March 15th, 2002


(no subject)

I'm feeling lumpy, ugly and awful. I don't know. Just tired, maybe. Grumpy about work and a deadline on Tuesday that I don't have any hope of making, but I'm probably going to go ahead and kill myself this weekend making it.

Jet's *happy*. I'm glad. He's walking everywhere, now, and our Doom is upon us. He's getting into everything. I found him dropping tiles he'd found under the bathroom sink into the bathtub. I found him pulling rattan from under the breakfast bar stools and eating it. I found him with the pantry open and a packet of grahams spread in disarray about him. I found him with his nightlight half disassembled and the filament of the bulb broken from getting whacked into the wall as he tried to plug it back in. When I was unpacking Penzey's spices, he was stuffing bay leaves, cinnamon sticks, whole nutmegs, and black peppercorns into his mouth like they were going out of style.

He's starting to do patterns now. Lifting his head, then placing it on my knees, then lifting it to see me, then placing it on my knees, over and over a few times just to be sure it keeps working. He had two cassette tapes, one in each hand. He'd hand me one, put the tape in his hand into his other hand, then take the tape from me with the now empty hand and then do it all again. Half a dozen times, watching intently each time. He took all the tapes he could reach, piled them all in his car seat, then one by one, he took them and put them on the couch, and then he took them, one by one, and piled them all back on the shelf again.

Woot! Our Doom is upon us, and it's pretty fun.