Apropos of nothing, including itself:
I have new favorite Bad Baby Names, given to children I have personally met in the past two weeks: Canyon and Fable. Canyon. Fable. Now, I clearly prefer very traditional names myself (hello, Amelia and Owen), however, I am willing to walk pretty far down the road of It Is All A Matter of Personal Taste. But I'm sorry. I would give up on that road and hail a cab for Target long, long before I got to Canyon and Fable as appropriate names for human beings. A yellow lab and a standard poodle, sure, but someday those adorable, charming little children are going to be grown up people submitting resumes and I just can't get behind it. You tell me though, charming? Edgy? Modern? Or just bad? (Decorum prevented me from begging to know the name of Fable's older sister, and you'd better believe I am still kicking myself for not finding out.)
I cut my hair a couple of weeks ago. It is to mid-neck now with a little bit of layering and was a chop of about seven inches when all was said and done. I keep meaning to post a picture, but I hate all but about three pictures ever taken of me. And I feel like that is a typically boring stupid female thing to say, and I am trying to be one of those women who just smiles for the camera and doesn't worry about it and looks lovely, but then I see the picture and I wonder who attacked it with an Uglystick filter. I think the problem is that I actually have a good opinion of myself, appearance wise. Sure, these days I'd always like to lose a couple of pounds, but I do understand that I'm a size six and thinner than average, and when looking in the mirror if forced to articulate an opinion I would say that even after five years of sleep-deprivation I am better than average looking, but man do I hate pictures. I don't know if I am too harsh or photograph badly or just don't like to confront the harsh reality of what I really look like that I don't see while looking in the mirror, but that is why you don't have a picture of my new hair. Which is too bad, really, because I am loving it hard.
Mia is just about two weeks into to swim team, and this kid is blowing my mind. She is the youngest by over a year and the smallest by at least four inches and damn but if she isn't in there every day swimming her heart out, lap after lap, and listening to the coaches and working hard and improving by the day and all-out loving it. This is the kid who whines for an hour if you cut her pancake too small in the morning or ask her to pick up her own shoes and carry them three feet to the closet, but she works her little butt off at swim team and talks for the rest of the day about how much she loves it. And yeah, most days I feel like I have to just lie down on the pool deck and die of pride, because that little peanut over there showing the eight-year-olds how it is done is my kid, and she rocks.
Living with Owen these days is like lolcats made flesh. My can has doot dack, he says. My can has appa juitch. And if I say no? Yetch, I can has, he screams. He has a pink sponge he got from my mother in law that he calls his spongebob. He has a set of blocks that can be hooked together in a circle and he walks around the house saying he is Handy Manny and asking us to admire his seatbelt. He is at the absolutely infuriating what I hope is the height of his twoness and is frequently impossible to deal with on any level, and at the same moment is so perfectly adorable and charming that I want to smother him in marshmallow and eat him with a spoon.
I miss you guys, I'm hoping this is my comeback.