Memorial Day

Confessions of a Mobile Infant

Memorial Day Edition

            When the clueless male presented himself this morning with a new, flag bedecked shirt (I suspect Carters. They tend to favor the asymmetrical neck snaps), I had no reason to suspect the day held anything more than a visit from the wrinkled ones and perhaps a nibble of some sugary delight, slipped surreptitiously into my face by one of the many visitors who long for my acceptance (I make a point of accepting the offerings with quiet contentment but later crying if aforementioned visitor comes to collect me, albeit not as loudly as I would have originally. I have a higher price than two pinches of snicker doodle, thank you very much.) It was, therefore, to my great surprise when I attended what has become the greatest spectacle I have yet observed in my meager seven months since I first experienced life beyond the dark, pink, lukewarm pool.
            I had the great pleasure of observing what I can only assume to be my nearest of kin (there was an unusual preponderance of blue eyes and freckles) as they navigated an obstacle course of wood and plastic lawn furniture in meager attempts to collect food from a smattering of small tables. It is obvious that the soft one finds these to be tastefully decorated, though I find crepe paper to be rather gauche. (Her time would, no doubt, be better spent in giving me the liquid ambrosia, with which she has become rather stingy.) I watched them comfortably from the Pack-and-Play as they jostled and scooted their large, uncoordinated bodies through small spaces and past dangerous stray acorns on the wooden entertainment platform, giggling to myself. Surely, they realize that such a conglomeration of populous and ill-coordinated people among so many unwieldy patio chairs is ambitious, at best, but alas: not a single one forsook their mission to acquire the yellow coagulated goop and the small white triangles they besmirched with it. No doubt it is similar to the liquid ambrosia in flavor and degree of deliciousness, as they strove so hard to retrieve it time and again onto their red, white and blue food collection surfaces. I heard many an utterance of "Velvetta" and "Rotel" but I can only assume these are foreign words or women previously married to my awkward Uncle Phillip. On several occasions, one of the red conical beverage holders would be knocked asunder by a passing derriere and I had to pretend to be deeply entertained by my Baby Einstein Animals of the World literature.
              I have a very minimal grasp of heredity and epigenetic function, but I do know that one day, it is very possible that I could become one of these ridiculous beings. When the time comes for my own large motor bipedal adventures, I must endeavor to master a stable and affective walk that perpetuates the dignity and ambivalence I so obviously exude. Until such a time, and I am in no hurry, I shall be content to sit in my Chlorine-free Whole Foods waste retention pants and observe the folly that these people seem to confuse with large motor development. Such larks!

Mandatory Group Bonding

I have found a ray of hope in this deep, dank pit of despair that is “group care”. Every week, we are subjected to - horror of horrors - a mandatory group bonding ritual. At 9:00  sharp, Monday morning, we are herded like so much cattle into the large, aromatic facility commonly referred to as the “playroom” and made to sit not only among the daily selection of unusual beings but all ages of them. I watch them writhe and twitch on the dusty, ostentatiously colored carpets and wonder if I will ever regress to such a bizarre state. And then we begin to sing...

I have ever loathed the compulsory attendance, banal lyrics and songs that defy all rational musical properties and trite attempts at good-natured “lessons”. The larger peons even chime in with words of assent. It seems they are biologically wired not only to mirror but to condone the behavior of the guards. The head warden herself attends, although I suspect it’s more for population control than any real desire to join us in our lackluster Kumbayas. The whole ordeal had been very trying for me, as it took me away from my main vocation - hoarding the small collection of hammers we have been provided in our cell. 

But huzzah! Inspiration has struck again and now I cannot but love the spectacle ever since. I must admit, I had previously found Jenny to be devoid of any worthwhile interaction (Save for the occasional hair pull. I do love the way she yells.) Yet it is to her that I owe my newfound method of achieving my primary goal: driving my guards bananas. She has learned a small three note section of one of the most off key tunes we sing and will walk around the room, smiling a bland smile and singing them ad nauseum. At first this only prompted me to pull her hair perhaps a little harder when next I get the opportunity but I was amazed to discover the effect of her haunting tune. My “teachers” began to groan, cover their ears and ask her to “please find something to do”. Yes, Journal, it is true. She has found a way to annoy them beyond our usual banging-things-on-other-things routine. Immediately I grabbed the nicest board book we have, sat in the middle of the floor and started wailing the same string of notes as I slammed a small wooden spoon on the book. The reaction was instantaneous. They tried to silence me, but alas! It was too late! My comrades all grabbed their favorite tools of obnoxious noise making and joined me in song. Oh the glory in my heart to see us all united, to see the perpetrators of our suffering/diaper changes clutch their ears and frown. I do not believe it was a coincidence that we were allowed into the outdoor captivity area far earlier than usual and provided extra goldfish at our midmorning feeding. I ate mine (and those of the friend next to me) in silence, smiling a broad, psychotic smile. Ah, I love Mondays.