Monday, January 20, 2014

Our Pet Human (at 25 weeks and some days) ...

This is what it must have been like for Elliott, faced with an alien who has learned to communicate from a Speak & Spell. 

Yesterday the PBG whinnied at me. 

I didn't notice at first. Then I recognized a certain warble to her growl. She sounded like the horse noise that is made by pushing the purple button on the dash of her exersauser. She did it again, an uncanny imitation. She coughed. It requires vocal distortion, a scratchiness she must think is worth it. 

I whinnied back. She beamed. 

So we did that for a while. Whinny. Whinny. Whinny. Whinny. Cough. We were communicating. It was no "Phone Home" but it was something. I fired off videos via text. I kept her up past her bedtime so Chuck could see it when he got home from work. Of course she didn't do it on demand, so I showed him the video. 

"And here we thought her first word would be in Norwegian," he said. "Turns out it's in horse."

So there is a lot of *this* kind of thing going on. Milestones and moments of hilarity. The way she purses her lips, surprised by the bitterness of applesauce; the way she damn-near rips the bowl out our hands when we feed her sweet potatoes. The way she eyes us, sarcastically, when we eat pizza -- as if to say, "I notice you didn't puree that." 

Chuck texts: "In the time it took to send that last text, she threw her spoon, flipped the bowl and smeared bananas all over her tray."

But mostly we talk about crap: the color, consistency, frequency and smell. If I were to present a live reading of text messages exchanged with Chuck, it would be fecal-themed. If, decades from now, our ancestors stumble upon the the cloud that contains our 2014 communications, they will find us vulgar and singularly focused.  

He writes: It was like someone ran a quart of diarrhea in a dirty juicer and then dumped it down the back of her onesie.

Remember the year Chuck used the Porta-Potty at the Spirit Valley Street Dance, stumbled out afterward and immediately barfed -- and he hadn't even been drinking? Now that incident is used as a gauge for gross.

"Gag. Seriously almost puked," he wrote. "Like Streed Dance toilet gross. I had to sponge bath her. I had to clean the carrot chunks off the changing table. I had to clean the orange off the diaper genie. Now Orin puked gravy all over the living room. I've never wanted so badly to go to work." 

Oddly enough, I'm not quite as graphic. I'm more: "Thick paste of apple butter" "23 wipes," "Actually in her armpit," "That was my Vietnam" and "No, wait, that was my Vietnam." 

Today Chuck did a diaper and I came into the room carrying a clean onesie in case she needed a wardrobe change.

"Just pee," he said.
I peeked at the babe on the changing table and and made mention of some debris.
Later, back in the living room, Chuck commented on how we've become desensitized to gross.

"Do you realize," he said. "You just looked at another person's asshole and said she had poop kernels?"


tamg said...

You'll know you're fully desensitized to gross when you choose to let your sick child vomit all over you instead of the chair/couch/bed because it's easier to get yourself clean than the furniture.

Anonymous said...

I was talking to a non-parent poop without even thinking about it. And then I realized I had lost my poop filter, most likely, for good. Wait until you get to the good stuff.