Breakfast With The HILJ

Okay, so, I want eggs for breakfast, but I don't like them hard-boiled anymore, now I want them scrambled, but they're a bit too hot so while they cool down you better give me some kiwi, but since it takes you at least a minute to peel and cut up the kiwifruit, you better give me some cereal just to tide me over until the fruit and the eggs are done, but now I see that Mom's eating some other kind of cereal so I want that instead, and oh! Look! Blueberries! I want them ALL, but it doesn't matter what you feed me, it all gets shoved down underneath my butt in the high-chair, but it's okay since you won't really notice it for a few hours yet until it turns into this hardened paste that you have to scrape out of the seat using a spatula and in the mean time I'm still hungry but I don't want to sit in my highchair so I'll just scavenge whatever scraps I find on the floor and that's why I threw them onto the floor in the first place and if you alter my itinerary in any way I'll make this noise that resembles the sound of a dying chihuahua and WHERE ARE MY BLUEBERRIES I MUST EAT ALL OF THEM.

I swear to god: I'm gonna stick a feedbag on her and set her loose in the back alley, where she can frighten the neighbours and keep the hobos out of the recycling.

Currently she is sitting on top of her drum. This is one of her favourite activities of late, this Sitting on Things, especially things one normally does not really choose to sit upon, such as musical instruments, matchbox cars and other children. I'm not too concerned about it, as there a number of occupations out there where sitting is considered a skill. It's just that sometimes I feel like I'm babysitting one of Rachel's clients, y'know?

Yes, I did just compare my daughter to an adult with developmental problems. What?

So, you might not have heard, but we had a wedding reception at our house last Friday. I find it hard to believe that anyone didn't know about it, as it seemed as though everyone in the world and their 3.5 children turned up to bring us food and alcohol and make us dress up in tiaras (true story; I have pictures. They're not pretty.). We expected about thirty people, and ended up with about three times that number (although I may have counted some of the children two or three times, as they all look the same when you're yelling at them to stay out of your gin...), including a few witches and the odd transvestite, and the best part is: they all cleaned up after themselves, which meant that the Ladyfriend and I were able to consume more alcohols and smush cake into each other's face. Which, apparently, is entertaining to everyone except for our daughter, who thought she was on Intervention: Domestic Violence Patrol.

(Now she is wearing three shirts, a diaper and one shoe, lying face down on the kitchen floor and singing softly to whatever lives beneath the floorboards. Normally, I'd say she was singing to Bryn, as he is the Creature That Lurks Down There, but he's at an actual JOB, so I can't even guess at what she's doing.

Let's just say that our child has a Rich Inner Life.)

I'm pretty sure a good time was had by all, as no one complained (except for some of the kids, but really, who listens to their children these days anyway - and we still have ample amounts of alcohol, so we're thinking of getting married again this weekend, just to see of people come by one more time with more presents for us. Oh, and if you didn't get the invite or didn't know the party was going on: not my fault. This thing was planned by some very evil individuals who took our house hostage for a night, so blame them.

Must go; Hazel thinks the garbage can is her new friend. This does not bode well.