I Am The Cheese

Sometimes, WonderBaby puts cheese on her forehead. Soy cheese slices, specifically, because they have good traction. Real cheddar just won't stay on there.

Today, I feel exactly like a limp piece of soy cheese product that has been pinched flat by a giant, shrieking toddler and then smushed onto the yogourt-smeared forehead of that same toddler and left to dangle pathetically for an eternity before collapsing with a grim slap onto the cold, hard plastic surface of a Fisher-Price booster seat tray.

And that, my friends, is why I should never, ever drink more than a thimbleful of any alcoholic beverage, and why I should never, ever chase three glasses of wine with three chocolate bars. BAD.

You'll have to wait for that particular story, and you may have to wait a very long time - that is, unless one of my fellow debauched Toronto mommy blogger friends spills the details - because it is a very silly story and not all that interesting and because I anticipate being unable to even spell the word alcohol for weeks to come.

In unrelated news, you'll also have to wait to find out what this picture has to do with you:

I know. I am killing you with the suspense.

While you're waiting, I have a favour to ask. Go check out these posts by Joy and Mad - spectacular examples of meta-blogging at its finest - and give them some thought and leave your comments and maybe - maybe - write your own post. (Leave a comment for me if you do so that I can link to you. ) I'll be weighing in later this weekend - once the Sauvignon Blanc has worked its way out of my system - and will be soliciting links to posts on the general topics of whence the mommyblogger? whither the mommyblogger? what, the mommyblogger? and WHY? in preparation for our conference panel in Kentucky (hell yeah!) later this month and other academibloggy projects. So, you're in, right? Share your thoughts?

To get you started (feel free to consider any or all of these questions; suggestions for questions are more than welcome):

1. Who are we? What is a mommyblogger? What kind of mommyblogger (parent blogger) are you?
2. Who are we writing to? Who is our audience?
3. Why are we writing? What is our purpose?
4. What is the context for our writing? What are we saying? What is our message?
5. How does the medium of blogging affect all of the above (that is, does, or how does, the communication of our messages through blogs, bear upon the message itself? Bonus points if you leave Mcluhan out of it.)
6. What kind of citizen are you in the parent blogosphere? How and why do you comment? Link? Give awards? How important is 'off-blog' (or inter-blog) activity to the parent blogging community?
7. What are some tried and true hangover remedies that you know?


There you go. Discuss amongst yourselve. Am going to go curl up in a dark corner now...

D is for Dirty, That's Good Enough for Me

Edited below! Lost passages from the verse-epic have been recovered!

So I had this crazy, dirty alphabet ditty all done up for you - inspired by you, you dirty dawgs - all nicely laid out on my Blogger screen with pictures and everything and then I go to save it and pfaff... "YOU ARE NOT LOGGED IN. PLEASE LOG IN AND TRY AGAIN."

And, just like that, it's gone. Apparently, my original post was created under conditions of intolerable subterfuge and Blogger - dear, sweet, protective Blogger, always looking out for me -took care to ensure that no HBM posts be created under false pretenses, and, so... zaaappp.

All that remains are those passages of verse that I was able to recall as I sat, fuming, for the duration of the bus-ride that is my long and lonely trip home from the suburban campus at which I have been sentenced to teach and scribbled what I could from memory. Much to the obvious discomfort of the older lady who was sitting next to me and reading over my shoulder... (p is for phallus that stands at attention!)

Herewith, then, all that is extant of the verse-epic, Now You Know Your ABCs...

A is for alphabet, propped against wall
B is for boob-sling, all crunched in a ball

C is for child, who puts bras on her head
D is for dirty, the things that you said

E is for eager, your stories to tell
F words were few, but that's just as well

G is for glee, as you dished out your smut
H is for hell, where we'll land on our butts

I's for the incident I had you describe
"Jumped out, did your boobs!" claimed many a scribe

"Knocked off your chest! The boob-sling did fly!"
"Liquored-up, you sure were - and don't try to lie!"

"Massages at noon - the real dirty kind!"
(Nooners, it seems, are much on your minds.)

Over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders got lots of mention
As did things starting with P, that stand at attention.

Q (is lost in the gaping maw of the Bloggerburator. I have no recollection of what I did with Q, which means that it was probably brilliant. Future scholars will write great tomes about the lost passages of the HBM alphabet, perhaps using iconography from the HBM blog-scrolls - extant notwithstanding the Great Blogger Implosion of 2040 - to construct a hypothetical alphabet that can be used to decode the Secrets of the Great Cult of the Virtual Mother...)
R (ditto)

S is for sex - you all think I have lots
Truth is... um...

(Truth is what?! what's the truth? WHY CAN'T I REMEMBER DAMMIT?)

(Truth is... sex waits 'til I've washed all the pots? Sex makes me break out in spots? means connecting the dots? What what what was the truth about sex?)

Underwear in this house just gets tossed in the bin
Vampy bras see some action, but not very much sin

WonderBaby steals bras to wrap 'round her sweet head
X-rated undies are now chapeaux instead.

Yet shouldn't the bra be celebrated in play?
Z's pronounced ZED by Canadians, eh?

(OK, that last line was not in the original verse-epic but I am just too exhausted by my failure to remember the original couplet to do anything more than flame out in a blaze of total lameness.)

Yeah, that's right. Cover your ears. La Perla is best for muffling the sound of bad poetry.

*BREAKING NEWS*

Inspired by your comments, the Husband has come up with a plausible candidate for the missing Q/R couplet!

Q is for quickie, of which there are few;
R is for romp, a nice word for screw.

This is a tremendous contribution to the fragmented verse-epic, and I thank you all for your contribution. But we're still missing the conclusion to the second line of the S/T couplet, and I will not sleep until it is recovered. (I will not sleep in any case, but that's beside the point.)

In Paradisum

I could not blog light-heartedly this evening.

You may not know Rob, or his blog, How About Two. Or maybe you do know him, and have followed the stories of his wife's pregnancy with twins, and his efforts to prepare himself for fatherhood. But whether you already know him, or don't yet know him, you should know this: he's one of us, a parent who is embracing parenthood with his words. And he, and his wife, his family, have just suffered a devastating loss.

Please, go and visit. Send whatever love that you can. Offer warmth and hugs and good, strong wishes for the well-being of their hearts. Help them say goodbye to the angel that has flown, and say hello (joy-filled hellos! for she is an occasion for much joy!) for the living angel that remains in their arms.

And tell Rob thank you for sharing his child's life and death. For sharing his story, and his grief. Say thank you, because his words remind you to be so, so grateful for the children that you carry in your arms. And because the fullness of love that surrounds Rob's son's life and death - so beautifully shared with all of us - remind you that true love lives always, eternally, in the heart.

Much love to you, Barron family. Much love, and thanks.

Doss Donovan Barron, in paradisum deducant te Angeli.

Now I Know My ABCs...

Still Life with Underwear and Alphabet on Toy Chest.

Care to venture a guess on what the story is behind this sweet tableau? No prizes, but an enthusiastic virtual high-five to anyone who guesses correctly. High-five on the flip side if you come up with a story that's better than the truth.

(I have a wicked headache, and I demand to be entertained. Bring it, people. Amuse me. I'll return the favour tomorrow.)

(Then, please go visit the Basement and share your warmth and wisdom. Yes, I ask a lot of you. But you are such giving souls...)