Moldy musings on growth and such things

Self 1: Psssss...look.
Self 2: No, not there, over here.
Self 1: Ugh.
Self 2: What IS that?
Self 1: It's, um, green...and white...and...
Self 2: And fuzzy...
Self 3: Why, good grapes, I believe 'tis mold thrusting itself upon my blog.

I always knew I had a touch of multiple-personality disorder, and now, it finally has emerged in the form of moldy dialogue, or, rather, trilogue. No, no, that's not it. Trilogy? No. Trifecta? No. Tribecca? Film festival. Wrong. Quick, somebody, anybody, throw me a piece of rope or string or dental floss so I can fish myself out of this pond of intellectual sewage and crawl shamefully to the nearest dictionary.

Anyhow, it's been a while, I know. Well, what, like five days, so not really a while, but on Planet Blog -- where one day collides into the next with breakfast, lunch, dinner, and manic late-night blog snacking (gotta post, gotta post, gotta post) by those inhabitants most freakishly committed to the cause of recording every echosecond (okay, I just made this up) of their lives -- (deep breath) it HAS been a while. And I feel like a slacker and am contrite, and yeah, yeah, yeah, the whole apology deal. Sorry, okay?

Truth be told, I have uncovered, all by my own very thorough mental and physical examinations, a very grave condition from which I am suffering. The onset of this very common illness tends to occur towards the latter part of the second decade of life, although in some, it has been known to occur as early as the middle part of the second decade and gradually worsen as the afflicted progresses toward the end (of the decade). Symptoms may vary in men and women...wait, wait, scratch that and replace with "Symptoms are usually a good bit different (though not less significant) in men and women," and in women (cause, well, I am a woman) may include the following:

• melancholy over a childhood perhaps wasted on the nagging urge to grow up;
• recurring flashbacks to ansgt-filled fog of teenage years, including one really geeky prom date (sorry), and to college years of wondering what you would/could become in four years of wandering the wilderness for the real you;
• regret of hurricanes (instead of Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson) that crashed your wedding, which, contrary to what it is sold as, is not a day of lily white perfection;
• wonder about whether you could have been (or still could be) something bigger (we're not talking waist size here) and better and more significant to the world;
• hope (and nightly bargains with the Maker) that your child will thrive and live a thousand years;
• worry that the mother midsection will never disappear;
• feelings that you are not ENOUGH;
• ambitions of a more self-assured, courageous, and dauntless YOU.

Scientists have isolated this strain of the Growing-Up virus and called it more specifically You're-Thinking-Too-Much, alrightis, but after doing further research, I learned the more widely accepted term for the disease is HolyCrapI'mTurningThirtyNextYear, and hold on a minute, is that another layer of cellulite and collagen depletion I see in the beveled mirror of truth?

:::

Now, I know all of you are shouting with your best Fantasy Island Tattoo vocals, De kid, de kid, tell us about de kid. Sorry to have left you hanging with that last video, which was, let's face it, kind of a drag. Rest assured, he has mastered the maneuverings of zeeeee walkeur and now uses it to do sprints from one end of the house to the other. Sheesh. And the kid is a ramblin' man, with his lingustic repertoire mostly consisting of, yep, you guessed it, Da, dah, da, dah, da, da, dahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Forty-two (and a half) hours I labored, a large portion of which was without drugs or a bullet to bite on, for the kid to speak the golden syllables of Da, da in excess of 25 gazillion times a day. It doesn't really bother me; it's just fun to act like it does, you know. And just for the record, he has said Ma, ma, okay -- like twice. Seriously, though, it's just a marvel to behold him everyday responding to his environment (albeit one littered with chucked Cheerios on the floor) and learning to verbalize emotions that will one day (say, in the next two to three years) propel him, flailing limbs and all, to the floor, to assert his burgeoning selfhood. Oh, god, I simply can't wait. And also on the list of recent developments is the very ponderous issue of biting, which I muse, might turn into a statement something like this in a Baby BA (Biters' Anonymous) Playgroup or else as a simple Biter's Manifesto:

Hi, I'm Eli, and I'm a Biter. Lately, I've been overtaken by the urge to use my two teeth for ill. It's not that I want to inflict pain upon my parents' fingertips and other unmentionable body parts. I just can't help myself. And the damage I have done to my toys, namely a few choice books and wooden blocks, is irreparable. I've come here today because, even though I am only a tender 9 months of age, I want to take hold of this problem before it ruins my dating potential.

A parting word: So the three of us went out to dinner the other night, and we had to get on a waiting list before we could be seated. So here's how it went from there: I gave hostess our stats. When she asked for my name, and I told her, she responded, very cheerily with a glimmer in her eye and a toss of her long blond hair (probably expensively highlighted): Oh (high-pitched), my mom's name is Jennifer.

Like, isn't that just the coolest coinkydink? At least, she thought so.

Right. Not her sister's name but her mom's.

Did I mention I'm in crisis?

P. S. Dad brought home a Flat Screen TV today, which, I'll say, is one heck of a slab of bacon. Early Christmas present or symptom of the male version of the thirty-something affliction, I'm not sure. But it's HOT. Way to go, Daddy-o! Now all I have to do is figure out how to turn it on.