful and productive and poetic and hungry. And that I love my messy house and my Grammy/Mom/Me muffin recipe and this baby that asks to be held in the middle of it all.

Thursday, September 4, 2014

pepper fetus

"Entertain me, peasants."
Oh I know, I’ll write about my BABY. But you know, that’s my job now, this baby, and so at the end of the day, that’s the thing I talk about. And you need to know that I have had some WEIRD jobs, one of which required my attendance at a function so sketchy it necessitated that my then 17-year-old brother accompany me and pretend he was an architect named Tim, which is weird because now he’s an architect named Phil. And then I tried to quit that job twice but was ignored both times, so I kept going to work. 

But this mothering the baby job, this is the oddest of the jobs. This baby is really alert and really royal and really insistent that she be entertained by her peasant mother. But then she’s like, “UGH MOM YOU ALREADY TOLD THAT JOKE GET SOME NEW MATERIAL,” and then I’m scrambling to do something NEW! FUN! ENTERTAINING! before she throws tomatoes at me or has me hauled off to the dungeon. Now I daily find myself in some odd singing and jig dancing situations that obviously I have been sharing with everyone because of that share-embarrassing-things-compulsion that forced me to start this dumb blog in the first place.

Last week I ended up standing on top of a ledge, looking out a window, swaying, and singing about spaghetti covered in cheese and the meatball that was lost when somebody sneezed and how it rolled off the table and onto the floor and then that poor meatball rolled out the door, and then I was like WHYYYYY is this a song??? And then later, when I was bouncing on the bed and singing about down by the bay where the watermelons grow and how back to our home, we cannot go because if we do, our mother will say, “Have you ever seen a whale with a polka dot tail down by the bay?” and then I was like WHOSE MOTHER WOULD EVER SAY THAT?? and WHO IS WRITING THESE WEIRD SONGS?? and also WHALES WITH POLKA DOT TAILS NEATO! 

I don’t know why I know these weird songs, but I suppose I’m glad that I do because they are coming in handy with the demands of my new job and my very demanding bald baby boss.

Last week while Her Majesty Baby was crying, Husband cut a pepper in half, and there was a weird little growth inside the pepper. Husband says, “What is this?” And I say, “It’s a pepper fetus.” And Queen Madam Baby stopped crying because she thought that was funny. Then Husband says, “Should I eat it?” and I said “NO! We do not eat fetuses.” And then Royal Highness Baby thought that was funny. So then I said, “It’s a pepper fetus, please don’t eat us!” And it was working, this pepper fetus talk, and Lady Baby was pleased. So then I invented a little jig and chanted, “It’s a pepper fetus, please don’t eat us!” I did this about ten times and then Husband chimed in, dancing and chanting, “It's a pepper fetus, please don’t eat us!” This goes on for several minutes until we are like, “It’s a pepper fetus, please don’t eat us OH NO WHAT IS HAPPENING WHY ARE WE WEIRD,” and then I’m like, “I think I am going to be less judge-y about the lyrics to the sneezing spaghetti song.”