Baby Borat

Mark and I had a sort of marital standoff about seeing the Borat movie. He’s a huge fan of Sacha Baron Cohen’s show, and–call me crazy–but it makes me uncomfortable watching someone interview a Bishop and asking them questions about sex with animals and such. To me it’s not funny, it’s painful. But Mark–and evidently millions of other Americans–find it uproarious.

So when we were in North Carolina for Thanksgiving, and were thankful for having Mark’s mother not only offer to but want to hang out with Kate solo for a few hours to allow us to skip out to a movie, the issue came to a head about the Borat movie.

Ultimately Mark caved. As much as he wanted to see it, he didn’t want to see it sitting next to me if I was going to squirm and sigh and make quiet disapproving noises while chomping on my popcorn. It’s a sad kind of victory when your mate gives into you based on the knowledge that when you don’t get your way you can be so unbearable that it’s better to just give you your way.

But be that as it may, I won.

Sadly, the movie pickin’s were slim. It’s the typical scenario like those rare times when your parents were feeling generous when you were mall-shopping as a kid. When every other shopping adventure left you desperate to own something that would change your life it was so great but you couldn’t get it, when you had the green light to shop you never found anything you really liked. But you bought something anyway, because you could. And like that, Mark and I still went to a movie. I mean, how often do we get to do this without spending a small fortune on a babysitter? Like all my friends with kids before me said, it really does make a good case for waiting for movies to come out on DVD.

It’s shameful what we settled on, and worse, how the whole afternoon panned out. I am, or rather was, a huge Jack Black fan. (Wither the days of High Fidelity?) So we went to see some abominable movie that he was in with his Tenacious D band mate. The movie was clearly for 15-year-old stoners. I mean, the opening credits were an animation of people farting, propelled around the screen like wayward balloons by the amount of gas they were expelling.

But we had hope. We had a babysitter and we were free!

Alas, the movie droned on. Painfully. So painfully in fact that our bad decision to see it in the first place was made more glaringly evident as each minute passed. Somehow through whispers in the dark we managed to come to the joint conclusion that cutting our losses and leaving mid-way would be the best tactic. We returned to a house full of Mark’s relatives, our heads hung low with shame. “How was the movie?” they all chimed in excitedly, knowing what a treat it was for us to get to one. I almost felt tempted to lie.

Well, shameful for us, but as an actor, you’ve got to be embarrassed about being in a movie that the parents of a baby–people who adore movies and never get out to them–are compelled to walk out of.

God, Jack Black. Fire your agent, dude.

Of course, this whole scenario just provided Mark with more Borat ammo. Every time any friend relayed some scene from the movie to us, and when we were quiet and they’d ask us if we’d seen it, Mark would just sigh and look at me with big cow eyes. “No, no, we didn’t,” he’d say, his voice heavy with regret. Sometimes he’d mention the other movie we saw instead. And sometimes he didn’t even need to say anything.

So once the Borat movie came out on DVD I was, of course, backed into a marital corner. What option had I other than to consent to bringing the awful DVD into our home? At least it would save Mark from the social stigma of not being able to chat with friends and coworkers about the movie if it ever were to come up in conversation years from now–it being so terribly past the point when all other humans had already seen it.

And I have to admit. It wasn’t that bad. It certainly wasn’t half as bad as that other movie, the name of which I’ve committed to deep repression.

At any rate, just when I thought we’d buried the whole Borat plot line from the McClusky family existence, Kate picked up a small verbal affectation. When she’s bidding her adieus to people, or inanimate objects as is sometimes the case, Kate lets lose a Bah-Biiiyeee that is a remarkably uncanny imitation of Borat. I mean, she did it at Macy’s yesterday to the saleswoman in the Faconnable area. And as I stooped down to pick up the hat that Kate’d dropped I muttered something under my breath about Mama’s little Borat, which the saleswoman heard and squealed, “Oh my God! She does sound like him! How funny!”

Adorable, I think as we trudge off, as Kate, excited that the woman is laughing and smiling at her, smiles back a huge grin and calls out another, “Ba-Biiiiyeee!” over her shoulder. The woman chuckles and shakes her head as she reaches to ring up the clothes of the next person in line saying, “Did you hear that little girl? She sounds just like Borat!”

Wonderful. Just the sort of thing I’d hoped for my daughter. This sort of karmic backlash will teach me to give into Mark’s preferences a little more often. When the next Lord of the Rings movie comes out, I will feign enthusiasm and put aside whatever “good” movie it is that I’d rather seen. Better that then risking Kate taking on some dwarfish Hobbit-like qualities that I’ll never live down.

Our Baby, Our Bull Dog

It’s not something I brag about openly, but there is a certain sense of pride I have about my teeth. They’re not all that dazzling, but they are pretty damn straight, and I never had braces.

It’s something that never really phased me, until those who had gone through the apparent social and physical trauma that is braces have responded with all manner of hoopla when they have found this out about me.

So it’s particularly concerning to me that just the other day I realized that Kate seems to have an underbite. I’m still holding out hope that every time I ask to see her teeth she is just jutting her jaw out, but I’m fearful that’s not the case. And maybe if she does have a bull dog’s bite it’s nothing to worry about since these are just baby teeth.

At any rate, it’s clearly Mark’s genes at work. Ah well. He can start saving for the orthadontist.

Back to Just Us

February has been Come Visit the McCluskys Month. Perhaps it wasn’t printed on your wall calendar, but it was on many other peoples’ and they made good. Which is a good thing mind you! We love seeing all the family and friends who we never see anywhere near enough of because either we decided to live out here, or they decided to stay back there. I’m not sure who is to blame, but the outcome is far-awayedness and not-see-each-other-alotedness.

But now everyone is gone and our subterranean guestroom, which is in our low-ceilinged unheated basement, is left empty for the time being. My brother-in-law John is probably in some cranial contusion unit of a hospital by now for the number of times he wacked his noggin on the beams down thar. Ah well, at least we had him sign the legal disclaimer when he arrived.

Anyway, Mark and Kate and I are now working our way back into whatever routines we used to have when it was just us. Well, Mark and I are. Instead of just being a nice mundane lass for us, I went into her room this morning to get Kate and she was lying in a small puddle of barf. Poor girl even had a corn kernel stuck to her forehead. And she’s just lying there all sweet and mellow and freshly awoken, having soaked in the stuff for God knows how long. It was sad, but the corn thing was also kinda funny, and I had to take her to the bathroom where Mark was showering to show it to him.

So I clean her and it all up and open the windows and spray some hippie non-toxic odor eater around and then after all that notice it’s still not smelling quite right. Then I see the previously undiscovered pile of puke that’s on the wall and the floor at the head of her crib. D’oh! At least the poor gal managed to aim most of it away from her sleeping quarters.

Too bad she didn’t wail or cry or do anything to indicate to Mark and I that she was doing something other than sleeping peacefully. Alas, she and the room are now fully scrubbed and back in order, and she seems to be perfectly fine.

So now we can get back to our mundane routines. Ahhhh.

When the Bough Breaks

Today we had a scary scary experience at the local play structure. Brother-in-law John, nephew Gavin, and Kate and I wandered to Frog Park while pregnant sister-in-law Lori took a nap.

At one point while Kate and I were climbing on the wooden structure, she started to head off somewhere just a few steps ahead of me, and in a weird slow motion moment while realizing it was happening but unable to make my body catch up to my brain, I saw her toddle, stumble, then horrifyingly fall backwards off a 4 foot ledge, landing on her neck, head and shoulder, and letting out a heartbreaking wail.

I was terrified that she could be hurt in some horrible head or neck way. From the moment I saw her tip over I started screaming like a crazy lady in some way hoping that drawing attention to what was happening would signal Kate’s guardian angel to swoop in and catch her. My screams only alerted the other mothers to run towards us, as I jumped down alongside the fireman-like pole where she’d fallen to gingerly gather her up.

Thankfully, thankfully, thankfully, she seemed fine. She didn’t seem to have anything broken or terribly wrong. She was sobbing, and later chanting, “Bump, bump, bump” about her head (though it wasn’t until an hour or so later that I realized that was what she’d been saying). She had to have felt some pain but as I clutched her to me, I was totally okay with that. I was just grateful to the gods that she wasn’t gravely hurt. Bruises or a bump on her noggin we could totally deal with.

Thankfully, she landed on woodchips which were covering some kind of spongy astro-turf-like playground cover. Designed for the very purpose of cushioning the fall of your most beloved and adored and cherished wonderful child.

John assured me I wasn’t a bad mother for not being right there to prevent it from happening. A nanny who was nearby looked at a little red patch on Kate’s head and brushed off some woodchips from her hair. A dad who had been on another part of the play structure and saw it all go down assured me she landed on her shoulder and not right on her head. It was one of those times when the smallest kindness from strangers was wholeheartedly welcomed and appreciated. Yes it was scary, they all seemed to say, but it was going to be alright.

From John’s cell phone (am I sure I’m not a bad mother for also not having mine on me?) I called Mark, and then Dr. Robbins. The receptionist ran through the concussion checklist which provided further encouragement. (She didn’t lose consciousness! She wasn’t bleedling! She cried when she fell! Questions that gave me insights into worse scenarios and made me realize on a deeper level how terribly lucky we were.)

Tonight, following doctor’s orders, Mark woke Kate up a few hours after she went to sleep to check on her. She responded in the way that indicated all was well. A kind of yo-why-you-wakin’-me-up? reaction, before settling back down to sweet baby sleep.

All is well, save my regret about not being closer, about not having caught her, and about not always having a helmet strapped on her head. Our dear sweet Kate who we love more than life itself is well, and I got a sudden big dose today of appreciating just how lucky we are in so many different ways.

Some day I may even take her to a playground again.