Meat eaters

Violet’s always been a pretty good eater. She does go through phases, though, where she insists on eating one particular thing, leading me to buy half of Los Angeles’ supply of that item, only to have her decide the next day that she’s over it. Which is why we have a freezer smashed full of edamame right now and why I was eating nothing but string cheese for a couple weeks there. You would think I would have learned by now. But whenever the item she’s obsessed with happens to be on sale, I assume it’s a sign from the heavens that I need to buy stock in something like parmesan Goldfish crackers.

But usually it’s snacks like Goldfish or fruits or veggies that she becomes enamored with. So I was a little surprised yesterday when she woke up from her nap and immediately asked for “meat”. Not a sandwich or a wrap or even a meat and cheese roll-up, no this girl wanted straight meat. So it was kind of lucky that we happened to be making shredded pork sandwiches for Monday Night Football. She scarfed down two bowls full before deciding that she was done.

Then today before it even hit noon, she was asking for meat again. Strange how a girl can go from wanting to eat nothing but baby carrots and Tinkerbell fruit snacks to basically asking for a rib eye.

I also find it interesting that this proclivity for meat has coincided with Adam’s watching of Food, Inc., leading to his general belief that McDonald’s is basically everything that’s wrong with Western Civilization. Not that I disagree; I mean, I haven’t seen the movie, mainly because I’m pregnant and I scare easy, but he probably is onto something there. We could definitely benefit from fewer chicken McNuggets and French fries (But not the iced coffee … I am not giving up cheap, delicious caffeine, no way … or the dollar ice cream sundaes, I mean, come on.)

So now my search begins for grass-fed, free range, lullaby-sung to, happy meat. Because if the girl wants meat in this household, she’s getting meat, gosh darn it.

Cleaning frenzy

Have you ever accidentally moved a piece of furniture a few inches then wished that you hadn’t because you suddenly discovered where all the dust from the past three centuries has disappeared to? I mean, we’ve lived here less than six months—how can we have accumulated so much gook already? It just doesn’t seem scientifically possible.

It all started when Adam and I temporarily forgot we had a two-year-old and bought an entertainment center that basically advertises itself in bright Crayola markers to all passing toddlers. It’s low to the ground and it has no doors or covers to hide the electronics. So Violet’s all, “Oh buttons! Have to push, need to push, buttons, buttons, buttons!” And we’re all, “Push those one more time and we’ll … well, there’s not a lot we can do because we were the idiots that bought it in the first place.”

So our lovely, comfortable ottoman that works so nicely with our once-comfortable couch is now positioned cleverly in front of the entertainment center so grubby little fingers can’t reach it. The only problem is that the vacuum can’t reach it either, and today in a moment of sheer pregnancy-cleaning-nesting-craziness, I moved the ottoman. Bleck. Oh, there’s that mound of cat hair that we misplaced about five hundred years ago. Along with every single Cheerio that has ever been dropped in a five block radius of our house. There seriously must be a black hole under there that only sucks in fuzzy, gross blobs. Next time, sign me up for the money-sucking black hole—even if it is covered with fuzzy, gross blobs, money is always better than Cheerios.


P.S. Oh, hi blog. There you are. Brb. Promise.

The cat

Our cat Paco disappeared last week. I let him out of the house in the morning and he didn’t come back for his usual mid-day check in, and he didn’t come back at bedtime. The next day, nothing. And the next, and the next. Until almost a week had gone by and Violet was just starting to stop calling for “Patoe!” every time we went outside.

Then yesterday I was on the phone with my mom and lo and behold, I heard a cat meowing outside. I opened the door and there was Paco, looking at me like, “It’s about time, dude.” He came loping indoors and ate the entire kitchen before falling asleep on the couch for the rest of the day.

He’s lost a lot of weight but seems fine otherwise. I know cats disappear all the time and hey, I grew up in the country, so I really know that cats disappear all the time. But Paco had never been gone for more than a couple hours before, and to suddenly leap to a week-long roaming adventure was kind of a big deal for him.

So of course we’re inventing all these stories about where he was, because, you know, cats can’t talk, which is a good thing because if they did, we wouldn’t have anything to discuss over dinner. The top of the list of possibilities is that he got stuck in someone’s garage who then went out of town and returned recently to find a meowing cat locked up inside. But who knows, really. We’re just glad he’s home. He’s the only pet that actually tolerates Violet and she is head over heels about him for that. Just tonight, she gave him a big hug before body slamming him into the floor. Welcome home, Patoe.

Moving notes

I’m not exactly sure how or where, but someplace along the way from our old apartment to our new house, we lost a box. It’s not such a big deal—at least I don’t think there was anything too important in there. And really, the way that the move went, we were lucky not to forget Violet somewhere in the pile of U-haul boxes. But still, it kind of stinks. I’m pretty sure it was a box full of nothing but vegetable oil and honey. Because that’s all we seem to be missing. Oh, and those cute, tiny hangars for baby clothes. Kind of a random mix of things, but toward the end there anything that wasn’t nailed down was being thrown into any open container that would sit still long enough.

We also misplaced our spare car key somehow in the move. Not such a big deal, except when Adam left for work two days in a row with my car keys in his pocket, right there beside his own car keys in his other pocket. So there Violet and I were, stranded without car keys and with some serious playdates to get to somehow. Of course I tore the house apart looking for the extra key to no avail. I remembered putting it somewhere “safe” where I could easily remember where it was. That didn’t work out so well.

But then yesterday as I was digging through my purse looking for a pen, lo and behold, there was that darn car key, just hanging out at the bottom of my bag. It had been there the whole time, hidden by some old gum wrappers and grocery lists. So now that key is in a special little bowl in clear view on top of the shelf in the kitchen. And we’ll probably never need it again.

Chatterbox

Lately Violet has been trying so darn hard to talk. She has mastered a few words that she realizes can get her things, words like please (“pees”) and thank you (“tay too”). She sort of picked those up on her own somehow, which is great because it makes it look like we really care about manners in our family.

Another favorite is “airplane” (“ah-pane”), which she screams excitedly whenever she spots one in the sky. Incidentally, we live about three miles from LAX, so that happens quite often. It’s a lot of fun.

She also has this thing for birds. Even before she really knew what to call them, she loved pointing at them and watching them swoop through the sky. Last weekend we took her to the LA Zoo to go to their aviary. She had a blast running around scaring up the red-throated hookbeaks and the yellow-tailed tifty-wickets. (I really doubt those are actual birds. I’m just too lazy to Wikipedia “exotic birds” right now.)

So the other day Violet and I were playing at the park and she had wandered a little ways off to play with some other kids. So I was just sitting on the bench, enjoying a little sunshine when I heard a child start yelling, “Beer! Beer!” Why, I wondered to myself, is there a toddler yelling about beer? Surely his parent will stop him. Because that’s a little disturbing.

But the kid just kept yelling. Right as a huge flock of birds passed overhead. And then I realized. That was my kid yelling, “Beer!” Only she wasn’t yelling, “Beer!” She was yelling, “Bird!”

Quite an unfortunate mispronunciation, let me tell you. I’m working on over-emphasizing the “d”, but she’s not really getting it and I just end up sounding a little crazy. Birrddduh! Birrrrduh!

A world of laughter, a world of tears

While on the "It's a Small World" ride...

Adam: Instead of the death penalty, they really should just make people live in here. Problem solved.

Hello again

Apartment hunting su-hucks. Not that I don’t love pouring over craigslist until I go all squinty eyed, or viewing potential apartments with a squirmy toddler. But I think the most depressing thing is just that the home that I want to live in doesn’t exist. At least not in this immediate area. Or, if it does, it costs $12,500 a month. Seriously saw a house that cost that much. Um, how about we come live in one wing, and you won’t even know that we’re there. We can be quiet, really.

Because what I really want is space. A living area big enough for Violet to run more than two feet without running into the furniture. Or the wall. And I want a yard. Oh, what I would give for a yard. Not a big one. Just a teeny little plot of grass with space for a flower or two. And fresh air directly accessible by our back door. I get all giddy and twitchy just thinking about it.

We spent last weekend in San Diego, sharing a vacation rental house with some friends. We hid some eggs in the back yard for Violet to find, and she ran yelling around that patch of grass like a Pilgrim who just discovered the New World. And we realized that that was probably the first time she had ever run around in a back yard. Maybe that’s no big thing to people who grow up in cities, but to someone who practically lived in her back yard as a kid, it was kind of shocking to realize.

Sure, we spend most days at the park. Or the beach (which, hey, can't complain there). And we are ever so appreciative of all the beautiful playgrounds and public spaces that we have easy access to. But you know, sometimes a girl just wants to sit out on the porch on a sunny day while her little girl frolics through the green grass. Or runs around screaming in it, as the case may be.