Thinking

So, I have this story in my head. I tell various versions of it to Miss Mary from time to time, when she is tired enough to be content just sitting in my lap and listening to me talk. I've been thinking a lot lately about putting it down on paper, but I'm not sure there's much point. You see, I am terrified of criticism, even the constructive type, and I'm not at all confident in my writing (or creative, for that matter) skills. I don't know if putting the effort into writing it down will be worth it, as I doubt that anyone other than myself will ever see it.

I got out of the house last night! For hours! Without the baby! I had a most excellent time, with lots of hugs from other adults and conversation that had absolutely nothing (well, very little) to do about constipation, screaming, teething, or the fact that my child will only eat yoghurt with any regularity. We were at Dervish's beautiful loft once again, and I went home full of envy for his beautiful place which is bigger than my house. The game itself (was there for a Fallen Angels Game, Paradise Lost) was fantastic as always, and my character vacillated between smugness and severe, soul wrenching angst all night. To top it off, I had gone to the game expecting to be horribly punished, perhaps even killed for some poorly thought out actions I had taken in the downtime, and that did not happen! The only person who questioned me was completely ignored by everyone else!

Did I mention that the only food Mary will eat is yoghurt? I should mention it again, cause it's driving me bonkers. Oh, she'll eat other things, when the mood strikes her, but there is no telling. She flat out refuses all fresh fruits and veggies still, no matter how much I try to tempt her. I have even bought expensive Asian Pears for her, but no luck. She likes her graham wafers, and she will occasionally eat off my plate. She won't feed herself unless the food is the right texture. Nothing too wet, too cold, too sticky, too dry, too shriveled. To be honest, I have come to the conclusion that in most cases it isn't the actual flavour of the food, but the texture. So. What do I do? I'm running out of ideas, and I'm not going to talk to the nazi public health nurses about it again, because they just make me feel like a horrible mother, and I end up bawling.

Oh, and there is a new little life form in the Simian Farmer's household. Yay! One thing I learned from his tale is that with my next child...when they send me home from the hospital for a couple of hours, don't go if I want to preserve the state of my mattress and the towels we were given as a wedding gift!