First of all, I know that survey might have been a bit of a struggle. I did it myself via another blog, and lord knows I suffered. It's a lengthy tome of a survey, so a big, wet, slobbery e-kiss to anyone who soldiered on and did it upon my request. Yes, that one person can sit down now.
The time has come again. The mother, she descends upon this fair isle tomorrow morning in a whirlwind of eccentricity, plum-coloured hair, and joie de vivre. Fruitbat will be here until the first of April, and, god willing, I will survive the duration of this visit. Matricide is a possibility, though as I have a kid now I shall try and stave off any murderous inclinations.
Do I have any wagers as to how long it will be until my flat ass is mentioned? My bet is that my Friday we will have established, for at least the fiftieth time, that my ass is indeed flat. We will then no doubt confirm that this is clearly not a genetic trait, as my Mom has "junk in the trunk", "draggin' a wagon", "got back", or some equally disturbing slang phrase that your mother should never utter in your presence. I can only hope that this will not then be paired with booty dances to a Usher/Ludacris song playing on the radio. The plans are to keep the internet radio on Folk Alley at all times. It is unlikely that there will be funky, R & B remixes of "If I Had a Hammer" which one can get down to.
I'm also betting on some clashes regarding the way I parent. P's lack of ability to tidily drink from an open cup is much maligned, and very few phone calls occur between Open Cup Shunner and the grandmother without this being mentioned. In my Mom's eyes, P's usage of Satan in the form of molded plastic with a lid is setting her up for a life of laziness and heavy reliance on others. Sippy cup = expecting Mom and Dad to clean your bedroom and do your laundry at the age of 32. It's a slippery slope, can't you tell?
I've already warned P that she needs to buck up in preparation for Granny Boot Camp, as my Mom takes no prisoners when it comes to toddler development. You either shape up and get with the 20 month old programme, or get to steppin'. Thankfully P is an able walker, runner, and climber. She has a rather large vocabulary, and her usage of eating utensils is increasingly refined by the day. I'm hoping this will save her from the wrath of Granny, thus avoiding any grueling sessions in which P has to wipe sweat from her fair brow as she runs up hills wearing a backpack loaded with 35lbs of weights. I've been having flashbacks to the visit of Christmas 2006, when I thought poor little P was going to hire an attorney and try to get emancipated. I spent many nights trying to convince her that it was all Evil Granny's doing, but you just can't reason with a six month old, you know?
Wish me luck. My flat ass and I hope to be able to escape with the laptop every once in awhile to catch up on blogs, and maybe even write. Godspeed to me.