giant metal puppy
One thoughtful reader sent me an email about how maybe I missed a perfect Adoption Talk opportunity with Nora's “two mommies” comment from the last entry. I appreciate the sentiment, but trust me that it was not really the time or place. Besides the fact that it would have ruined my threesome joke (kidding! honest!), at that moment Nora was goofing on the meme of getting tucked in twice, having two mommies to play board games with, etc. She knows the difference between “mommy” and “birthmother,” and she's very clear about it. To the point of grumpiness, actually. I have not posted about this in detail yet because I am still sorting out my feelings on the topic, but my kid is somewhat down on her birthmother right now. When we talk about China and how Nora came to be adopted, the birthmother bit always makes her frown, and she says things like, “I did not like that mommy” (I kind of love that she believes she had such decision-making capacity at a few days old) or “That lady would not have been a good mommy.” This has the effect of making me insanely…neutral, and I try to say bland, innocuous things like, “Well, she couldn't take care of you but we know she tried to keep you safe” (absolutely true, especially once you know the circumstances of Nora's abandonment and finding spot). I'm not about to insist that Nora dredge up some Deep Feelings for a woman she does not remember and most likely will never meet. At the same time, of course I won't partake in any direct or indirect dissing of the birthmother. The connection is there, however sadly abstract it may be.
My theory on Nora's current policy on birthmothers is that she is simply making a point about family, in the typical black/white way of preschoolers. She wants it clear that she loves us and feels like she belongs with us. Her feelings on her origins will undoubtedly change, but I hope that part never does.
Going to have sharks naked by the end of this song.
Stanley Fish embarrasses himself. And I laugh.
I need pants, so I went to go try on pants, and lo, it was terrible. It was not even the standard, socially-acceptable-if-totally-dull-and-predictable terribleness of “feeling fat,” it was the rather novel terribleness of feeling like a mutant. Any pants that fit my trunk-junk were way too big in the waist, anything small enough for the waist could not contain the ass, and of course everything was miles too long. Except for petite sizes, which were weirdly too SHORT and hit right above the ankles, a phenomenon also known as “one-way ticket to Dorktown.” How can I be both too short and too tall to wear pants? It is a mystery. Are there any of you crafty bitches out there? Sew me some pants. My measurements are reasonably small in the circumference, bootylicious in the rearview, and long-enough-to-reach-the-floor in the leg. Thanks.
THE LAST TABOO
The other night at dinner.
Nora [cracking herself up]: Would you like to EAT A PERSON?
Me: Um, no.
Nora: You wouldn't like it! You don't eat meat!
Me: There's that. Also, humans don't eat other humans.
Nora: No, no, no, I mean a DEAD person.
Me: Like I said, people don't eat people.
Nora: But a dead person wouldn't mind! You would just eat the meat.
Nora: Why not?
Me: WE JUST DON'T.
LT [to the rescue]: It's considered rude.
—mimi smartypants has a modest proposal.