The bun began glaring today. Not whining, not fussing, not kibbitzing, actual honest-to-god glaring, fit to bring down the toughest he-man anywhere. At first I thought he was reserving his special ire for me after I insulted him by changing his diapers yet again, as he sat up, set his jaw, looked me square in the eye and crumpled his face in an expression which couldn't be confused for anything but "Back off, lady. I'm in a mood!" But when my husband brought a couple friends by to pay homage to the little master as he sat in his high chair, one of them leaned in to get a better look. The bun, apparently not trusting any man that isn't goateed and bald like Yul Brynner gave him a look that would melt steel. The man, sensing his extreme displeasure, took a quick step back so as to not get burned by the flaming daggers that shot from his eyes.
So the bun can now lodge official complaints.
We feel like cliches most of the time, as though we stepped from a Steve Martin family movie abomination. I walk through the kitchen, and every bun-accessible cabinet and drawer is exposed and empty, their contents lying like casualties on the ugly white vinyl floor. There are half-slobbered Cheerios hidden under the leg of his high chair, desiccated sweaty cheese next to the dishwasher, wipe-rags with crusted god-knows-what waiting to be tossed in the 87th load of laundry for the day. The house is a shambles, and sometimes I feel as though I'm going to go insane after looking at the dust-badgers who are threatening to organize and make demands if I don't keep them in check.
While it seems I'm barely keeping the house from falling into a heap of chaos most of the time, I went to my neighbors house today for a little Bun-to-Bun time and I noted that if I were given the choice between cleanliness but sterility or creative clutter but homeyness, I'm afraid the latter would win every time. We have too many tchotchkes by a long shot, and many crevices that yearn for cleaning, but our home is cozy and warm and cheering. It's a dinky little thing, but inviting. And that's not bad.
So the bun threatens to walk any time, and our house threatens to fall into disrepair, but we live out a pretty fantastic existence all things being equal. I've been cooking like a spaz, we've been eating fabulously well and we've been extremely adventurous in the food department. We have our health, and a sweet little boy who now threatens to melt us with his death-ray stare. But he toddles behind his little Radio Flyer push cart, and we can see the boy he's becoming. I thank my stars for having blindly stumbled into such tremendous good fortune.
Happy birthday, BBB