It has been almost one year since the PBG slid into this world, pushed along by the same muscles that it requires to take a massive dump. I'm sorry. That was vulgar. But the reader who sits on my shoulder and keeps this site relatively clean is in France hopefully face-first in a chocolate croissant taking selfies in front of the Eiffel, so it's time for some poop jokes.
A poop joke. Just that one.
The Timehop app gathers your blasts from various social media hubs and shows you, on a daily basis, what you were doing 1 year, 4 years, 5 years ago on this day. You Tweeted this, you Instagrammed that and here's what you posted on Facebook.
This has become an especially alarming time capsule as we near the babe's birthday. I see these two people who are so ... not ready for a baby. They're cute, though, with their room painting and copy of "Bringing Up Bebe."
We've passed the anniversary of the time I was hospitalized with migraines (and came to discover just how delicious hospital food can be). We've also passed the day where Chuck and I sat on the front glider swing with our feet on a coffee table just being quiet. He hung a drape so our most awful neighbor couldn't see us. My ankles and calves looked like something a serious Ren Fester would gnaw for energy before the jousting match.
Meanwhile, four years ago on this day I told Twitter that my pants had developed muscle memory.
Anyway. I don't want to say too much here because I'm sure that deep within my fingertips there is some sort of epic 1 YEAR OLD post brewing and I don't want to scoop myself. So.
I've decided it's time for the PBG to make some lifelong friends. She doesn't spend much time with knee-high people, so I put a call out on Facebook and for the first time in the history of social networking I received only one smartass response in a flurry of good ideas.
One: Join a "Mommy group" -- a corny-sounding concept I'm willing to overlook so that my daughter has someone to sympathize with about the ignominy of having to, like, eat food and sleep.
So I find the group, submit my profile for approval, blah blah blah, only to find that the default photo that runs with my profile is of me, a little pie-eyed, drinking beer from a glass that says SHIT SHOW.
***We three are lazing in the bed when I say something and punctuate it with "LOL" in a sing-song-y voice.
Then, in the same sing-song-y voice, our parrot says "LOL" -- or at least a close approximation.
She sounds just enough like Gizmo to give me a shiver.
"Oh, ok," Chuck says. "Her first five words, in order: dada, cat, shit, water, and LOL."
We are eating breakfast, the three of us, and Chuck is telling a story. The PBG flicks a Cheerio off her tray that nails Chuck in the clavicle. Hilarity ensues.
Chuck: Maybe since we were such great parents yesterday we can be horseshit parents today.
She does this squeezing motion with her hand which seems to be sign language, which Chuck practices recreationally with her.
"Do you want milk?" I ask, bringing her the small glass she'd been inching away at a few minutes earlier. We had set it aside when she pointed at the sink -- a non-sign language sign for water.
I helped her take two sips, then she waved it away.
"All done?" I ask.
Clear as anything she says "all done."
Chuck and I look at each other and move to the sink where we confur in whispers.
"Let's get this straight: she made the sign for milk, which we gave her. She expressed an interest in substituting water. Then she said she was all done. Is that how it happened?"
"Yes," I said. "That seems to be what happened."