Weirdo.

I hate rambling on about my kid constantly on the blog because I have this constant, nagging fear of alienating my friends/readers who don't have kids. Because all through my pregnancy I set out refusing to become "THAT" parent -- you know the type. The ones who all they talk about is their goddamn kids, and when you don't have kids... and even when you do... you JUST. DON'T. CARE.

But inevitably you do become that parent because it's just so all-encompassing. I have nothing else to talk about. What I believe could very well be, finally, my career is launching off, so hopefully soon I can at least discuss the hilarity of my work environment (because you know there's always a Dwight), but for the last two years, all I've really had to talk about is my kid. And to the hailed inner circle, what a dbag I married. But besides that? Pretty much all spawn talk, all the time.

So anyway, I have this deep-seeded need to constantly show that I'm more that just Punk's mom. I am me. And apparently this means that I, the Individual, poop while driving and barely pass remedial driving because of my similarly-deep-seeded need to be a complete and reprehensible smartass. So I guess we're all overdue for some solid Punk-related dialogue.

Apparently -- and nobody ever told me this -- the overwhelming theme to being the parent of a toddler is that you constantly find yourself wondering what in the big blue fuck is going through this kid's mind. It's like having your life and your home invaded and overrun by a crazy foreigner from some faraway land, who has no concept of social skills or graces, or personal space, or grooming. I don't know if anyone here ever watched Recess on Saturday morning cartoons, but the savage caricature of the kindergartners? Pretty accurate from about age 2 on...



And more and more often in my daily life, I find myself saying things like:

**"No, we do not cook babies in the oven!"
Punk's grandparents got her a full-on, pimped-out kitchen for Christmas. She loves to play house with it, and makes lovely delicacies in the microwave, boils eggs on the stove, washes the kitchen counter frequently and fervently with bleach wipes (hey, if having an OCD mother teaches her anything...) and, of course, COOKING HER BABY DOLLS IN THE OVEN. I mean, guys. Guys seriously. This isn't like she just discovered this random little niche and thought, "Hey, a neat cave for my babies!" No. No, she puts them in the oven. Closes the oven. Turns the knobs. And makes "Tsss! Tsss!" cooking sounds. SHE IS COOKING HER BABIES.

And somehow, I could even ignore these bizarre Dahmer-esque tendencies were it not for the fact that after she sets her babies to the appropriate time and temperature, she will go and grab the hand of anyone within reach and sweetly, innocently lead you to the oven like some incontinent and language-deficient Martha Stewart. And then she will crouch down in front of the window of the oven, point, AND LAUGH. Yes. She knows exactly what she is doing, and she is not only so unashamed that she will show it to you, SHE THINKS THIS IS HILARIOUS.

So this raises two very important points that I have learned about my daughter:
1.) Probably a sociopath.
2.) Probably destined to be an only child.

** "Your pants are not a food storage facility!"
I like to think I keep my kid pretty well-fed. She's huge for her age (often mistaken for a 3-year-old, and a retarded one at that because she doesn't talk in full sentences, because she's like, you know, not even 2), she's healthy and happy. My boobs look like two saggy and depressing balloons from the savage beating they took from her for over a year. The kid likes to eat, has full access to food throughout the day if she asks. Which she does. Frequently.

So would someone please, please, PLEASE explain why I'm constantly having to check her pants for -- and discovering -- food shoved down there like she's an Auschwitz prisoner storing bread crumbs? Seriously. I pull all sorts of food out of her pants. Crackers. Chicken nuggets. Bananas. Grapes. It's rare that I even actually SEE her put this stuff down her pants. Hell, 80% of the time I don't even know where she GOT it. ("California roll? When have we even gone out for sushi?") But damned if I'm not constantly pulling food, of both likely and mysterious origins, out of this kid's pants.

But anyway.

It's a strange and foreign world, living with a toddler. She's growing up so fast that it scares the bejeesus out of me at times. I remember shortly after having her, filled with postpartum dread and sleep deprivation, I'd frequently be told by nosy old bitches who need to shut their traps lovely and well-meaning elderly women to "enjoy this time because it flies by." And of course at the time I screamed like a crazy person smiled sweetly but thought to myself, "You shut your lying fucking mouth." But it really is true. She turns 2 in less than three weeks and I couldn't tell you where that time all went.

I used to walk into Wal-Mart dragging this huge behemoth of a car seat with this tiny, pink, pissed off crying baby, battle loudly trying to get it to snap into the cart, and then pray that she'd sleep while I sprinted through the store in an attempt to get some semblance of groceries -- which inevitably would become a pack of Snickers, an apple, and a box of taco shells. Now she walks into the store holding my hand, beaming at what a big girl she is to be walking by herself, and sits in the cart while pointing out colors and shapes and things to me like she's an actual freaking person -- it's ri-goddamn-diculous is what it is. She's so big now, and so smart and funny and sociopathic and wonderful.

Every night I put her to bed, after we change her diaper and put on her pajamas, and we feed her fish Frank Stallone and Albert Fish, and we tell them sternly, "Eat your food, you fish!" and then I rock her for a few seconds before she melts into me and says in her tiny, tired voice, "Bird song Mom. Bird song." And I quietly sing "Three Little Birds" by Bob Marley to her, every night, until her eyelids begin to get heavy. It's the little moments like that that make all of this worth it. The unexpected, life-altering pregnancy. The custody fights. The frustration, the sacrifice, the tears, the stress. Every single ounce of every bit of it is so worth it as I hold my baby, who won't be a baby much longer, and quietly, in my out-of-practice mezzo soprano voice, sing her to sleep. She is my absolute everything, the reason I get out of bed every morning, the reason I breathe, the reason I fight...

But seriously. The baby cooking thing. We need to work on that.