Friday Duncan went with me to a meeting. After awhile he was getting squirrelly and I said, “Why don’t you practice Guernsey behavior.” This, because I have been thinking a lot about his potential to HORRIFY his Grandparents*.

The person I was meeting with asked, “Guernsey behavior?”

And Duncan, in all his wonderfulness says, “My Mom wants me to be polite and a-sexual.”

“Polite and respectful.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, polite and asexual.”

*He horrifies me all the time. I’ll ask him to put his shoes on and he’ll say he can’t find them. Then come back a few minutes later and say, “Oh yeah, I think I left them in [whoever]’s fagina!” Then laugh hysterically. And at home, when it’s just me, I can kind of laugh, and be shocked, and get over it. But I can imagine his English grandparents, who are very Old School, not thinking that sort of thing funny. At all.

Do people have french manicures in France? Or is it like french fries, something we just call french?

Being that I’m going to be in France in a matter of days, this is the sort of thing that is concerning me at the moment.

Oh, and the fact that I have to see the father of my child. The one that brings forth rage with the very sound of his stupid British accent. The one that will pretend to be father of the fucking year for eleven days and then not speak to his son for another year. But you know, minor details.

and I can cry if I want to.

Today, I am 26.

I’m not actually upset about this. It’s just that fake prison tear tattoos are just the sort of thing that amuse me. And in my head, it’s completely and logically connected to it being my birthday.

I got a camera. And it’s so fucking pretty I can barely stand it.

Duncan also got a new* camera, which thrills him. He hated, HATED, that his old camera didn’t have a memory card, just a USB cord. I know, poor baby.

I haven’t properly played with it yet, but this is pretty fantastic. I don’t know how to embed it here, because I am just that cool, but if you follow the link… then click through it quickly. It’s like those flip books, but only instead of a stick figure, it’s my kid doing spazzy jumping jacks.

This thrills me to bits. To bits.

* By new, I mean it’s my old one.

On a Dodge Ram:

“Boys slide it. Men ram it.”

I was thinking this morning what a fucking FANTASTIC mother I am as I flipped pancakes for the Kid’s breakfast. On a school day, I thought to myself. And it’s not even his birthday!

But really? I made pancakes because it’s been so long since I grocery shopped we have nothing else in the house that could be even remotely in the category of a breakfast food. No bread, no eggs, no milk, no oatmeal, no potatoes, no cereal. Seriously.

So pancakes it was. It turns out that I’m not really Mother of the Year, after all.