Let's not be strangers
Monday, February 4, 2013
Things I Have Made: Desserts and Humans Edition
Bea is four. Four! What the hell is that about? But damn, she's a boss little kid. I know. Every mom thinks that. But fine. Let me be trite! I adore that little beast from the tip of her tiara to the ends of her ragged little toenails. And the way she corrects me? Like a friggin' boss: "Ahem. Actually, mother? My name is 'Bee-tricks,' not 'Beazy.'" And then when I'm like, "Damn kid, way to correct your ol' ma," she says, "Why are you using grown-up words?" and I just stand there like a big, dumb monster.
Is it weird to describe a toddler as baller? Whatever. I don't care. She's baller. I'm totally a fan. Of course it would be weird if I weren't, but that doesn't make my affection any less potent. Little Lady is rockin' my house. Hence my almost pathological need to delight her with splashy deserts, including the 12-layer Jello mold for her preschool, where there are enough allergies to make virtually any other dessert untenable, and the strawberry cake decorated with inexplicably hard to find Sleepy Beauty Squinkies.
1. Why do Squinkies exist?
2. Why isn't every variety of Squinkie readily available with Amazon Prime delivery?
3. How do we end Squinkies? Can we, like, start a petition? Here are the reasons:
a) choking hazard
1. I didn't make that cake with the roses. I bought it and then jazzed it up later. But I bought it from the West Hollywood Whole Foods on a Saturday afternoon, so I might as well have procured it from the Gods themselves. And I made the poor lady behind the counter do the writing twice because, apparently, I am that woman. I should go back and apologize, but then I'd have to go back to the WeHo Whole Foods, which is -- I assume -- a narrow-aisled tombstone for frugality.
Timmy, my teenaged cousin who I talk to all the time because of my profound psychological need to resolve my adolescence OR SOMETHING, has suggested that I favor Bea, but lemme tell ya: that's not true. Approximately once a day I look at Kasper, cup my hand over my mouth and sigh like a dowager countess, "Who is that magnificent creature?"
No, I hear you: a mom gushing over her kids -- NEXT! But look at this little beefcake:
I think it's worth noting that those shorts were hand-me-downs from a German friend.
Like, seriously. That's the motherfucker keeping me up at night and he's so damn cute that I FORGIVE HIM.
Basically, the gist here is, "hey, isn't it weird to be a parent and like your kids so much?" I realize that's hardly breaking news, but dude, I'm on deadline for a freelance project, so I just had to tell you: I think my kids are cool.
Also, not related, but I bought this jumpsuit a few weeks ago:
I think the same sloppy zeal that leads me to blog about my -- if we're being honest -- mundane affection for my children leads me to buy 70's-era Polynesian jumpsuits even though my life rarely calls for me to wear such apparel. Even the women at the shop discouraged me from buying it, but it's my jumpsuit and I'm sticking to it because... jumpsuit. Anyone have suggestions about where one might wear a ridiculously restrictive jumpsuit?
at 9:11 PM