Yes. I’m still pregnant. Just wanted to get that out of the way.
My husband asks me, every morning, how I’m feeling, and every day I have nothing new to report. I’m starting to think that my belly is like a watched pot. It will never, er…boil, if I keep obsessing over it. So today I told DJ that he could just come out any old time he wants. Really, I’m fine with it. I won’t give it another thought. (HA! We’ll see how long that lasts).
I was hugely cheered this weekend by the arrival of a package from one of my sweet readers, Sharon. She sent this lovely, extra large blanket, bibs (which we really need!) and a cute little dinosaur sleeper for DJ. She also included a handmade card, and little presents for the girls – hand lotion, lip balm and bubble bath from Avon -which they were delighted with, being the girly-girls that they are.
And now to address the title of this post…Cakesie’s new accent. Long-time readers might remember that she had her own unique language for awhile, and she also went through a French phase (see Zee Poop Again). Lately she seems to have adopted an Italian accent, as in “Mommy, I need a drink-a,” and “The batteries in my bear don’t work-a.” We have no idea why she does this, but we’ve taken to responding to her requests with “Yes-a,” or “Forget it-a.”
I am Cakesie’s mother. I love her unconditionally, and most of the time I find her antics to be cute and/or amusing. However, I will confess that occasionally, the thought crosses my mind that Cakes might be just a little bit…weird (see She’s So Unusual). Most of what she does is just typical 3-year-old stuff, like the lip balm on her eyelids, or the fact that she’s currently missing a big chunk of hair, right smack in the middle of her forehead, because she somehow managed to get a blob of blue sticky-tack hopelessly stuck in it, and my husband had to cut it out. Other times, she crosses the line into the “Hmmmmm” category. For example, when she asks me how to put on her underpants or jeans, and I show her repeatedly, and yet she still comes out with one of the leg holes of her panties as her waistband, or with her back pants-pockets bulging in the front. I admit, at times like these, I think, “What part of ‘tag goes in the back’ does she not get?”
And then there are the “What is wrong with this child?” moments, like when she drops her drawers at a funeral to show a complete stranger her princess underwear. Or puts a towel over her face, purposely, and then walks around until she smashes into something. Or when she sticks her feet in my face and says “Mommy, smell these!” Or when she asks me to take her to the bathroom (here at home) because she doesn’t know where it is (?), or climbs in her bed and claims to need a “map” whenever we tell her to do something she doesn’t want to do.
Occasionally, she’ll try to get out of something by giving me this huge, cheesy, Steve Martin grin, and then I can’t help but laugh. After all, Steve Martin was pretty weird himself, back in his stand-up days, and look how well it worked out for him.[print-me/]