"Let's have a little talk about tweetle beetles."

...which sounds like it ought to be a euphemism for something, but actually it's a line from Fox in Socks. I find I am too good at Fox in Socks, as I only occasionally leave out words when Someone starts trying to close the book mid-sentence, rather than getting entirely muddled by the tongue twisters. Also I continue to find Dr Seuss worlds deeply creepy and disturbing-- they're full of pushy people and very unsettling physics, not to mention substances like oobleck-- and after half a week of "Ben's band bangs and Bim's band booms," my subconscious has hooked that but up with the drums in Moria. One assumes that the latter were not actually played by pigs, but who knows, really. But on the whole I find Fox in Socks pretty entertaining, and the Megatherium likes any book she can wander about with, and things with a good balance of words & pictures per page are just a bonus.

( Toddler miscellania and a few pictures )

Meanwhile, I keep meaning to post things with actual thinking to them, and they dissolve like the ephemera they are in the face of migratory naptime schedules (we're transitioning from 10am/2pm to a single nap at 1pm, but scheduling on the ground is always a little messier than it sounds) and peremptory demands to go outside. And while I was entirely ignoring the calendar and flittering about being stressed about paint fumes (the bedroom ceiling is fixed, but has only just left off toxifying me) like the canary I am, my subconscious apparently kept track of what day it was and popped up with several hours of 3am insomnia for the anniversary of my father's death. In the middle of the random mental monologues to various people-not-present (what, don't you spend unwilling hours of wakefulness explaining the middles of things to random people?) I came to the realization that I have managed to plug into an awesome support network for writing-related things (not that I'm generally good at making proper use of it) but can't manage to figure out how to find a local babysitter even when someone gives me helpful advice on how to do it.

Some ways I fail at being a grown-up, and it's also occurred to me recently that at 35, there is not only no further up to grow, but the next societal milestone is the beginning of "old." Heh. (Admittedly, with an actual child around I am a little closer to outgrowing the habit of addressing myself as "kiddo" or "girl.")

"Let's have a little talk about tweetle beetles."

...which sounds like it ought to be a euphemism for something, but actually it's a line from Fox in Socks. I find I am too good at Fox in Socks, as I only occasionally leave out words when Someone starts trying to close the book mid-sentence, rather than getting entirely muddled by the tongue twisters. Also I continue to find Dr Seuss worlds deeply creepy and disturbing-- they're full of pushy people and very unsettling physics, not to mention substances like oobleck-- and after half a week of "Ben's band bangs and Bim's band booms," my subconscious has hooked that but up with the drums in Moria. One assumes that the latter were not actually played by pigs, but who knows, really. But on the whole I find Fox in Socks pretty entertaining, and the Megatherium likes any book she can wander about with, and things with a good balance of words & pictures per page are just a bonus.

( Toddler miscellania and a few pictures )

Meanwhile, I keep meaning to post things with actual thinking to them, and they dissolve like the ephemera they are in the face of migratory naptime schedules (we're transitioning from 10am/2pm to a single nap at 1pm, but scheduling on the ground is always a little messier than it sounds) and peremptory demands to go outside. And while I was entirely ignoring the calendar and flittering about being stressed about paint fumes (the bedroom ceiling is fixed, but has only just left off toxifying me) like the canary I am, my subconscious apparently kept track of what day it was and popped up with several hours of 3am insomnia for the anniversary of my father's death. In the middle of the random mental monologues to various people-not-present (what, don't you spend unwilling hours of wakefulness explaining the middles of things to random people?) I came to the realization that I have managed to plug into an awesome support network for writing-related things (not that I'm generally good at making proper use of it) but can't manage to figure out how to find a local babysitter even when someone gives me helpful advice on how to do it.

Some ways I fail at being a grown-up, and it's also occurred to me recently that at 35, there is not only no further up to grow, but the next societal milestone is the beginning of "old." Heh. (Admittedly, with an actual child around I am a little closer to outgrowing the habit of addressing myself as "kiddo" or "girl.")

Xposty from dreamwidth.