Happy (24-days-ago) New Year!
My apologies for the (second) blogging hiatus but I’ve actually had some pretty awesome paid writing gigs over the last couple months. I hope it’s a sign of what’s to come for 2014.
Pretty please, freelance writing gods. Pretty please. I’ve got 20 fingers and 20 toes crossed for good luck now that I’m 5.5 months pregnant and the fetus has officially developed those parts. Along with another part that I totally didn’t think was there. Yep. The penis. This little dude threw me for a loop the size of the Indiana 500 raceway (did I get that right?). A practical joker right from the get-go. Gawd help me.
Anyway, come on. It was holiday season.
You know you weren’t reading much during that time anyway, let alone my blog ramblings. How could you be? Your eyes were on the prize; a tunnel vision of wrapping, baking, familying; all that mushy-fa-la-la-la stuff took precedence. The only thing your eyes were reading were those pesky dosage warnings on the back of the Tylenol bottle. (Reading them, not to be confused with heeding them. No judgment here. Family time can be brutal.)
Well. Besides a happy-new-year-sorry-I-suck-at-blogging-on-a-regular-schedule-add-it-to-the-new-years-resolutions note, I’ll also leave you with a brief update on the star of these nap time diaries, my son Kellan.
My dear, dear Kellan is now two years old as of a couple weeks ago. And the most important yet odd tidbit to know about him right now? He’s convinced his name is “You”.
No, it’s not some sort of Japanese alter ego he’s developing.
It’s all my fault. I’m constantly starting every sentence directed at him with YOU. “You do this. You do that. What would you like? What are you doing? You’re too silly. You’re too funny. DO YOU WANT TIME OUT?”
You get the idea. YOU, not my son.
The other day he graced his diaper with an inhuman, fluffy mound of fluorescent green poop (thanks again for Christmas tree cookies, Yaya – Kellan’s affectionate title for Grandma, in case you’re wondering.) So I playfully asked him where that wretched stank came from. He shouted back, very straightforward-like, “YOU!”
Riiight. OK. Not exactly.
Around his birthday, I would ask him whose special day we were celebrating. “Who’s turning two this weekend?!” His response? Everyone in unison now. “YOU!” with a stubby finger pointing spastically at his chest and a grin stretching from ear to ear.
Dada. Yaya Hickey. Yaya Killoran. The mailman. We’ve all tried correcting the issue by telling Kellan he’s actually not YOU, but in fact, ME, but you can imagine how confusing that is. Can’t YOU?
Quite honestly, “You Killoran” has a sweet ring to it anyway. An Asian-Irish twist. Like dipping corned beef and cabbage in miso soup and devouring it with chopsticks.
I hope I didn’t cross a racial line just now somehow. I probably did. Really, it wouldn’t be my blog without some sort of Nellism, P.C. or not. (Usually not.)
Regardless. I wish you all a fabulous weekend and a fantastic start to 2014. I shall resolve to blog more regularly to keep you entertained, or at least feeling really good about your life when you read about mine.