*kendraspondence*

The Loverpants family has been heatedly debating the pronunciation of quinoa. I side with Lady Merriam. Keen-wah. Loverpants sides with himself and the indigenous Peruvians. Kin-oh-e. With a schwa on the e, right? Schwa. Love that. Totally not useful but for 2nd grade reading group.

Ultimately, I think it’s a tomato, tomahhtohh non-debate, but my husband and I have been annoying the ever living snot out of one another over the orthodox pronunciation of this protein-rich grain that sort of sicks me out in the shape it takes when it is cooked. It curly-q’s and shreds and looks like something that hangs around the shower drain at the municipal pool. It’s just not very pretty.

Quinoa aside, I feel like I’m frittering away a lot of time that should be spent on drafting syllabi for this here Comp course and oh that 3 hour journalism course I’m teaching at Small Local College this fall. You know those classes that begin in one week (?!).

***

We’re going to a wedding this weekend for our friends Em and Brett. I am so excited they’re getting wedded. I think they may be our only friends to remain in Boston as long as we have, with the exception of my former roommate. Huzzah and Mazel Tov all around.

Em hearts Baby Girl very much.

Brett doesn’t mind her either.

The Franklin Park Zoo is not far from our home.

Since my little punk is pretty animal-obsessed, I thought it would be nice to mount a trip to the zoo on a nice overcast Thursday when the complex would not be too teaming with other punks and parents.

Well it was a grand day, but Baby Girl could have done without the lions, tigers, and bears.
Here, she’ll tell you all about it:

Let’s talk about the chooochoooooooo! It’s fun to watch it go by and cry chooooochooooo!

And not to mention those stairs in the monkey house? Puh! AWESUMMMMM.

Of course there was the rusty truck that I climbed into with all the punks and stared contemplatively at them while pooping in my pants.

And lest we forget about the carousel. Someone started crying when it ended. Hah! Wah? Me? Protest when the amusement ceases? Please.

Okay so I bawled.

The humorous:

We headed home, the Baby Girl and I, a bit earlier from the park as anticipated. I forgot to turn on my common sense button before we left the house. Got there, found the playground awash in wicked hot direct sun (imagine! at 11:30a!). But it was our good fortune that the park sits next to part of a little bay area that empties into Boston Harbor, which, you figure, empties into the ocean.

So Baby Girl…well really I decided we should “cool off” down by the water. Sand was muddy and dense like quicksand. Within a minute, Baby Girl and I were caked in mud to our knees (common sense would have told me to turn around, not pass go, not collect $200 but WE HAD TO get to that water!).

Almost got eaten alive by tiny crabs, so populous were they. Attempting to walk back to sandy patch and Baby Girl cannot traverse mud. I pick her up, she kicks me in the face. Now my face is muddy, including my spectacles which do not come with wiper features. Our clothes are also muddy, and I don’t know how this happened really. We were sparkling clean just moments ago.

I look down and see that my shoes, which are part Croc plastic, part fabric are irrevocably muddy. I make a donation of Crocs to the park garbage can. I drive home barefoot with child screaming muddy murder in backseat.

The serious:

When I think about my life in Christ, I think about how often I am rebuked to give up something more to follow Him. How I will say, Jesus, I give you this this AND this BIG BIG thing, oh, but that thing over there? I’m going to take care of that, Jesus. Don’t you mind that. That’s under control.

He says pick up your mat and follow me. Deny your mother and father and follow me.

Maybe even throw the shoes away that are keeping you from getting to the living water, throw them away and follow me.

I’m shoeless now, Jesus. I think I’m ready. But what about my muddy kid with the tears?

When my friend Chessy saw these photos, she said that I must be so proud of my daughter. And that is precisely how I feel. Every fifteen minutes. When I look at these photos. So proud. 96 times a day.

Of course we all balk when the “Tickle Me Elmo” stampedes occur at Wal-Marts hither and yon every Christmas. Breaking down doors and wrestling each other to the ground over the want of a stuffed Elmo doll. Those crazy muthahs! Seriously. Take a xanax and come back to earth, you overparenting, consumerist, maniacal crazypants!

But these days I find myself backpedaling. Baby Girl’s got a thing for that looney red monster with the spaghetti arms and the distended belly. And he’s starting to grow on me a bit, too.

So much, in fact, that I can no longer open a magazine without Baby Girl interrupting my sustained silent reading with the constant interrogative, “Where’s Elco? See Elco!” So I put down my magazine and we go find the one with the ubiquitous Elmo ads.

And this computer at which I sit to type this? Oh forget about it when Baby Girl is awake and in my general vicinity. “Elco? See Elco!” Oh cursed be YouTube, that boundless source of Elmo videos, ever at the ready with another one we haven’t yet viewed. Conspiracy against mothers who blog, that’s what that is.

***

I’m sorry I don’t have any pics of the Siege of Elmo. I do, however, have a picture of the hottest apron on the planet that I HAPPEN TO OWN which my ubertalented friend Aliya MADE FOR ME!! And you can have your own, too! Check out her etsy shop. Her work is brilliant!