Chookooloonks

The most foul, cruel and bad-tempered rodent you ever set eyes on!

Happy Halloween!

Alexis Rhys as "The Killer Bunny"
Monty Python & the Holy Grail
1975

The Top Four Reasons Why My Nose Is Currently Experiencing Unmitigated Agony

I think she thinks she's kissing me.

Ergo, a proposal for the banning of all kissing from the premises is currently under consideration.

Justifiable Cap-icide

No jury would convict her.

The lens cap was just sitting there.

Mocking her.

Incidentally, these photographs also provide irrefutable evidence of why your mother always insisted you use a coaster before putting your glass on the coffee table.

Right now, somewhere in the Caribbean, my mother is smiling smugly to herself.

And that's how I know.

Next week, Alex will be eight months old. Eight months old. How did that happen so fast?

Recently, as I was blog-surfing (which I do constantly, because, I've come to learn, blog-surfing is the new crack), I ran across the writings of someone who was about to embark on an adoption journey after dealing with years of infertility. She was in the throes of pre-adoption panic (hey, we've all been there), wondering, in essence, after all she'd endured with painful surgeries and fertility treatments, and after going through the emotionally arduous process of adoption, what if, God forbid, the little baby finally placed in her arms didn't actually feel like "her baby"? What if her son or daughter grew up never feeling like she was his/her "real mom"? What if, I suppose she wondered as an adoptive mother, she'd miss out on what a "real" mother felt like?

Poor woman. Many responded that she was being silly, that of course she would feel like her child's "real mother," and that her fears were unfounded. Perhaps, but I suspect all the well-meaning comments didn't make her panic any less real. So, for that poor tormented woman, and all other men and women out there who are still waiting to be matched with their sons/daughters and who are having similar fears and worries, the following true story is for you.

As you know, Alex's adoption is an open adoption, which means that we have a relationship with her birthmother. This wonderful woman was generous enough to invite us to be present at the birth of Alex. It was a really cool experience -- I'd never seen a child born before -- but it was actually what happened immediately after Alex was born that made the event absolutely unforgettable.

So Alex was born, and she was upside down in the doctor's arms, and he was cleaning all the birth gunk from her face and neck. At this point, I was sort of numb, and my first thought was that it was not possible that this little, tiny child was going to come home with us in a couple of days.

My second thought is that this baby was the most beautiful shade of cerulean blue I have ever seen in my life.

Alex's birthmother asked, "Doctor, why isn't she crying?"

The doctor replied, "I don't want to her to cry just yet. The umbilical cord was wrapped around her throat. Just one second."

The doctors and nurses kept doing their thing. I wasn't nervous, because they seemed pretty calm. And just as I was wondering if I should be nervous, the doctor said:

"Okay, she's going to cry ...now."

And Alex took this big inhale ....

... and she turned pink. First her arms, then her hands, and her legs and her little face and chest. And, as corny as this may sound, it felt like we'd just witnessed her soul, which had been waiting in the delivery room with us, flying into her body, and giving her life. And I was convinced, at that very moment, that this little girl was meant to be ours, and had we not been waiting there for her -- had her birthmom decided not to place her, or if there'd been another adoptive family in the room -- a different soul would have entered her body, and she would have been a totally different person.

And then she started to bellow.

Anyway, Alex has proved me right every day since. She's just ... well, like us, I suppose. She gets our senses of humour. She'll look at Marcus and I being goofy with each other, and with her, and she laughs. We all just fit.

So, I guess the point of all of this is that when you adopt, you have to believe that God, or Allah, or Fate, or the Universe or Whatever You May Believe In has a plan. So for those of you out there waiting to be matched to your child, or waiting for that fateful call, trust that the child you bring home is meant to be yours and yours alone.

I promise.

Houston, we have lift-off

Well, it's official. Girlie-girl started crawling on Sunday.

Now, I have to say, while I'm proud of her mobility, it ain't pretty. Most babies glide when they crawl. Alex does this thing where one knee is on the ground, and one foot is on the ground, thus giving her a Quasimodo-esque gait. When I told my dad about this, he said in his thick Trini accent: "Eh-HEH! Her chassis BENT!"

(Translation for Texans: The kid's gotta hitch in her giddyup.)

It must be quite tiring, too, because every now and then she stops, and does a "downward-facing dog" yoga pose to relax:

No matter. What she lacks in grace, she makes up in enthusiasm.

Hide and Seek

A Quick Update, and Because You Asked

The Quick Update:

I just spent the last couple of days at a conference in Washington, D.C. (The reason that I and others like me were required to attend this conference is a post in itself. However, I've made a solemn oath that I would never post anything about my current work and workplace on this website. That said, if I ever leave my job, someone remind me, and I'll tell you the story.) It was the first time I'd spent any nights away from Alex, and I gotta tell ya, I didn't handle it well. I kept nudging my co-workers: "Hey, wanna see pictures of Alex?" By we got back to Houston, they practically pushed me off the plane.

Anyway, when I got back, I discovered that Miss Alex had done some growing while I was gone. Marcus made me wait downstairs, and took Alex upstairs. I heard things opening and closing, and then Marcus yelled, "Okay, Karen, come on up!"

As I started up the stairs, I realized Alex was standing up.

Okay, she was using the safety gate for support, but STILL! And Girlie was proud, too:

I'm so going to have to take these pictures with me on my next business trip to Washington ...

Because You Asked:

A lot of you have asked where I get Alex's clothes. I'm happy to share, but before I do, you need to understand My Children's Clothes Philosophy. It's long and extremely complicated, but in essence, I ascribe to the following ideology:

1. In general, I hate the "pink is for girls and blue is for boys" type of thinking. Kids should wear what looks good on them. It's silly to succumb to the sexist credos of today's society.

That said, Alex looks really good in pink.

2. Pastels are icky. I mean, these are kids, for heaven's sake! They should be in bright colours! Funky designs! Eccentric prints! Besides, there may come a time when all my child will do is brood and wear black. I'm going to have my fun while I can.

Okay, with that backdrop, the following are the places where I buy the majority of Alex's clothes:

First, the places with actual storefonts. One of my favourite children's stores where the items are surprisingly cheap and the clothes really colourful (like the trousers Alex is wearing, above) is The Children’s Place. Really great store, and everything goes with everything. The sizes run a bit small (at least for Alex - she's current wearing their 18-month pyjamas!), but besides their website, they have a TON of locations in malls all over the place. And the best part? You can buy a lot of clothes for very little money -- especially when they have a sale. And they always have a sale.

My absolute favourite storefront, however, is Oilily. Oh, those wacky Dutch!! Their clothes are AMAZINGLY bright and cheerful (see Alex's outfit in this post). However, a warning: (a) they don't have an on-line store, (b) the actual stores are hard to find, and (c) they are incredibly, exorbitantly expensive. I mean crazy expensive. They have wonderful sales (although their sales feel like a splurge, too), so I just got on their e-mail list, and whenever they announce a sale, I go. But to be honest, we haven't bought too many of Alex's clothes here.

The majority of the time, however, I buy Alex's clothes online. One of my favourites is Lit’l Lizards, where I've bought Alex a bib with sushi on it (I love sushi), and the cute hat-and-trousers outfit she's wearing here. They're stuff isn't cheap, either, but they're not as bad as Oilily (trust me, nothing is as bad as Oilily). They also have a storefront in San Francisco, so whenever they have a sale, I get my sister to go for me, and she picks out whatever she thinks is cute, and I mail the money to her.

I have a good sister.

My other favourites: Oliebollen, Pokkadots, and for shoes, Robeez. I love Robeez. I'm embarrassed to tell you how many pairs Alex has.

So that's pretty much of all my Alex-wardrobing secrets. Do me a favour, though: if you buy your daughter anything from these stores, could you give me a call? I mean, imagine how embarrassing would it be if your daughter and mine both showed up at the same social function wearing the same outfit.

Bayou City Art Festival

When I was an undergraduate student, lo, many years ago, I studied civil engineering. As a neared the completion of my degree, I found myself in need of some additional electives, so I decided to take some art history courses. I wasn't particularly excited about taking these classes, since (a) as I general rule, I abhorred history, and (b) I was an engineer, by George! I was all about calculus! And t-squares! And pocket protectors, for heaven's sake! What did I know of art??

Well, as it turns out, my year studying art history was my favourite. I loved everything -- the artists of the Renaissance, the modern artists, the post-modernists. It was in those classes that my passion for art was born. Naturally, years later when I met Marcus, the fact he was an artist gave him unlimited sex appeal points. And once we married, we began collecting art in earnest.

Needless to say, Marcus and I hope to instill this love of art in Alex. And with the garbage on television and radio constantly bombarding us, we figured that we better start early. So when the weather finally broke, and the temperature dropped below 95 degrees, we decided to take a trip to the Bayou City Art Festival, and expose the child to some culture.

We dressed Alex in her most artistic-looking outfit, and off we went. The festival was pretty impressive -- it spanned several blocks (which, trust me, in Houston, is pretty amazing), and some of the artists were astounding. We wandered from stall to stall, admiring the sculptures, the paintings and the jewelry. After the stifling summer, it was really refreshing to get outside for a bit. And Alex really enjoyed it.

(An aside: apparently, Alex enjoyed the day so much, she decided to resurrect her shrieking -- except she added this sort of guttural wail at the end. We'd be wheeling her along, and she'd start off -- first really piercing, ending with this maniacal groan. People would walk around to the front of the stroller, wearing these concerned looks, until they realized that she was happily grinning with her foot in her mouth. It got so bad, eventually I started walking 6 or 7 feet behind them, saying in a loud voice, "Can you believe that kid?? Why the hell doesn't that father control his child??"

Marcus was not amused.)

Anyway, it was a great day (shrieks notwithstanding), and we were feeling pretty smug -- what wonderful parents we were, exposing our child to the fine arts at such an early age.

And then, we approached a very large acrylic painting called "Bad Slice."

There, before us, was a detailed, close-up portrayal of a golf ball nestled in a man's backside.

At this point, Marcus and I did the only thing we could do...

...we immediately turned the stroller around, took Alex home, and plopped her in front of the television. I'm hoping that the violence and inappropriate situations will erase the memory of the painting, because I have no clue how I'm going to explain that.

The Post Where I Rant and Rave About Things That Have Nothing to Do With Alex, But Has a Gratuitous Picture of Her Anyway

Permit me to rant.

I have a few -- okay, many -- pet peeves, it seems. If I look at them objectively, I know that they're insignificant. In the grand scheme of things, there's no reason that these little frustrations should get under my skin. But I can't help it -- they do. And recently, they've been popping up constantly. And I mean a lot. And if I don't vent about it, I may become homicidal, and you wouldn't want that on your conscience, would you?

So now, without further ado, the Top Ten Things That, The Next Time Someone Does One Of Them, I Will Not Be Responsible For My Actions:

10. Okay, I know this is petty, but SERIOUSLY, if you've had 6th grade English, you should KNOW this one. "It's" means "IT IS." "Its" is the possessive of "IT." Let's not mix them up, okay?

And for those of you who write "its'," don't even speak to me.

9. The word "irregardless" is not a word, people. Use "regardless." It'll get you there, I promise.

8. I swear to God, the next time someone writes to "congradulate" me, I'm going to go postal.

7. If you don't know where Trinidad and Tobago are, that's fine -- they're tiny islands, I don't expect everyone to know them. But for heaven's sake, just ADMIT it. Do not assume that they are the same as Jamaica (see Figure 1), or worse, ask: "Trinidad, TEXAS??"

6. And while we're on the subject, people from Tobago are called "Tobagonians," pronounced "To-bah-GO-knee-uns." They are not, nor will they ever be, "Toboggans." Do not call them that. It's not nice.

(Incidentally, the word "Caribbean" can be pronounced "Ca-rib-BEE-un" or "Ca-RIB-bee-un" -- either are correct. I'm a "Ca-RIB-bee-un" person, myself.)

5. Okay, I wear my hair short -- but this does not mean (a) I hate men, or (b) I implicitly give you permission to reach out and touch it to see how it feels. Do not assume as such. At least ask me first.

4."Ethnic" does not mean "non-white." "Ethnic" means relating to a sizable group of people sharing a common and distinctive racial, national, religious, linguistic, or cultural heritage. I recently heard someone describe all black woman as "women of ethnicity." Well, yes ... but a white woman would be a "woman of ethnicity," too, people. Can't we all just get along?

3. I've said this before, but it bears repeating: do NOT ask me if I've spoken to Alex's "real mother," recently. As far as I'm concerned, it's like asking me if I talk to myself. Which I do, but there's no reason to make an issue of it, is there?

2. Don't tell me how horrible my child is going to be when she gets older, because "they all act that way." Just because you can't keep your little heathens in line doesn't mean that I'm not going to be able to raise a good kid. And besides, I'm sort of enjoying this whole parenting thing right now, you know? Quit harshing my mellow.

And the Number One Thing That, The Next Time Someone Does This, I'm Going to Seriously Lose It is:

1. Wear a Size 0. Or "forget to eat." I mean, seriously -- what the hell is THAT?

And now, for the gratuitous picture of Alex. You may have seen this one before --it's Alex's "Gila Monster" face -- but I recently realized that her expression looks uncannily like mine when I go off on a rant like the one above.

Think she got it from me?

If I Could Talk to the Animals

I've never been a fan of the zoo. To me, the zoo is the Guantanamo of the animal kingdom: a sort of detention center for animals who have been captured (without due process, by the way), and confined in areas that are clearly much smaller than any happy animal would have it. In the past, if someone had coerced me into a zoological visit, I would wander from cage to cage, looking sadly into the animals' listless eyes, while working mightily against the irresistible urge to open up their pens and run after them, arms waving madly, screaming, "Go! Run away!! BE FREEEEEE!!!"

It was therefore with some trepidation that I went with Marcus and Alex and some friends of ours on a trip to the Houston Zoo this past weekend. It occurred to me that perhaps the time had come for me to give the zoo another chance -- after all, how else is a kid supposed to learn her animals? Besides, Alex seemed open to it:

So off we went.

First, we visited the giraffes. As we wheeled Alex up, a curious giraffe approached...

...and Alex, who to this point, had experience only with animals of a domesticated nature, was slightly bewildered, to say the least.

Next, we wondered over to a pond, where an alligator was sunning himself.

Alex was decidedly unimpressed.

At this point, I was a bit worried. Alex didn't seem to be enjoying the animals, and I was wheeling her around with a death grip on her stroller, muttering under my breath like Rain Man...

..."Gottastayawayfromthecages. Animalsneedtostayinalcatraz. Gottastayawayfromthecages. Animalsneedtostay..."

Why, then, were we even here? Why didn't we just leave?

But then, as I was about to suggest this to Marcus, we wandered by the rhinoceroses:

We stopped. I looked at Alex, and waited for her reaction. Alex turned and looked at me, and for the first time, she seemed... dare I say ... pleased?

So I kept my mouth shut. If Alex was starting to enjoy herself, then I supposed I could contain myself for a little while longer.

Finally, we made it to the great cats. I slowly wheeled Alex up to look at a tiger that was wading through his pond:

And Alex lost it. She started clapping her hands, and waving her arms with unbridled glee:

So now?

Well, now, I still don't like zoos. But I gotta tell ya, if a zoo can get that kind of reaction out of my kid, I'll concede that they can't be all bad.