Some people teach their kids to say amusing things, like "I'm precocious!" (Okay, I just made that up and now secretly I'm all, ehramagerd I have to do that! Which says a lot about me, none of which is very good). Others work on teaching their babies to walk or do the splits. Me, I like to focus on blowing raspberries.
Behold this video from this evening. We were goofing around in front of Photo Booth in an uninspired attempt to pass the last 20 minutes before Puffy's bedtime (we'd already read/eaten/attempted to destroy several fine books).
I think she's got it!
Goodnight, y'all. Oh and thanks, Bill Watterson, for a thousand things, one of which was teaching me how to spell TBHTHTPTHTH!
Consider a baby’s toy. Is it safe? Is it
beautiful? Is it educational? Was it hand-stitched by ruddy-cheeked,
well-insured farmers’ wives, or shat out in a plume of factory smog in a land
whose only comparative advantages are coal and suffering?
There are many criteria by which to judge children’s playthings. But as anyone
with a baby knows, the only thing that really matters is how loud it is.
I can instantly rank McNoodle’s toys in
order of noisiness simply by recalling them in my order of preference. Quiet is
good, noisy is horrible. Stuffed animals > foam
blocks > that one stuffed bear that has a jingle bell embedded in its head > rustling
fabric books > the fabric dog with the crinkly ears and honking foot > plastic
stacking cups (individually lovely, collectively horrific) >
rattles all sorts > battery-operated monstrosities.
In addition to toys, Noodle enjoys snacking on paper and plastic.
Battery-operated monstrosities, in fact,
deserve their own category. The noodle loves them because they provide total
and instant sensory overload. They light up and whirr and beep out little
ditties about the alphabet. For the same reason, I only break out these babies
in moments of true desperation.
Sure it’s electrified and loud, and almost
certainly was not handcrafted on the banks of a Norwegian fjord, but what really
sets it apart is its message. No numbers or letters over here, guys. My
father Santa brought this in a fit of apparent insanity at Christmas.
We
unpacked it under the tree, opened its smiling blue cover and it burst into
song: “Open up your wallet! Do you see a FRIEND? Maybe there’s some
money for you to spend!”
Okay. There are a couple ways we can
interpret these lyrics. The line “do you see a friend?” could be a totally
random aside. “Let me open up my wallet and… hey! There’s Jimmy! Hi Jimmy! So anyway,
do I have enough coins for this soda or what?” I’ll admit it’s possible. It is
possible.
Or, OR, this wallet is a sign of the End
Times and the “friend” refers to one’s dwindling cash and mostly maxed-out
credit cards. “Gee, I really want this sweater…which of these bits of plastic
is gonna be my friend today? Is it you, little Visa? Or you, pretty Mastercard?
Oh Chase. It’s been so long.” Any other super obnoxious toys out there? Or am I overreacting?
The Russian Breakfast. Photo by Louise, because I am stupid and forgot to take pictures.
I don't know how other people spent their Sunday morning, but I was drinking vodka while caring for my daughter. Okay. It was just one shot, and in my defence it came with breakfast at Cafe Ansari. On the other hand, my fabulous companions Louise and Nayana and I may or may not have ordered that particular meal (the "Russian Breakfast") because it included the vodka. It doesn't sound like something we'd do, but one never knows. In any case, it was delicious - the food and the vodka - so everyone in Vienna should just get over there immediately. It helps to bring Louise and Nayana if you can. (Thanks for the tip, Nora-San!)
Nava was with us but did not order the vodka-laced brunch combo. After being a dear and allowing us grownups to have a proper conversation about whatever it is grownups talk about, Nava ate a pumpkin-based slurry from a convenience store that was romantically and optimistically named something like "spaghetti in a mild vegetable sauce".
My pumpkin eats pumpkin (on a different occasion). Only one of us is *really* enjoying herself.
Like everything else she eats, it was in fact a flavourless homogenous paste, but of course when your main goal is seeing how much of it you can fling across the shiny new world that hardly matters. She smeared it across her face, got some under her chinny-chin-chin and dribbled gobs across her tights, dress and onto the floor, so overall I'd say that was a great success. Heck, she even ate some. Nava and I then went to meet Alex's family for a stroll through the Prater, which is an enormous park and fairground in Vienna. The Jesuitenwiese and its accompanying playgrounds are a municipal treasure and I hope they live forever.
Anywhere along the Hauptallee. I swear, every other part of the park is really quite charming.
Of course, I am a dodo and didn't take a picture of the pretty part, which looks a lot like the place where the Teletubbies live. I forgot to break out the camera until we were on the Hauptallee (main avenue). This is an endless paved road lined with chesnut trees that cuts through the park and that is shared by every unimaginative runner, walker, stroller, in-line skater and biker in Vienna. It's kind of amazing how long and boring it is, but on either side are any number of playgrounds and tree-lined groves and meadows to hang in, so we'll forgive it.
Taking a break from walking with my handsome husband and father-in-law.
After walking pretty much all the way down this baby we sat slowly freezing to death and drinking coffee and eating cake in the falling darkness. We came home pooped and the little one slept like a lump of pumpkin all night long.
In the Hunt family, the tradition of Christmas cookie baking follows an established pattern. We do nothing until the 23rd of December. Then we dither over which recipes to make, and choose at least six, of which three are stupidly complicated and involve caramelising pecans or using a pastry bag or baking separate layers or some such nonsense. Then we head off the shops, which were emptied of all their premium baking supplies days ago - we just take whatever's left.
A contemporary family of gingerbears; also an example of inefficient and self-indulgent cookie making
The problem is that we repeatedly forget how much we suck at this. I tend to get carried away by the spirit of season and delude myself that it will be easy. That it will be FUN. We always have to do those classic Christmas sugar cookies, and of course we'll mix our own icing - we all went to college, for God's sake, surely we can make a little icing. The other problem is that we have terrible taste in cookie decoration. What do you mean, do we need sprinkles? Of course we need sprinkles. Coloured sugar? Yes, please. Edible confetti shaped like Christmas trees? So cute! And since we've got all this stuff, we reason, we should just go ahead and double this recipe. And that one. Oh, and that one too. Who doesn't need four hundred thousand Christmas cookies? If we have too many left over after the party, we'll just give them away! Who doesn't want to be gifted with cookies that look like they were sneezed on by one of Santa's little glitter-snorting elves.
Our best cookies ever.
But this year, despite our innate tendency to be pretty bad at this, we actually produced a reasonable number and variety of mostly appetizing cookies. As usual we had about 300 left over, but that's what makes it Christmas in 'Merica. Look to Pinterest for links to Type-A foodie websites that'll have you beating meringue and your head against your cloth-and-flour-wrapped chopping board. But if you have just average skills and average interest, look no further, for I bring you:
The Definitive How-To Guide to Producing Okay Christmas Cookies
Rule 1: Ambition is your enemy The laziest and most conservative member of the recipe selection committee must always be allowed to win. For instance: A: "Oooh, this recipe looks fun." B: "I'm not sure, Pippin, it says you need to make the banana-ginger ale chutney and the toasted coconut-lime glaze 72 hours in advance." A: "You're right, Bill, what the f*** was I thinking. Let's just have peanut butter like we always do."
Disaster averted! Pick your battles and do not overreach. Rule 2: Simplify! Suppress any inclination you have to do something special or "round out" your cookie menu. A: "Don't you think it's weird to not have shortbread?" B: "NO." Rule 3:Buy pre-made icing.
Pre-mixed icing in handy bags. Worth every red cent.
Get the kind where you just snip off the tip and are good to go. No more runny, undisciplined, hallucinogenic hues! Smart cookies use available technology and know when to outsource. It's the American way. Rule 4:Just say no to sprinkles of every kind. A: "But-" B: "NO." Rule 5:Vet your assistants before they start "helping." C: "Oh, fun! Are we making cookies?" B: "NO." A: "Oh hi, C! Thank Gof you're here. Can you run to the store and go buy us some more pre-packaged icing? Thanks a million." Promote imbeciles out of harm's way. Rule 6:Less is more. Individualistic whimsical flourishes are selfish, undisciplined and make the whole battalion look weak. Stick to outlines; straight ones if possible. Any fool can do a squiggle; it takes an expert to make hundreds of icing dots that don't look like little comets. Rule 7: Stick to the plan A: "I just had another idea for these snowman-shaped cookies." B: "Too late, we're doing them all in white outlines with blue eyes and yellow buttons." A: "But wouldn't it be cute if they had little pink scarves?" B: "Okay, who am I? Nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh wittle pink scawves... NO." And don't forget to have fun and a very Merry Christmas! It's good you're getting these tips in January, so you can have them good and memorized by the time it's Christmas cookie season again, am I right?
I didn't have any time to blog last week because I was busy. What's that, busy? Me? No. But I am not going to the office and my kid can't even walk yet, can't even talk. What is it that I DO all day? Surely I am not BUSY. Reader, perhaps you are clever and can see I'm about to go off on a long and pitilessly boring rant. I'd like to apologize in advance, but only pro forma, because as I shall convincingly argue here, I deserve your sympathy. Last night I went to bed planning to blog about some fun things that happened on the weekend. But this morning I awoke to find more cat pee in the hallway and my heart was filled with the blackest rage. A dark cloud descended and I realized (how did I fail to see it before?) that I am the victim of countless horrors. There is a sticky spot on the living room floor of indeterminable provenance and when I look upon its tacky face I hate it. I hate it for existing, for catching lint, for making me stoop to clean it up. And I hate its family. The other cursed sticky spots - be GONE, you foul flat beasts - and their distant cousins, the dustballs and the dirty dishes. I hate their cnidarian immortality, the way they sprout new limbs, keep walking, always return in defiance of science and morality. I am Sisyphus; no, I am Prometheus - and these coffee grounds do mock my pain. Some old exhortation about joyful hearts flickers briefly across my mind but I stamp it out like a weak bug. Unsatisfied by my generalized fury, I set upon a hairy sock that is not mine but which belongs to my husband. That cretin. Oh God and these pants of his on the floor, doubtless a provocation. Is he trying to say that in addition to everything else I am now solely responsible for the laundering of his clothes, that I have nothing better to do than scrape his rags off the bedroom floor, that my time is less valuable than his time and that since I look after our child I am effectively his cleaning lady? Because I have news for him, that man, this guy, my husband. I will not be taunted into washing your pants AGAIN, sir, no! Not for me, SIR, your pants, again. Actually, I might even wash your pants for you, as a favor, because I am lovely and kind, but I will not have you mindlessly expecting washed pants. I am a feminist, for fuck's sake. I suddenly yearn for the kind company, virtual or physical, of those awesome and supportive Sisters, with or without kids, who say nice things and are self-deprecating and hilarious. I want to braid your hair and be like you. Briefly, the ice in my heart melts.
But not for long. As I storm about collecting the raft of waste paper that has accreted on our furniture (receipts, price tags, and magazine inserts entreating me to subscribe at a discount: to you I say DAAHHHH) I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my ire takes another turn. Surely it is someone else's fault that I am still so fat. Actually, that's probably just my fault, which is why this is an unpleasant train of thought. But you know who sucks though? Those Other Women. Those judging harridans who are not among the handful of awesome and uplifting Sisters, but instead want you to know that whatever you are going through now, you are wrong and it gets worse. To those women who would like me to feel worse so that they can feel better, and while I'm at it, to those women who would have me believe that pacifiers breed 26-year-old thumbsuckers: F*** you. All of you. You are not helping.
*** Glad I got that out of my system. And now, you know who's awake? My daughter. Who is also daughter of my gorgeous husband. She has this smile.
Unfortunately for her, she also has a mother who is blatantly insane. Don't look at me though. That's someone else's fault.
Because Alex and I are adherents of the Path of Least Resistance School of Interior Design, we decided to conveniently locate Nava's diaper changing table in our living room. For the same reason, and because we are almost entirely innocent of either good taste or disposable income, our living room is basically monochromatic: everything is either black or white or a shade of gray. But the changing table was made of wood stained a fairly deep yellow, which didn't match, and it was missing an attachment that would have made it deep enough to fit a baby (we'd been laying her sideways). So last weekend, we built an attachment and painted it white!
BOOM. White changing table. Shot from below to add majesty.
Um, and that's it. Gosh. I was hoping this would be more of a blog post. It seemed like a serious achievement at the time. It involved planning the table extension, dismantling parts of the table, going to the hardware store, having wood cut, sanding the whole thing, nailing new bits together and painting everything twice. All on a Saturday. OH, oh, AND blogging about it. WITH a baby! I think we should get extra points for doing it with a baby. Not that our baby can talk or propel herself, or anything, but she does squall* loudly and for no reason for a couple hours every evening, and that made it pretty hard to concentrate. On the plus side, it made it totally irrelevant that Alex could have woken the dead when he was nailing pieces of wood together (at that point I was making futile efforts to calm our hysterical and inconsolable bairn, who was not hungry or in pain but was having her usual 6 pm bout of what I imagine is Creeping Existential Dread). Whatever. Fixing up the table was really hard and we are proud of ourselves. Here's a picture of our baby. She continues to be by far the best thing we've made. Didn't even have to go to the hardware store.
P.S. Shana Tova, to those who celebrate it
* By the way, the expression "a squalling infant" was a cliche I'd often read, but I feel like now I really understand. And we're lucky enough to have what they call an easy baby (knock on wood, salt over left shoulder, etc)!
In the wee hours of yesterday, my mom left town. She, my dad and my brother were all here for the last three weeks visiting the baby. My sainted parents were tremendous. They worked magic when we were not looking. A microwave materialized, our slightly askew dining table seemed to right itself (and we had been prepared to just live with off-kilter bowls of soup for the rest of our lives), groceries appeared, clothes and rooms were cleaned, and they played with the baby so that mommy could shower and nap... It was great. And now they have gone and it's all up to me to not destroy this child while her father is at work. AHHH!
Munch-ing on hot air. HAHAHAHAHA! Ha. I'm very tired.
Speaking of screams, this is a picture of our window. The hole in the middle of this little homage is our air conditioning vent. One of my dad's projects was to construct an airtight(ish) styrofoam pane to surround it. Ripping of Edvard Munch was his idea, too (although I drew it). It's obviously an ironic commentary on climate change and the futility of exercising our human agency. Ain't it grand? It keeps cold air in and blows hot air out on so many levels. **On a side note, I swear we only bought the a/c because I was nine months pregnant and it was hot as balls and I promise we only use it when it's above 35 degrees and I'm so sorry. Kind of. Although not sorry enough to get rid of it.**
This might look like a tremendous eyesore for our neighbors and passers-by below, but consider that previously Alex and I just dangled the hose out the window and filled in all the gaps with garbage bags and masking tape. This is an improvement.
And this here is an Aperol Spritz, sitting in front of my man and his beer. I got to soak in all of these on Sunday courtesy of a breast pump and my fine mother who is also good-looking and skinny. Thank you, mom and dad!
