Chookooloonks

Velcro

Over the last week, I've learned that I would not be a good conjoined twin. I know this because Alex has become so attached to me, I fear she may have to be surgically removed. At first, of course, it was flattering: "Oh look," I'd smile smugly. "My child wants me. ME. Only ME ME ME. 'Cause I'm Perfect Mum. Perfect Mum, that's ME." And I'd scoop her in my arms, and reward her understandable adulation with a well-deserved hug and kiss.

That was on Day 1. Now, at about Day 7, I have to admit, I need a break. I don't mean to suggest that I don't enjoy her company -- clearly, I do -- but is it wrong that when I finally try to steal away to go to the bathroom, I'm a bit frustrated by Girlie-girl crawling frantically after me, yelling "MA-MA-MA-MA-MA-MA-MA!" at the top of her lungs, and finally pushing the door open, revealing me in flagrante dilecto? Surely there's supposed to be some dignity to this whole mothering thing. Surely.

Thing is, ignoring her is simply out of the question. I mean, I've tried. But seriously -- could you ignore this kid crawling up to you, grabbing your trouser leg, pulling herself up to standing position, and looking at you like this?

I thought not.

This Year's Thanksgiving Was Brought to You by the Letter "F" and the Number "11"

Well, we made it to the other side. And before too much time passes, I'd like to thank the cast members of Thanksgiving 2004. It is their presence, both on that day and in my life, for which I am truly thankful:

The Family:

The Husband and Daughter

(a.k.a. "Thanksgiving Robo-Husband" [Marcus] and "The Only Actual American In Attendance" [Alex]) You should've seen them. Marcus was saute-ing, and braising, and slicing and dicing, and sprinkling the turkey with paprika, if you please. And while we were flying around the kitchen, Alex was happily cooing in her high chair. They were both champs.

The Paternal Grandmother

(a.k.a. "Diana," "Mum," "Gwam Ma") Oh sure, she was feeding Alex when she got fussy, coming up with alternative foods for Alex when she wouldn't eat her baby food (Mashed bananas! Sheer genius!), but her real superpower?

Scraping a bowl clean when emptying the contents into a casserole dish before baking at 350 for 30-45 minutes. I mean, not a morsel was wasted. Amazing.

The Uncle

(a.k.a. "Matt," "Matthew," "UnkaMatt") So while we were all cooking in the kitchen, and without any suggestion by Marcus or me, Matt took it upon himself and cleaned out the closet under our staircase, and in the process FOUND 10 BOTTLES OF LIQUOR we didn't know we had, including an unopened bottle of PREMIUM TRINIDADIAN RUM.

Can you even comprehend the esteem to which I hold this man?

The Maternal Grandmother

(a.k.a. "Mom," "Lita") In addition to acting as Empress of the Biscuits, she kept The Maternal Grandfather in check. This is no easy feat. To wit:

The Maternal Grandfather

(a.k.a. "Dad," "Pops," "Poppy")

See what I mean?

Luckily, he made a mean rice dish. And you bring a good dish to my house, you earn the right to act the fool.

The Friends:

Stephanie

A lovely Ph.D. student, visiting from England. She was only here for a few weeks as part of her doctoral program, so we thought that we'd add a bit of local culture to her education. I don't know if she learned anything, but, bless her, she certainly brought a much-needed element of class and dignity to the day (see The Maternal Grandfather, above).

Andie

(a.k.a. "Andrea," "Auntie Andie") Bearer of Flowers for me and Cool Squeaky Things for my daughter. You bring flowers and Cool Squeaky Things into my house, you earn the right to wear cowboy hats with purple rims.

Dan

(a.k.a. "Dan the Man," "UnkaDan") Dude. This man taught my daughter how to high-five and whistle. You heard me right: my 8-1/2-month-old can whistle. With sound. I'm trying to figure out how to convince Dan to move in with us. I mean, can you imagine? With his teaching abilities, my daughter will be solving quadratic equations by the time she's three.

And finally, The Featured Guests:

The Red Wine

The Trinidadian Rum Punch

And honey, they both flowed like water.

And for that, I think we were all very thankful.

Look! Up in the sky!

It's 7 a.m., the morning before Thanksgiving. Our guests have all arrived, and are currently sleeping in various parts of the house. (My poor, sweet brother-in-law is sleeping in our kitchen. Our kitchen. It's a wonder Marcus' family even speaks to me.) In addition, I have a friend flying in to have dinner with us tonight (my parents are coming over to see her as well), tomorrow's Thanksgiving dinner will be for nine guests, and my parents are having a dinner at their house on Friday night, where I'm expected to bring a dish. And I have done not a thing to begin preparing for any of these meals.

So let's recap, shall we? I have yet to make:

Dinner tonight for eight (this sort of southwestern thing we found in one of my recipe books)
Tomorrow's Thanksgiving dinner for nine, including:
- turkey
- cranberry sauce
- corn casserole
- brussel sprouts
- sauteed carrots
- macaroni pie (the winning traditional Trini dish)
- fried cabbage with bacon (the winning traditional English dish)
- biscuits (the winning traditional Texan dish -- for Alex, don't you know)
- stuffing
- Trinidadian rum punch (because there's no way I'm getting through this holiday without it)
- a couple of apple pies
and some dish that I'm going to have to pull out of some orifice for Friday night.

(Did I mention that next week I'm supposed to do a presentation to the board of directors of my company that I haven't even begun to prepare for yet?)

And I need to do this all while remaining charming and gracious. A superhuman feat, especially when you add the fact that Alex has developed this really endearing but truly annoying habit of NOT LETTING ME OUT OF HER SIGHT. No matter what I'm doing, whether I'm chopping things with a BIG HAIRY KNIFE or taking things out of the FIERY-HOT-LIKE-THE-BOWELS-OF-HELL OVEN, she crawls over to my feet and starts tugging on my clothing. When I pick her up, she clings to me like a howler monkey.* You try cooking 3 meals, remaining charming and gracious to your in-laws and guests, all the time with a howler monkey hanging from your neck. G'head. I'll watch.

Obviously, it's going to have to get done. I'm simply going to duck into the next phone booth I see, and transform into the aforementioned Thanksgiving Robo-Wife:

(For those of you who don't know me, yes, my body does rock like that. For those of you who do, shut up.)

But I gotta tell ya, even in my transformed state, the task is daunting. Luckily, I have the Boy Wonder at my side:

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

__________________________

*So I did some research on the Internet, and I think my "howler monkey" analogy is right on target. The behavioural similarities are uncanny. You be the judge:

Alex

Howler monkey

I'm just sayin', is all.

Superstars

This weekend, Alex was invited to a First Birthday Party for her friend Gabrielle.

(Aside: Would you LOOK at that kid's hair? How much hair is on that child? She's got the hair that Alex's hair wants to grow up to be.)

Anyway, the birthday party was held at Gymboree Play and Music. Being a children's-entertainment-centre neophyte, I will admit to being a bit apprehensive about the whole "Gymboree" thing -- especially since Marcus and I had visited Chuck E. Cheese's once, prior to Alex's birth, and then and there made a solemn vow to never set foot in that Den of Evil again. What is UP with the children who patronize Chuck E. Cheese's? Are they in training for roller derby? WWF wrestling? Prison??

But hey, Gabrielle is one of Alex's best friends, so there was no way I was keeping Alex from her party. After a bit of a flat-tire scare (Marcus to the rescue), Alex and I finally entered Gymboree, and joined the party in full swing.

So, HOW COOL IS GYMBOREE? There are bubbles, and parachutes, and Big Bouncy Things. Okay, there was the Gymboree employee "hosting" the party, who was a bit too perky for my taste. (I forget her name, but I'm sure it was one of the ones that ends in an "i" that is invariably dotted with a heart.) The woman sang everything, in a shockingly high-pitched register -- example:

"Let's come over and PLAY over here,
PLAY over here,
PLAY over here,
Let's come over and PLAY over here,
and we'll AAAAALLLL HAAAAVE FUUUNNNN!"

or

"This is the way we POP the bubbles,
POP the bubbles,
POP the..."

You get the idea. It is a testament to my capacity for restraint that I didn't smack her once, the whole entire time.

Other than The Perkmeister, though, this place was AMAZING -- complete toddler heaven. In addition to wearing cool hats...

...Alex got to play a tambourine...

...and that was all before she even got to the cake and ice cream.

But the best part?

The best part was what was in the little gift bag Gabrielle gave to each of the kids to take home:

She's now totally ready for the paparazzi.

(Incidentally, that thing in her mouth is a Cheerio. Girlie-girl loves Cheerios. She loves Cheerios like I love sushi. And believe you me, that's a whole lotta love.)

In case my words weren't clear...

... this post from Leery Polyp should bring it home.

"It others us." Well put.

Mermaid

I got my Mac PowerBook back today. Man, you gotta love Apple. They are fast.

So, as promised, Her Royal Smooshiness. I post this picture primarily for a coworker of mine, Susie, who is a faithful reader of Chookooloonks. While Susie is generally a fan of Alex's avant garde fashion sense, she expressed considerable consternation when she saw Alex's Halloween bunny costume -- it seems Susie's got it in her mind that Alex was meant to be a mermaid. Apparently, she finds Killer Bunny Costumes demeaning, and generally beneath Alex's stature in life.

Well, Susie, no costume, but hopefully you'll settle for a funky t-shirt. This one's for you:

(For those who are interested, I bought this t-shirt at Focoloco. I love the funky designs. I actually broke down and bought something like 8 t-shirts with similar designs for Alex -- an extravagance which, I suppose, renders me focoloco.)

Possessed by the Ghost of Holidays Present

(Author's note:  My Mac Powerbook is in the shop again, so I'm relegated to using my photo-free work PC to keep in touch for a while.  As such, pictures of Her Royal Smooshiness will be a bit few and far between until I get the Mac back.   I've asked Alex to practice her cuteness in preparation for her next photo-posting.  She's in front of the mirror smiling to herself as I type.)

Christmas has always been my favourite holiday of the year.  Life always seems so much nicer at Christmas time -- everything's covered in twinkly lights, people smile more, it just feels happier, you know? 

Conversely, Thanksgiving has never really meant that much to me.  Don't get me wrong:  I can certainly appreciate a day set aside for giving thanks, but, let's face it, the pilgrims didn't exactly make it to the Caribbean.  And even if they did, chances are either (a) they would've ended up running into the Arawak Indians who, while probably open to sharing their food with the poor lost souls, being vegetarians they would've probably prepared a slightly different First Thanksgiving Feast  (and somehow the image of the patriarch of the family cutting into the traditional Thanksgiving Rutabaga doesn't evoke quite the same Rockwellian image, does it?); or (b) they would've made the unfortunate acquaintance of the Carib Indians, who were cannibals, and therefore would have left the pilgrims little for which to be thankful.

It's all very different this year, though. 

This year, Marcus and I have an American daughter.  And being the culturally sensitive couple that we are, it's important to us that we raise Alex to appreciate her cultural festivals (and you thought only parents who adopted internationally had these issues, didn't you...).  So we're officially in holiday mode -- we're doing Thanksgiving up right this year, followed by a Christmas that would make the Grinch proud (post-heart-modifications, of course).  The fact that Alex can't actually eat a Thanksgiving meal, doesn't know what an American football is, or thinks tinsel is something you suck on are really only minor little details.

As a result, I've become Thanksgiving Robo-wife.  Since Marcus' mother, brother, and one of his close friends are coming to visit us from England during the Thanksgiving holiday (as coincidence would have it, Thanksgiving falls on my mother-in-law's birthday), the pressure is on to cook the perfect Thanksgiving meal.   So far, the menu includes turkey, stuffing (regular, not cornbread), that nasty green-bean-and-processed-onion-bits casserole (why do you Americans love that dish so?), broccoli-and-cheese casserole (ibid.), rolls, corn-on-the-cob, potatoes, and for dessert -- apple pie a la mode.  I've even bought that Gerber Rice-and-Turkey Dinner baby food for Alex, so she won't feel left out.  Heck, I may even wear pearls and an apron.

I'm a giver.

And then?

And then...

... the weekend after Thanksgiving, I've decided we're going to do the (brand new) traditional Trimming of the Christmas Tree.  We're buying the tree this weekend (artificial, of course ... did I mention I'm from the Caribbean?), and I've already bought extra lights, monogrammed stockings, decorative throw pillows, garland, candles (cinnamon-scented), ornaments, music...the works.  I'm practicing Christmas carols to make sure I know all the words, and I'm even thinking of investing in a few jingle bells, for atmosphere-enhancing pleasure. 

As I rush around making preparations, Marcus just sort of stares at me with this incredulous look on his face, clutching Alex close to his chest, as if he's afraid that whatever I have might be catching.   Whatever.  Once he's taken by the holiday spirit, as I've been, he'll see the light.

Besides, if he keeps this attitude up, I'll make a point of teaching Alex our cultural festivals, too.  He thinks I'm a maniac now? HAH.  Wait 'til I decide to include the traditional English Guy Fawkes Day of early November, not to mention the springtime Trinidadian Carnival, both of which would bookend this Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's run nicely.   Then he'll be sorry.

And I'll be exhausted.

One Hundredth Post

This is my 100th post on Chookooloonks. I considered doing a "Chookooloonks Special," where Alex, Marcus and I would be sitting on an overstuffed sofa taking a contrived walk down memory lane, and everything would go all misty and water-like while we reminisced on how it used be way back at Post 5, or Post 34, or Post 72. Somehow, though, I suspect the whole misty-water-thing doesn't work as well on a blog as it does in cheesy sitcoms. Nonetheless, it does seem that I should do something special for this landmark post -- after all, you guys have stuck with me throughout these 100 ramblings and ventings and general goings-on about Alex's Extreme Smooshiness, have you not? Surely, for displaying such tenacity, you deserve a medal, or a set of Ginsu knives, or something.

Unfortunately, I'm medal- and Ginsu-knife-free, so I'm afraid all I have for you are my Pearly Drops of Mothering Wisdom. But please -- take them. Use them. And if, upon reading them, you find that they are, in fact, a steaming load of horse manure, feel free to discard them. (Although, I do encourage re-gifting. You should never waste, don't you know.)

So now, without further ado, the Top Ten Parenting Things I have Learned, Lo, These Past Eight Months and One Hundred Posts:

10. One of the continuing side effects of bringing a child into your home is the demonic possession of your parents. I tell you, my parents are getting worse. And they show no signs of returning to the strict, no-nonsense people to which I had grown accustomed. They're all gooey, and goopy, and overly-generous, and boundlessly patient.

Frankly, they're getting on my nerves.

9. It is possible to change a truly diabolical diaper without feeling the slightest bit queasy -- however, it's apparently only possible if it's your own kid. Seriously -- I've taken some of the most grotesque diapers off that child without batting an eye. But don't ask me to change your child. That's just nasty.

8. And speaking of diabolical diapers, words cannot describe the difference between a merely-formula-induced bowel movement and a solid-foods-induced bowel movement. I mean, honestly. It's enough to make you consider force-feeding your child a liquid-only diet until she's potty-trained.

7. The moment you actually feel like a parent is not when the child emerges from the womb; rather, it's when you go after your child's crusty boogers with your bare hands, and it seems perfectly normal. What the hell has happened to me?

6. A kid can develop an attitude before she learns how to crawl. And by the time she's pulling herself up to standing position, her attitude can be positively recalcitrant. I swear I've seen this child roll her eyes at me. The other day, no lie, she looked at Marcus and gave him a "talk to the hand" gesture. And last night I tried to put her to sleep in her crib before she was ready, and she glared at me and audibly snarled. I have no idea where she gets this.

Must be her father.

5. You can never take too many pictures of your child. You think I'm kidding. Over the last 8 months, I've taken over 1,300 (!) pictures of Alex. I think her first words are going to be: "I'm ready for my close-up."

4. No matter how many stuffed animals, Fisher Price toys, cardboard books or plastic keys-on-key-rings you buy, nothing, and I mean nothing, will be nearly as sexy to your infant as the expensive laptop you mortgaged your house to get.

3. Except maybe your stereo.

2. Or the electrical outlets.

And the Number One Parenting Thing I've Learned Over the Course of These 100 Posts is:

1. I can't wait for the next 8 months.

In other news, we're famous!

Hide and Seek, II

Sunday At the Park

This past weekend, the weather was amazing. And, since Marcus, Alex and I are just teeming with Family Values, we decided to join our friends for a picnic in the park.

Alex got to bond with her Auntie Trish...

...Trish's husband, Alex's Uncle Carl, tossed a Frisbee around with Marcus...

...and Alex even tried a swing for the first time.

(An aside: Is it me, or have park swings gotten a little more ... I dunno...industrial, since we were kids?)

So anyway, it was a good day. There was one precarious moment, though, when Carl and Marcus lost the Frisbee.

Due to the cannon-like arm of an eight-year-old who'd joined in Carl and Marcus' game, the Frisbee went sailing over a chain-link fence into the park's pool area. The fencing around the pool was heavily fortified with barbed wire, and Trish and I tensely watched as both Carl and Marcus considered risking life and limb by scaling the barbed wire. Thank the Lord Jesus, common sense prevailed over testosterone, as both decided that chancing the shredding of their hides was probably not a good example to set for all the children running around the area. And so the Frisbee remains abandoned poolside to this very moment.

Nonetheless, given their sound decision to avoid physical harm, Marcus and Carl felt compelled to ensure that Trish, Alex and I understood that their Manliness Quotient was still at Dangerously Virile Levels. To so prove their unbridled machismo, Marcus and Carl proceeded to each devour an apple...

...core and all.

And thus ended Alex's first real lesson in The Opposite Sex.