Thursday, September 14, 2006

the week in brief

Last friday, it was thirteen years since my father died. It was also the first time since that day that I forgot (forgot!) to put something in the paper. Not one of those 'Dear dead person, I miss you' things because as far as I know, dad no longer reads the daily paper so sending him a message there for him to read? Would not work. Nah, I just like his name being seen by whoever reads that section of the paper because he existed once and I like to remember that he did.

Last Tuesday, Daniel was nine months old. He is truly a jolly good fellow, and so say all of me. He's on another course of antibiotics for another ear infection, but his chest is clear and he's back to being his usual ridiculous self. Honestly, I had no idea babies laughed so much. I thought that in between screaming and sleeping, they mostly lay around like logs and, you know, grew, but obviously they're a lot more entertaining than that. And funny? Hooey! When Daniel isn't being occupied by the viruses (virii?) which make him a little less amused and a little more sad and pathetic, you'll generally find him hunkered down with his basket of crap - which, hello. Side bar.

He has this tub 'o toys, a regular treasure trove of plastic crap that is conveniently located in the middle of the floor so that he can at any time, delve into it to pick out whatever bright, shiny and overpriced trinket he feels like shoving into his gaping maw. Then there's this wicker basket in the corner that has a few things in it that kinda got tossed in there because I don't know. Off the top of my head, there's a pair gloves, a hat, a beanie, one of those thermal lunch bags and several assorted postcard thingiedoovers. There's more in there, but those particular items are like crack to Daniel, especially the postcards. I'll plonk him on the floor next to his squillions of dollars worth of toys, and he'll push them aside in the rush to get across the room to his cheap, beloved basket. I suppose there could be a moral to this story, or a lesson, but fuckit.

Anyway, I'll try and pick up whre I left off but I'm kind of segue-less right now, suffice to say that Daniel willl be almost head first in the basket and shoving postcards into his mouth, and because he's so much more amusing than I figured babies to be, he'll also be stopping every few seconds to look up at me and laugh because as far as I can tell, postcards and gloves are hilarious

Dude laughs at everything and everyone. All you need to do is make eye contact with him and it's on - and if I pretend to tickle him, he practically blows a gasket, and if I do tickle him...I was a bit worried about his brain cells dying off or something, but the doctor reckons (yes I asked) that no, Daniel is just enjoying himself, not going batshitcrazy from being inescapably overstimulated.

Mum called today to see how he was doing, but mostly to say. "There was that cold going around the las time I was in MyTown, remember? It was on the news, and they were saying that you should stay away from shopping centres because of this awful chest cold going around". Which is a big pile of steamingly pungent horse manure because that news report never happened. Oh, there was probably some shit about the new 'flu vaccine and how this year's flu is going to be the worst one ever with plagues of locusts and bla bla bla, which is what they say every year because it's marketing and it sells vaccines, but that shit about staying away from shopping centres to avoid chest cold nevah happened. Thing is, she knows I take Daniel to the supermarket on a daily basis, and I know that she wants me to keep him under a glass done on the side board, much like one would a stinky cheese, so her comment was an I Told You So with a dig at my mothering skilz on the side.

Daniel gets a kick out of colours and lights and people, and he gets a kick out of going for a walk in his carrier, so shopping for him is not about consumables, its about experiencing all those things going on at once. We spend ages in there for only a few items, strolling up and down each aisle while his head swivels around taking it all in while the store detective follows us from what she thinks is an unobtrusive and totally not suspicious distance. She used to follow us more closely, I think to intimidate me into not cramming bags of rice in my pockets or something, til I swung around one day, and before she could disguise herself as a regular shopper by reading the label on a jar of chutney, asked her to quit following me so closely because she was ruining my shopping experience. Or something. I don't quite remember what I said, but I did use the word 'harrassment' which I think sent visions of lawsuits her way because while I still know she's there, it's not because I can feel her wedged in my butt cheeks. Granted, if I wasn't there most days of the week, I probably would look like an shoplifter, what with the leisurely pace and the only two or three items I leave with, but I'm there most days. Even shoplifters aren't dumb enough to go back to the scene of the crime day after day. Sheesh.

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