I've got nothing folks
Mum arrived for another visit yesterday, and....wait! I've already been sidetracked.
I'll set the scene here at the Villa d'aibee: Daniel is lying on his colourful playmat thingy that has lights, twirls a little mobile above his head and plays music. In short, it requires no effort on his behalf to have the living shit amused out of him. His mother, aibee, ponders on the idea that while he loves that fucker, her son is lying there like slug, and is that really a good thing? So she picks him up and puts him on the floor and loads him up with some wrist rattles, strategically places a bunny rattle on his chest (soft, fluffy and it's not going to crush him like a bug or anything), and then positions Mr Bunny (seems we have quite the cottontail theme going on here) at his shoulder to oversee operations because seriously, there's nothing like a virtual soft and fluffy explosion when it comes to babies. Daniel is now perplexed because fuckit, these things don't do anything. Seems he hasn't yet worked out that he has to do more than lie like a rug for this array of toys to be FUN!!
The look on his face? Priceless and yet, more than a little pissy as his ma...
An additional digression: five minutes on and the deebs is going off. Also, his eyes have been clamped on me this whole time. Hello Daniel! (which makes him puke)...now he's kicking his little fat feet and waving his berattled arms around....now he's squeaking! And enough with the running commentary already!
So anyway and in short, mum's here and that explains my Bunny In The Headlights stare.
In other news, my kid has nicknames. Lots of them. There's the standards you see here, and there's a fucking shitload more that change each time I open my big ol' piehole. Worthy of mention is the one I just called my kid. "Pants Macmanus".
Pants Macmanus?
What the hooey does that even mean?
...and now he's squealing, and the we've got to go to the post office which closes soon because my mailman is a fucking moron, so with a complete lack of flourish and nary a punchline, the end.
I'll set the scene here at the Villa d'aibee: Daniel is lying on his colourful playmat thingy that has lights, twirls a little mobile above his head and plays music. In short, it requires no effort on his behalf to have the living shit amused out of him. His mother, aibee, ponders on the idea that while he loves that fucker, her son is lying there like slug, and is that really a good thing? So she picks him up and puts him on the floor and loads him up with some wrist rattles, strategically places a bunny rattle on his chest (soft, fluffy and it's not going to crush him like a bug or anything), and then positions Mr Bunny (seems we have quite the cottontail theme going on here) at his shoulder to oversee operations because seriously, there's nothing like a virtual soft and fluffy explosion when it comes to babies. Daniel is now perplexed because fuckit, these things don't do anything. Seems he hasn't yet worked out that he has to do more than lie like a rug for this array of toys to be FUN!!
The look on his face? Priceless and yet, more than a little pissy as his ma...
An additional digression: five minutes on and the deebs is going off. Also, his eyes have been clamped on me this whole time. Hello Daniel! (which makes him puke)...now he's kicking his little fat feet and waving his berattled arms around....now he's squeaking! And enough with the running commentary already!
So anyway and in short, mum's here and that explains my Bunny In The Headlights stare.
In other news, my kid has nicknames. Lots of them. There's the standards you see here, and there's a fucking shitload more that change each time I open my big ol' piehole. Worthy of mention is the one I just called my kid. "Pants Macmanus".
Pants Macmanus?
What the hooey does that even mean?
...and now he's squealing, and the we've got to go to the post office which closes soon because my mailman is a fucking moron, so with a complete lack of flourish and nary a punchline, the end.
posted by aibee at 10:41
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