I love you. That is all I have to say about that at the moment.

The one thing I love about this new home? My stats. Cuz without them, I wouldn’t know that someone referred someone in Kamloops to this site via a note on Facebook, and then that person from Kamloops spent over an hour and 47 page views up in my shit - more visits than my best friend. I only know of one person in Kamloops, and that would be a relative of the one person I especially want to stay the fuck out of my life. So I’m feeling a little paradoxical, cuz what is so interesting about me? That I’m mildly depressed? Knocked up again? Have a 28 inch waist for the first time in a year? What?

You’ve lost the right to check into my daughter’s and my life. So grow the fuck up and stop. Quit calling yourself mature and be mature. Just go away.

Moving onward.

The last post’s singer was Holly McNarland, Vancouver chanteuse extreme. I urge you to check her shit out, especially Mr. 5 Minutes. *wikkid grin*

The best thing about living in my neighbourhood? All of the great food places with take out options. I don’t have morning sickness, all I have is the overwhelming urge to eat, eat, eat - except for when I’ve cooked. Then the smells turn my tummy over. But, I can just take a jaunt down the street in any direction and find some japanese, pasta, greek, persian, burgers, fries, ukranian, chinese and more. This has been a blessing.

Otherwise, the only way I manage to eat dinner with Isobel (and JDawg, when applicable) is if I cook it earlier, like during naptime. This normally doesn’t work out because…

I have claimed Isobel’s nap time as my own, as well.

Yup, I am seriously a grumpy, grumbling, lazy, nodding mess should I not get at least 12 hours of sleep a day. I can’t wait for the end of this trimester.

In other mommy news, Isobel’s coming to that talking stage when it seems like anything I say, she tries to say back. Some words gets lost in translation - “blue’s clues” becomes something explosively throw out of her cheeks with a lot of spit; other words and phrases are completely clear as intended - “i godda go ow-oot ta walk” or “bye bye, daddy. go da wooork.”

It’s so damn cute. It also keeps surprising me, like three days ago, when she busted out, “Elmo,” when she learned to say one of her nicknames, “Zo-Zo,” or yesterday, when the green mucus of her 16th cold was trailing down her lips into her mouth and she wouldn’t let me wipe it and said, “‘top it, mah boogies,” correcting me on the ownership of her boogers, apparently.

I was tempted to go into a speech involving the fact that I gave her those boogers and I could take them away, too, but then I figured, well, she’s going to eat them anyways.

Shrug.

Todays creative cooking? Butter chicken, with a twist.

I cubed some chicken and pretty much cooked it through in some canola oil. Then I added some President’s Choice Butter Chicken Sauce, a sliced green bell pepper, and one finely cubed potato and yam, each. I mixed that about with around three-quarters of a cup of milk, then simmered it, covered on medium for around a halfer.

Serve solo in a Dora bowl, with half of a cheese bagel and you’ve got veggies, meat, grains knocked out of the park. Add a glass of milk, you’re totally rocking the food guide.

It was amazing. Succulent. I’m looking forward to the leftovers. A lot.

Where we lost the awesome was when Isobel decided to examine the sauce veryveryvery closely. And got some in her eye. Which led to subsequent double-fisted eye rubbing. With fists covered in more sauce. What’d that lead to?

Me trying to wipe off her eyes with a cloth while holding down her hands and then wipe off her hands before she could get them back to her eyes again. She was bucking and screaming in such a way as to indicate colic at 18 months. There were tears (hers), bruises (mine) and it just was not working out.

So, Isobel had her first of what I’ll expect to be many eye washes last night. She went in the tub clothed and yelled at me for repeatedly dousing her face with water. Between sputtering from inhaling the water. While hitting me because I was holding her in one place - if there’s anything Isobel’s taught me is the golden rule, it’s “You. Do Not. Control. Me.”

Then, anger over her clothes being wet and like, on her. And chicken in the bathtub, cuz really, that was the most wrong part of it all.

Two minutes later, I have a naked little crazy woman running about, talking about Santa (still?!) and spinning in circles while singing her three-letter version of the alphabet.

This is why I think it’s safe to assume there’ll be a repeat incident at least 40 more times - kid moves on and forgets too freaking well. Geez Isobel, thanks for being so damn well adjusted. Can you please be scarred by something so you actually stop trying to kill yourself via Jackass techniques before you turn five years old?