November 14, 2006
A~, our oldest, is a very picky eater. Very. I truly believe there is a genetic component to it, because Husband is the same way. So, of course, I was shocked the other day when she requested a glob of peanut butter on her lunch plate so she could dip her carrots in it. What????? Now, she actually likes carrots. Not the way she likes cookies, candy and crackers, but she’ll eat carrots without filing a war crimes complaint against me with the United Nations.
Peanut butter is a different story. While she has given up the all-out frontal assault tactic of trying to get out of eating peanut butter (on the rare times I actually fix it for lunch), I am convinced that she and her sister L~ have a secret underground organization and are quietly plotting a coup against me and Skippy (the natural version, of course). I’ve come to the conclusion that the peanut butter/carrot incident must be the part of their evil plan that calls for me being lulled into a false sense of security.
Should an insurgency occur, and should I be trapped or otherwise overthrown, I will try to send out the distress signal: Mr Peanut is needed in the midlands. Please commit that to memory, I’m depending on you.
In non-revolt, though revolting news, I’ve decided it’s time to share with my readers something very personal: Tank Boy’s stinky diapers REALLY stink. Above and beyond anything else I’ve ever experienced. I think there is some flower somewhere that only blooms once or twice a century, for which everyone is grateful because the stench is so bad. I wish that were Tank Boy, except he’d probably get even grumpier than usual.
When he first came home from Korea and we were treated to this olfactory phenomenon we thought it would end once his diet changed a bit. We. Were. Wrong. We refer to it as perma-stink, though it would probably be appropriate to add the prefix omni in there somewhere: omni-perma-stink; perma-omni-stink. It is bad, it is everywhere, and it has staying power.
This is why I have developed the ritual of lighting a candle every time I have to change the daily dose of deadly doo-doo. Well, that and it’s a good time to say a prayer that we won’t all pass out from the fumes or have the embarrassing experience of a HAZMAT crew showing up at the door and tenting the house.
So now, every day, I purge his pants, light a candle, and then Tank Boy breaks into song. Oh, surely you know what he sings, right?
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you . . .”
Yes, I agree, it’s time to work on potty training. After the novel is finished, I promise.
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt says hello.