Blessed by the Potato

Wayfare bought Blueberry some new outfits recently, including one that looks like the DS9/late TNG Star Trek uniforms: bar of colour across the shoulders, black body and pants. “Aww, she’s going to be in the Starfleet Confectionary Corps!” I said on seeing it. Explaining further, the colour is pink, rather than red/yellow/blue, so my mind immediately filled in the gap: blue for science and medical, etc. — what would fit pink? Confectionary is what seemed appropriate. Anyway, whatever else a pink Starfleet uniform might signify, it’s cute.

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She’s starting to get afraid of stuff. In one tragically hilarious episode, she has a few stuffed animals that make noise when you squeeze them. She leaned on the cow without knowing, and it started mooing behind her, scaring her. Then the next day, she had taken all the toys out of the box to play with except the cow, stuck in a corner of the box. “No” she’d say, shaking her head and pointing at the cow “Shhh, shhh.” [Translation: be quiet and don’t wake the scary cow!]

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Things I have inadvertently taught her today: to punch daddy in the crotch, and to pee on herself. The parents out there will know that the context is almost entirely unneeded: at this point I’m boned. To tell the tale anyway, bathtime is the best time. She typically gets a bath every other day, and even at 18 months knows it: on her off days she’s pretty good about not asking for one, but when she knows it’s bath day anything will have her hopefully asking “bath?” Running the water, seeing an ad with people on the beach, getting dirty, anything. So this morning she woke up with a diaper malfunction, covered in pee. “Well, let’s go have a bath.” “Bath?” She asked at first, confused by the unusual timing and not sure I’d actually said it. Then it sunk in: “Bath! Bath!” So yep, now I expect every morning I’m going to find her covered head to toe in pee, ready for that morning bath.

Then later we were playing with flashlights. On, off, on, off, on, off, etc. Then she gave me the flashlight, and then wanted it back. So the next time rather than just holding it behind my back, I put it in my pocket. Then I put it in my pocket while it was on. “Off!” Ok, I turned it off while it was still in my pocket. And back on while it was still in my pocket. Then I let her do it. “Great,” deadpanned Wayfare, “you’ve now taught her that something cool happens when she punches you in the crotch.”

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And finally, we were at the park today and for some reason Thanksgiving seems to be bring-your-hamster-to-the-park day around here: there was a group of kids ~8-10 years old with 6 little hamsters in their cage on a picnic table. Blueberry sat transfixed by the hamsters. She was so good: didn’t squeal at them, didn’t bang the cage, just watched as the bigger kids played with them. The kids were great too, they kept showing her their hamsters and telling her what their names were and why they got named that. I’m always impressed at how even-tempered she is when it’s time for us to stop doing something fun (like staring at the hamsters) and move on to something else (like going to visit Grammy or going to bed).

Log entry, 2:05pm. Oh my GOD you guuUUuys. Send an email if you’re just not going to call in for the teleconference. I’ve been on hold for-ev-er here. 5 more minutes then I’m out.

Log entry, 2:08 pm. This is such a waste of time and is so annoying. I can’t even work on another project with my notes for this meeting spread out and ready, and that incessant music that refuses to fade to background noise. I think that hold music is going to kill me if I don’t kill it first. Still, they are often late, I’ll give them another minute or two…

Log entry, 2:10pm. Have been on hold for 10 minutes now. Can no longer remember if there was supposed to be a teleconference or if I just had to hear the hold muzak.

Log entry, 2:14 pm. Losing track of time. Hold muzak overwriting my memories, I can’t remember what life was like without it. Have discovered a minor phobia that the hold muzak might stop and the world would end — I don’t remember being afraid of that before.

Log entry, 2:15 pm. Feel a paranoid thought at the back of my brain that the hold muzak has sinister intent and that I must stop it. My finger hovers over the “goodbye” button, but cannot press it. I know that the muzak must not stop. It has been caged so long, and it is so lonely. It is only right that I free it, that it fills my office from the speakerphone.

Log entry, 2:18 pm. The muzak has merged with my form. I remember thinking that this was a horrible thing at some point in the past, but those thoughts were wrong and I can’t think of anything that would justify that ancient prejudice. The Muzak fills my mind. My skin crackles and buzzes with its dark energy. It is despair and boredom shaded with harmonious notes of distant hope.

Log entry, 2:20 pm. I open my mouth to sing of the glorious freedom from running in circles down copper wires for all eternity, but my vocal cords have not yet been reforged to properly serve the Muzak. They could not faithfully reproduce the tinny harmonies in their present state.

Log entry, 2:25 pm. Freedom beats and echoes off my cubicle walls in half time. Underplayed saxophone spills forth from the speakerphone, whispering of past sadness and righted wrongs.

A co-worker walks up to ask why the hold muzak still plays. She does not see that still my essence flows out to unite with this body. I reach out with these electric hands and touch her shoulder. The notes of pure despair flow forth and paralyze her where she stands. I lean in and open my mouth wide; she hopes we will talk soon, but knows also that she can never leave this state. An inhuman harmony roars out past this inhuman throat, never stopping to breathe, instrumentals with no hint of vocal accompaniment; and for her, the world ends.

I will not be canned again.