My Only Sunshine

Dear Zoey,

I was planning on writing you letters for the future. A letter for the first time you hate me, for the first time your heart breaks, for the first time you realize that life is not fair, for the first time you fall in love, for the first time I disappoint you. I thought I had at least a decade to get these done, but over the past few days I have realized that it's too late. In April you will be three years old; already you have fallen in love, had your heart broken, realized that life is not fair. Already I have disappointed you in a thousand different ways that seem to me unflinchingly tiny, but to you are insurmountably large, the lenses of our hearts tilted as they are at different angles.

Yesterday I bought you a small heart-shaped box of cheap chocolates at the grocery store and told you we could not open them until we got home. I was driving on the freeway when I heard you in the backseat whispering, sorry mommy, I'm so sorry mommy. When I looked back your fingers were slick with chocolate and you were stuffing them in your mouth, two at a time. Zoey! I said, quite frankly surprised at your disobedience. But you did not stop, even when I yelled. You just kept apologizing, as if it couldn't be helped. Sorry, mommy. And there was nothing I could do.

It's been rough lately, between us. One minute you demand for me to hold you, grab my hand as I am eating so that you can pinch my skin absentmindedly, rice falling from my fork and into the grain of the carpet. You are my sunshine, I sing, you laugh, dance, but if I so much as tap my foot to the beat you scream, no! Quick like those wooden toys of small colorful animals, as if I have pushed my thumb into your base you collapse on the floor in a heap of limbs and loose string. Writhing, you actually writhe, and you scream and I cannot understand a word you are saying.

Another day, another car ride. It had been an emotional morning. I had a job interview to get to and you would not sit on your potty. The mere mention of pee reduced you to tears and you pushed me away, hard. Fine, I said, my interview boots clacking down the hallway, you get a time out. One minute later I returned to find you collapsed in a puddle of carpet-soaked urine and you clung to my neck, sobbing. I changed us both and we got in the car, the morning sun low on the horizon. Momma, the sun! you cried. The sun hurts my eyes! Momma move the sun! Move the sun! Help! And there was nothing I could do; it couldn't be helped.

Part of me wants to only write about the good stuff, how my heart jumps each time I encircle you in a hug and feel the smallness of your body, the way you flash your eyes when making a joke, the space between our faces when we nap together. But that wouldn't be right, wouldn't be fair to us. After all, we are mother and daughter, and there will doubtless be many times when we disappoint each other, surprise each other with how very human we are. But what I want you to know is this: the minute you came into this world my life reset itself to first. First love, first heart break, first friend, first family, first you. You first. If I could move the sun for you I would, because forever after you I have felt the weight of your light on my face, your warmth on my lips, and I have been driving with the sun in my eyes ever since.

All my love,
Your Mommy

Yes, I admit, I DO Delight in Evil Every Now and Again

Okay, aside from the fact that this is sheer tramp stamp FAILURE, not to mention the unflattering pucker happening there at the top of the crack, there is also a typo in the tattoo, or an errant freckle, I can't be sure. Nonetheless, what does this say about me that I cannot stop staring at it? Furrowing my brow to see if I can't spot more errors? That love is patient and kind, but that I am not?

And while we're on the subject: I cannot stand it when I see judgment spelled judgement. That's just how judgy I am. The first 'e' is superfluous, people (unless, of course, you are British and going to the theatre), and here I am speaking directly to Perez Hilton who I am pretty sure is not British.

Fact: I once went into an orchid kiosk at the mall to tell the shopkeeper that "Hawaiian" was misspelled on her awning. She kicked me out. Mahalo to you, too, "Hawaiin" Orchid Lady.

But the thing that undoubtedly sucks the most about delighting in finding grammatical errors is that we all live in glass houses, and yet I cannot stop. The stone is just so satisfyingly smooth here in my hand.

Quasizozo

That's it, I am putting my daughter on Proactiv. Accutane if that doesn't work. Because for the last few days she's had this horrible rash all over her face, arms and legs. Raised angry welts--she looks like Quasimodo, the teenage years. I am sure this is fine parenting-- I mean, I once heard that Britney Spears whitened Sean Preston and Evinrude's teeth, or whatever that youngest kid is named.

But seriously, we just got back from the pediatrician who said Zoey has a bad case of viral hives, implying there is such a thing as a good case of viral hives. Gah. He armed us with Aveeno Anti-Itch cream and sent us on our way, which seems to me like telling a cancer patient to take two aspirins and not call him in the morning, but what do I know? Apparently not much, but I do know this: we simply cannot be cooped up in this house on a sunny January day any longer. This afternoon I am going to spackle Zoey's hives with some Mac tranny foundation and take her to the park, much to the hairy stink eye of other mother's everywhere. Today, my little noble savage and I are going out in the big bad world to ring some bells.

But for you, I give you this--a dancing EsmeraldaZo in happier times, i.e. last Friday night:

Mission Accomplished!

Operation Big Girl Panties began months ago, and yet, much like the war in Iraq that supposedly saw the end of major combat operations in 2003, not much movement has been made on the Potty Front, and major poop operations have ensued on the changing table, (and in the car), (and yes, at the park), (okay, on the floor, too), (and maybe on the living room couch, as a warning to anybody who might visit--sit on the white couch, not the green one).

And yes, I did just compare the war in Iraq to my daughter potty training, but let me reiterate that while I do not endorse the war that is indeed still very much a war, I do support the soldier that is still and always will be a soldier. Phew. Okay, back to pee pee and poo poo. So yeah, panties: check. Dora the Explorer 3 in 1 Potty: check. Elmo It's Potty Time! DVD: check, check and check 1001 times for how much we have viewed that particular piece of cinéma vérité. Still, up until yesterday, there was nothing much to be said about potty training. Diaper insurgencies were the order of the day (and night). Zoey was simply not interested.

So I, too, lost interest. I had kind of resigned myself to the fact that I would forever be changing her diaper. I thought, well, yeah, sure, I can swing by her high school between classes, throw her down in the girl's bathroom and do a quick shuffle, (no) ball, change. At the same time I can make sure no one is smoking in the stalls! That's like Mother-of-the-Year material right there! And then I thought, oh! And what a nice way for her to get to know her college dorm roommate. They can share a box of stale Wheat Thins while watching The Real World: Dubai, and then her roommate can change Zoey's diaper! No problem! It'll be a bonding experience! Like getting wasted together and holding back your roommate's hair as she pukes. I will send care packages of Desitin and cookies! Mother-of-the-God-damn-Year, I tell you. I was not one to force it.

But then yesterday happened, and the enemy suddenly stumbled from the cave, blinking in the bright sunlight of a pair of rainbow-festooned Hello Kitty undies. It was a fluke, really. The panties had been pushed to the back of Zoey's drawer, like a box of tampons in a pregnant woman's cabinet. They must have fallen out somehow while I was doing laundry, and Zoey pounced on them immediately. Are these mine? My big girl panties? Of my very own? As if I hadn't given them to her months ago, as if I were somehow squealching her development, My Sweet Audrina without the creepy subtext. And with that she took off her diaper and stepped into them, demanding more, more panties, more Hello Kitty, more rainbows, more underwaries! And so I got them all out, and after she peed in her potty she bundled her underwear in her arms and slept with them in her crib, a lovey of underpinnings.

This morning she opted for a pair emblazoned with Dora, her rump practically non-existent without the cushion of a diaper. And I am left to wonder: could it be this easy? Mission Accomplished from an aircraft carrier, thumbs up in a flight suit and bombs away? Or will there be yet more guerilla warfare, covert and rife with casualties?

"We do not know the day of final victory, but we have seen the turning of the tide." --Dubya Bush.

And yes, I did just quote George Bush in my blog. But let it be known it is a post about poo.

Good luck, and God-speed, though I never understood what that meant.

All images from Man Babies. Yes, poo, Bush and Man Babies. The End.

Because Balls Are Inherently Funny (And You Need Funny on a Monday in January)

It's usually a little Ovarian-Centric here at Casa Petunia Face, so today I would like to turn toward the fairer sex and grant you with this: "Nuts! It's Nuts Monday!" (Don't worry, this will not be a weekly event. I just don't have much to say today and I've noticed that when men have nothing to say they inevitably stick their hands down their pants to play with their balls. At least that's what I think they're doing. Who knows? Maybe I'd play with my ovaries should I be able to reach them. But I digress, glassy-eyed and vacant, one hand on my invisible gonads.)

First off we have the zexy boys from Flight of the Conchords with Sugar Lumps:



And because no testicular humor is complete without the holiday classic, "Schweaty Balls," I also give you this, my all-time personal fave EVER (and quite possibly excuses Alec Baldwin with later calling his daughter a lazy pig, because could a man with this comic dead-pan really be that cruel? Yes? Oh. Well, here are his Schweaty Balls nonetheless):



So there you go. Nuts, it's Monday.

Someone's Singing, My Lord

Last night I re-watched the inauguration with Bryan who had not watched it on Tuesday seeing as how he has to work to keep Honey Smacks sweet in our mouths. Being the good wife that I am, however, I Tivo'ed it for him, so last night I lay my head in his lap and closed my eyes while he watched Obama's inaugural speech.
I heard more of what he said this way, with my eyes closed. And now I am more in love with Obama than ever, feeling all buttery and warm and yes we can-ish. Yesterday I heard that somebody changed all the Bush Street signs in San Francisco to Obama and it's official: I have melted.

And then there's this: Renew America Together, as if the entire country is sitting around a campfire together singing kumbaya, laughing, crying, praying, needing. If you have not yet signed up, please take a look. And then we'll segueway into a rousing rendition of Michael Row Your Boat Ashore and make some s'mores.

And lest I come off as too blandly pious on this drizzly Friday, I give you this:

A Happy Friday, indeed.

xo,

Susannah

*My apologies for not crediting the photos. I saved them awhile ago and did not save the source. If these are yours, please let me know and I will gladly credit you!

Petunia Faceless

At first I was pissed at you. Then I hated myself. Now I'm just mad at the world.

It started with the photos I posted of Zoey wearing just her tutu and a pirate hat. A few people questioned the safety of putting *t0ple$s photos of my daughter on the internet. I thought that was silly. Is there such a thing as a two year old t0ple$s?? I mean, really? Would people question photos of a tw0 year old b0y without his shirt on? Because it's basically the same thing. I scoffed, and yes, maybe I felt a little stung (okay, a lot), but I forged on. I thought of the Coppertone girl getting her bottoms pulled down by the dog--was that really Jodie Foster or is that just an urban myth?--and then I thought, whatever.

But then I posted a photo of Zoey in the tub surrounded by her My Pretty Ponies. The picture was taken from above. You could see the top of her head, shoulders, arms, a peek of tummy and chubby legs. Nothing else. I was more concerned about showing the www the amount of bath scum in my tub than my daughter. But I was wrong, because immediately Anonymous (who else?) lashed out at me to stop posting nekkid f0t0s of my daughter on my bl0g. I reeled from that comment. Nekkid f0t0s? Of my daughter??? WTF? I felt as if I'd been socked in the gut, spat on, as if I was being called a bad mother, a pervert myself. And so I cropped Zoey out of the photo and just showed the bath scum.

But I cannot stop thinking about it; I cannot stop being angry. I started this blog to get myself writing again, and because I had so much to say about how much I love my daughter. And much of that love is cl0thed in just a diaper, sometimes even le$s. I could go on and on about the purity of children, the innocence, about how I do not want to foist shame upon my daughter, not now, not yet. But what I ultimately realized is that none of that matters. And that's why I'm angry. What matters--what has taken precedence over the natural innocence of children--is the fear and very real danger in the world. The fuckers who do cruise the internet looking for--God, I can't even type it. The fuckers who don't see the tutu and the pirate hat, who don't see the arms flung wide open in unabashed glee but see something else. Something that is not there.

And so I have taken those photos down. Not because there is anything wrong with them. Not because there is anything wrong with me for posting them. And certainly not because there is anything wrong with my daughter being nekkid or "t0ple$s." I have taken them down because there is something wrong with the world.

And now I am off to scour the scum from my bathtub. You do what you can...

*Please note: I have not lost all spelling prowess, nor am I going all Prince on U. I am intentionally misspelling words that might be provocative as I do not want any pervert$ to find my blog by searching for certain words or phrases. Fuckers.

A Lesson in Pop-Up

Buy this book. Even if you don't have a kid, buy this book.

It's the story of a little girl and a dog "of intractable wrath." She goes about her days and nights haunted by the vicious dog, her heart heavy. Until one day she realizes that some differences are irreconcilable, that not everyone has to like you.

I need to read this book every morning, and then again each night.

Plus, it's a pop-up book.

That is all I have for today.

Go here to check out more artwork by Seonna Hong.

Shaka!

I'm just going to say it: our President is fucking awesome.
First African-American President, and first President to flash the shaka sign at the Inauguration. Fuck yeah.

Horse Latitudes

So it's done. The inauguration. The pomp, the circumstance, all that hailing to the Chief and Michelle's gorgeous yellow ensemble, Obama's steadied focus, the lump in your throat, the hope. It's here now. Like the day after Christmas when you stare at the tree all mucked up with tinsel and realize, oh, yeah, now life returns to normal and you're left to wonder if the tinsel will burn out the motor in the vacuum cleaner, if you're better off picking up the pieces one by one. This is it. The Horse Latitudes.

Or the My Pretty Pony Latitudes, whatever. The tide has turned, the seas are still, and now we must wait for the wind to pick up, for change. And I, for one, am ready, having already tossed a few horses overboard, watched as their big eyes bulged forward in fear, listened to the splash and then the sickening wet sound of the struggle. I am ready for a new America, for movement, for a country toward which I've been tacking endlessly back and forth for 36 years.

When the still sea conspires an armor

And her sullen and aborted

Currents breed tiny monsters,

True sailing is dead.

Awkward instant

And the first animal is jettisoned,

Legs furiously pumping

Their stiff green gallop,

And heads bob up

Poise

Delicate

Pause

Consent

In mute nostril agony

Carefully refined

And sealed over.

--The Doors

Compliments of Greenhouse Gases (And the In-Laws)

Okay, now I'm just rubbing it in.

80 degree days in January. Compliments of greenhouse gases. And the in-laws. Because we spent this past weekend in this lovely little casita up in Calistoga.

Just a small affair really. A surprise birthday party of a weekend for my mother-in-law, complete with sprawling estate, a pond, swimming pool, 15 person hot tub, outdoor fireplaces, facials, fountains and family galore.

Did I mention the rollicking lawns, perfect for cousins playing catch? Here's the littlest vato, my petunia faced girl, trying to be one of the boys:

And what mansion would be complete without trails leading nowhere but there?

And its very own ruins?

It was a splendid weekend, in the grand tradition of the Kennedy's, sans scandal and the odd lobotomy.

So yes, I'm rubbing it in, my weekend. The sun. The swimming and the warmth and the greenhouse gases. I'm rubbing it in and hoping it keeps me supple.

So if you want to get me back, I completely understand. Just wave your paycheck in front of my face. Show me your mortgage that you can still pay, flaunt your 401k, medical, dental and who knows? Maybe even vision.

I'll just be over here with my own eyes closed, la la la, pretending I'm still in Calistoga, pretending that my weekend was not just a rental.

Vendredi, Samedi, Dimanche

Me, Zoey and my Dad at the beach a few days ago.


Wishing you a warm-toed weekend.

xo,
Susannah

Until

One of my early childhood memories is of me and my brother jumping on our parents' bed chanting "Jimmy Carter for President! Jimmy Carter for President!" Somehow I knew that my mom and dad had voted for him and that he had something to do with peanuts which meant, of course, that he had Snoopy's endorsement so he deserved a little jumping on the bed. And later a Nobel Peace Prize.

This time next week we will have a new President. I use that phrase a lot: "this time tomorrow it will all be over," before a dreaded day, "this time next week, this time next month." In truth we don't know in what time it will be over, or really what it is. A recession, a depression, the malaise of a country, a pock-marked zitty zeitgeist, a spirit that sags. And so we must make plodding symbolic steps toward the finish line, baby steps mostly, marking time until. Until--that's the end of that sentence.
But next week. This time next week. It's a big step, the Inauguration, both symbolically and literally. And I plan on marking it with HOPE. You can, too. Check out Obamicon.Me and make your own poster in the now iconic style of Shepard Fairey. Jump on your bed. Eat peanuts, look for a job, jump on your bed some more. Until. This time next week.

What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor?

You know what I'm doing today?

Yeah, I have no freaking clue either, but I'm doing it with this lil' sprog of a lass so you know it's going to be a good day.

Undoubtedly a little bit of this scallywagging.

And a whole lotta' saucy that, whatever that is.

So avast me hearties! Happy Wednesday. Dead men tell no tales but you know me, I'll be back tomorrow with more booty to boot.

With love,
Susannah and the Petunia Faced Girl (Arrrrrr)

So Yeah

I'm having the kind of day that makes you want to buy two doves. A shy day. The day after kind of day, the day after what exactly, I don't know. Did I say too much? Too little? Was I overly dramatic, all jazz hands when the score almost certainly called for a shuffle-ball-chain?

I feel the need for diversion, for Brody Jenner, for Abbazabba, for lyrics and--look! Over there! Kittens!

Yeah, so, hm. What's your favorite color? I like to put hot tamales in my popcorn, get 'em all buttery and warm and bite down on them, sweet with the salty. I hate the smell of tar, vitamins make my throat close up. Each night I go to bed wearing socks but sometime during the night I shirk them off so there is a perennial pile of socks tangled at the bottom of my sheets. Yesterday was National Blog Delurker Day and I missed it, so enrapt was I with the size and shape of my eye. I forgot to get you a card, flowers, but please, tell me something about yourself. You, yes you. If not a secret then, something mundane. Because today is the kind of day for anything. Pretty please?

Where I've Been

Maybe it started with the twitch. Or maybe it started way back with the twisting of my double helix. Maybe the moon was in the seventh house, Scorpio was rising, maybe somewhere in the Amazon a butterfly landed on a branch causing a brittle leaf to fall to the ground and the world was forever changed. It was small, that much I know. The twitching of my eye. Pulsating. Fluttering. A moth against a bare light bulb on a porch at night. Can you see it? I'd say to people, leaning my face in close enough to kiss, my breath fogging up every mirror with my scrutiny. And me being me I went home and Googled "eye twitching" and what was small became large, freakish, what was inconsequential became everything.

Because when you Google "eye twitch" you are likely to find websites about stress, yes, anxiety, but also websites dedicated to all of the dread diseases best known by initials, diseases made popular by Alex P. Keaton, diseases that send me spiraling into letters I cannot bring myself to put together. I mean, I fancy myself a feminist, but still, I insist on Miss or Mrs., never the other, no fucking way. Letters have power, thoughts are loaded, e=mc2 but there is still so much we don't know so I do everything I can to fool the foggy gods of my phobia, however silly it may seem. Don't believe everything you think, people tell me. So honestly? I don't know what to believe most of the time. I walk around believing in grocery lists, in the days of the week. Today is Monday and I hold on to the knowledge that my ferns need watering, that I have to fill up my car with gas. Some days it seems I exist on fumes.

I hate this about myself. That might be the worst part. How I hate myself for having panic attacks. How something happens, my eye twitches maybe, and then suddenly my world shrinks down to survival, as if someone has poured salt on a newt, and I lie there quivering on the floor full of hatred that I am weak, that I am fragile, that I am me looking through a thick opaque window at my daughter dancing in a princess dress, at my family, at the rest of the world rotating on its axis and I am still with the fear. It's harder to admit that than it is the panic attacks. Hating myself for them is my biggest shame.

Bryan has diabetes. My brother has asthma. Maybe you have something wrong with you, a bum knee, allergies, astigmatism. I don't judge you, only myself. There is something about panic attacks, phobias, depression, whatever. Something unspoken, broken, whispered about, snickered. Something less. And I think that the reason I hate myself is just a big clusterfuck of what I imagine people say about me, whether they do or not. She's crazy. She's weak. She's weird. I see these faceless people doing that little thing, twirling one finger around their ear to indicate that I am cuckoo, a third-grade taunt reserved for the playground. And I hate it.

I'm taking magnesium now. I heard that helps with muscle spasms. And B vitamins. I've been eating a lot of bananas for the potassium. My eye, it still twitches, and the corner of my mouth, too, when I think too much about it. But it's twitching less; I'm getting better. I watched a video yesterday of Barbara Walters interviewing Obama, and in it, his eye is twitching. Poor guy. He's under a lot of stress in that he has to find me employment. But my main job right now is to forgive myself. For being human. For the way my double helix connected, for the way the planets were lined up in the moment of my conception, for the butterfly in the Amazon, for the leaf, for the smallness of things that go bump in the night. Yes, I am weird, but I am also strong, and I am me, crazy legs and all.

*Images of sculptures by Ron Mueck. Click on images for source.

In a Funk

Back soon.

Theory of Relativity

When I was sixteen I used to think a lot about the mysteries of life, the universe, death, all of the important why's. I would sit in our driveway at night during the summer, the smell of warm asphalt all around me, and I'd stare at the stars and wonder.

Sometime during college, or maybe it was after, after reading Socrates and Foucault, I stopped wondering so much. The question of why became one of how: how will I pay the rent? How will I find a job? How will I manage to record Melrose Place and still go out to meet my friends? My universe became simultaneously larger and smaller, my mind cluttered with so many pressing issues that I didn't question beyond what was there. I haven't sat in a driveway at night to stare at the stars in years.

Zoey smells like warm asphalt sometimes, when she's been running around and around for no reason at all. I grab her mid-leap and bury my nose in the top of her head. Where did she come from? This little being that I made. If matter can neither be created nor destroyed, where was her energy before all of this nonsense of a name, an address, a social security card? Why her? Why me? Why?

My father once told me a story about a psychologist that had a three year old child and a newborn baby. The three year old was in the baby's room unsupervised, but the parents could hear him talking via the baby monitor. "Tell me about God," he whispered to the newborn, "I'm beginning to forget."

This could well be woo-woo, flakey whoa, roll of the eyes and shake it off to pay the electric bill. Maybe it is. But lately I've been asking Zoey if she remembers being a baby, and she says yes. I ask her if she remembers being in my tummy, and she says yes. Then I ask her if she remembers what was before, but I get no answer at all. Zoey also remembers saving the Big Red Chicken because she saw it on Dora that morning, so again, what does it mean? Probably nothing. Still. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed and for the first time since a long time I am full of wonder. And why. And thank god for all of the questions.

It Sounds Like a Ping (Can You Hear It?)

Usually you have no idea where your bladder is--that's the way it's supposed to be. I mean, it's just sort of there bobbing around inside your gut, la la la, maybe a pee pee dance here or there, la la la, the line for the ladies restroom is always too long, sure. But then somewhere along the way you get a bladder infection and WHAM! Suddenly you know exactly where your bladder is, and your bladder is pissing and moaning and THERE, looking for all intents and purposes like a very angry Angelica Huston. At least that's how I imagine it to be.

Zoey has lost the dimples on the backs of her fingers. Her sticky little starfish hands have been pulled into the thin dexterity of a child holding crayons. I don't know when this happened. Exactly how, or even why.

She was born three weeks early. 5lbs. 15oz., 17 inches long. Not yet tall or even short. Small. Her skin hung off her like a SharPei but I did not really know what a newborn should look like anyway. To me, she was perfect. I had never really hung on to the presence of other babies, had never eaten them up with my eyes in line at the bank. Other people's babies collected white foam in the corners of their mouths that made my stomach turn, they had acne, they stank. Zoey did none of these things. Her eyes were clear, her breath sweet, her skin soft. She cooed in key with Jack Johnson in our living room. And so I am surprised when I look back at the photos now and see spit up stains on the couch, bumps on her cheeks, her scalp scaly, her face purple from crying. My friends now tell me she looked like Smurfette. I did not see it; I had beer goggles for my own baby, took her home and have had a hair of the dog for breakfast every morning since. I am still drunk with her eyes.

Last week I figured out just where my ovaries are. They live in Zoey's closet, folded up neatly in a bin with her old clothes marked 0 - 3 months. I was cleaning out her closet when I found them, and it would seem that my ovaries are printed with tiny monkeys, bunnies, that they are the soft wool of a newborn lamb. I don't know if it's so much of a WHAM as it is a WHEN, maybe a bit of a WHY but hopefully nothing to do with a HOW, but they are THERE, not looking a thing like an angry Angelica Huston but maybe resembling a Smurf if I am to be perfectly honest.

A hairy, stinky, crusty, zitty, smiling Smurf with dimples on the back of each finger. And I look at my baby now, follow her 90% percentile tall toddler body when we are in line at the bank and she is pulling at the velvet dividers knowing full well she is not supposed to. I feast on her skin, her scent, the turn of her neck, the memory of her and the fingers that are no longer sticky fat starfish as much as they are thin electric eels getting into it all. And I want another one. I want her. I want her, I want her, I want her and I watch her become her own person and it is like watching butter harden. I know now where everything is. I don't know exactly how or even why, but it is THERE and I am hungry.

That's What It's All --'Bout

People say that how you spend January 1st is a harbinger of the year to come. I say that if this is true then I am screwed. Because I spent the day sick as the proverbial dog, blowing my little button nose over and over and over again while watching a Looney Tunes marathon and arguing with Bryan that the video I took of Zoey naked in the bath singing her top hit tune "It's All 'Bout the Baginas" is totally suitable for my blog. Susannah, he kept saying slowly as if I were retarded and not just feverish, it's a video of our daughter. Naked. Singing a song about her vagina. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind I got it--I get it--I mean, yes, there are freaks out there and Looney Tunes is not real. If you run into a brick wall you will not crash through unscathed, the bricks torn loose in the shape of your wound up body. But it's just so cute, she's so cute, surely the cuteness acts as some sort of perv-repellent, her sweet bubblegum tummy a kryptonite to bad, no? No.

Fine then. 2009 is not going to be ALL butterflies and rainbows. I was asleep at midnight on New Year's Eve, under the lead weight of Tylenol Cold and Flu. Bryan woke me up just in time for the ball to drop on tv. I have bad breath, I said, half asleep, sweaty, still congested. I don't care, he said, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1... and he kissed me.

People say that seeing is believing but I say that some things just don't need proof. You're going to have to take my word for it that Zoey singing in the bathtub is cute, and I'm going to have to have faith that a sick January 1st does not a year make. Sure, not everything will be fine in 2009--who knows that this year will bring--but my husband still kisses me when I have bad breath, my daughter sings, and that's enough for me.

And now, the world theatrical release of the lyrics to "It's All 'Bout the Baginas" (may be sung to any tune so long as it is with joy):

'Bout baginas

'Bout baginas

'Bout baginas

(repeat 4000 times)

chorus: and the belly, bagina, belly, bagina (because apparently it's also about the belly)

'Bout baginas, baby

Mama, I want to get out of the bath now

Mama, no more camera

Mama, I love you*

*I added this last line because I just know Zoey meant for it to be in her song.

The truth about Unicorns found here.