Pardon My French

Where, oh where...

has my blogging mojo gone? For about a year? I'm going to do my best to get organized and back in the game, because I have totally slacked off on the baby book and need to document what's going on in the cute little girl department. So, here goes, just for posterity...

She's learned a few new words this week: spoon (poo), door (doh), moon, apple, cookie, banana (mah na mah na, just like the song), eyes, and booby (she's weaned, just identifying body parts). Totally cracks me up. She's learned to get a book and then back up to my lap and fall in; I'm always happy to oblige.

The coolest part of my entire existence thus far has been figuring out how to communicate with her. I know that other mothers have done this throughout history, but I still find it fascinating. The other day she walked up to me while I was in the kitchen, leaned against me and said "Beep beep BEEP" and I knew she wanted the timer. She's never asked for it unless it was in her direct line of sight (and then she just points and yells "THIS!!!!") and she's never said "beep beep BEEP" either, so it was cool to see her remember that it was there and figure out a way to get it.

She loves pretend talking on the telephone and rummaging around in the spice cabinet. She's particularly fond of the tin of white pepper, for some reason. She also developed a game that I like to call "Sanford & Son," which consisted of digging through the recycle bin and taking out empty boxes and milk bottles and either throwing them around the kitchen or hiding them in various clever places around the house. That game was nipped in the bud for obvious reasons, though.

I had every good intention of writing about some of the other stuff going on in our lives, but you know what - it's Friday night and I need a beer. So I'll store it up (just like the freaking baby book) and do my best to write a non baby- or house-related post one of these days. Thank you for indulging me.

ETA: Since I honestly am afraid TFC* will go ballistic if I don't at least mention her: The vet removed her bandage and the leg looks awful, just like I guess you'd expect, but she's starting to put weight on it and it's less swollen. The vet, God bless him, said that humans who have this surgery have months of physical therapy (so she'll have a long road ahead of her and I shouldn't expect her to be running around normally for some time yet), but that she'll just do it on her own. And then he stopped and looked at me under his eyebrows and said, "Because she wouldn't tolerate it if you tried," which evidently means he thinks I was going to Google "post-knee surgery physical therapy program" and try it out on TFC, or something along those lines.

And his opinion of me is honestly my fault, since after the whole "cat is stressed by baby/are you nuts lady it's just a cat" discussion, I should just keep my mouth shut. But no, I made the same suppository joke with him (I swear, these things just pop into my head and out of my mouth and I CANNOT CONTROL THEM) and I'm not sure he got that I was joking. Oh, well.

*The freaking cat