Let’s recap: I’m a baby. That much we know. I just got here recently, but it feels like I’ve been here all my life. I don’t do much, but what I do, I’m pretty good at. Like sitting on my parents’ lap and drinking formula from Target and staring at that same exact painting on the wall I’ve been looking at, it feels like, my whole life. It’s like a Jazz Age scene with waiters and lots of action. I mean, I’m no expert on the Jazz Age, but that’s what it seems like to me.
Also, I’m doing a lot of good things with saliva lately. Really incorporating it into all aspects of my life. Admittedly, there’s not a lot of aspects of my life right now, so it’s not that much of a feat, but you can only play the teams on your schedule, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Hey, so here’s something annoying: I’ll be making random sounds, and my dad will say something about That’s great, Ava, but I’m not available Tuesday, and laugh. But the thing is, I wasn’t even talking about getting together. Why would I ever say that? We live in the same house. And whenever I’ve seen him out of the house, he’s been with me the whole time, so I’m like, What gives with this. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what I was saying in the first place, but I sincerely doubt that it involved Tuesday. But he’s my pops and it makes him happy, so I don’t correct him. (Which if I did point it out, he’d probably say something random like, Denver? I don’t think so, or whatever. I just do not understand that generation.)
Speaking of magazines, I see all these US Weekly magazines lying around. And in all candor, I can’t read them yet. But I have a feeling that when I am able to read them, I still won’t understand why anyone cares about the Kardashians. Or, more importantly, how Bruce Jenner got involved in all the mishegoss. What happened to him, anyway? And then I see the New Yorker lying around the house, and I try to look interested – I’m as curious about the Sudan-Liberia conflict as anyone – but between you and me, I pretty much just look for the cartoons.
Appearance-wise, my dad likes to say that I resemble one or more of several deceased British men, such as Sir Winston Churchill, Benny Hill, and Mr. Magoo, especially with my eyes closed. I don’t take this as a compliment, and I’m not even sure Mr. Magoo was British. But as long as I’m getting six squares a day, I keep it to myself.
Speaking of food, I was very excited recently when my parents announced that they would start to add solids to my diet. Fans of this page are well aware of my preferences in this regard, and so I said, in my own way, How about sausage and pepperoni? Or even, because I’m young, start with cheese? (To which my Dad, of course, said that thing about Tuesday. I just don’t know about that guy.)
So long story short, I end up with some kind of pasty oatmeal concoction – no thanks, guys — and then at Target (where else?) I saw Mom put pureed peas into the shopping cart. “Pureed Peas” doesn’t sound bad on paper. It even has a certain alliterative ring to it. But seriously, have you seen this stuff? I think they give it to prisoners. And I bet it violates the Lake Geneva Convention. But I’ll be honest, it kind of tastes good. (Same thing with formula: smells like ass, but I’ll be darned if it doesn’t go down easy, like a good chocolate malted.) I’ll tell you this, though: This vegetarian diet will not stand for much longer. Baby needs some meat.
Here’s something I like to do to mess with my parents: I call it “poop-confusion”. I thought about calling it “Poop-Fusion,” but that sounded too much like some kind of fancy dinner you’d get at a downtown restaurant. Maybe, poosion? Anyway, I like to scrunch up my face and make noises and act like I’m pushing something out. I’ll even make the appropriate noises with my butt. Yet when they take off my diaper, expectantly…NADA. Sike! Conversely, I have perfected the art of smiling sweetly and making cute sounds in my parents’ faces, all the while producing, unbeknownst to them, a wave of fecal matter requiring the intervention of no fewer than three Federal agencies and an out-of-state Hazmat team. I mean, this stuff goes EVERYwhere. And yet, you’d never know it by looking at me. Check out the picture of me hanging out with my dad. Nice scene, right? You should have seen the sheets afterwards. Gross, I tell you. i.e. Awesome!
Anyway, that’s pretty much me at six months(ish). Check in later for future (hopefully pizza-related) updates. Happy Hannukah, everyone!