Fake Samuel

Sorry its been a while. I've been in rehab and you know how they're all no-outside-contact-until-we -remake-who-you-are. Whatever. I went to their classes, I meditated on the new swiffer-sniffer free me, I met with the addiction specialists, I went to the group sessions. I got through it all. What a waste. I think The Folks read my last post and saw a good way to get rid of me for a few weeks. They like to play Wii at the Grandparent's house. I'm happy to let them do it too, but they feel the need to police me 24/7. I've been working on standing alone and walking (haven't shown 'em that yet), and as so as I get it down I'm so out of here. On the other hand, Christmas was good. So far I got a few more books to read, a ton of cars to push around and a big truck thingie that makes a ton of noise - it really bugs The Folks. And I still have another Grandparent to go. She's good for something noisy I'll wager. I hope it can go in my crib

So apparently The Father has been uploading videos on his blog and only now finding out that a majority of them are so dark it looks like a couple of blobs dancing to kid's music. Serves him right - trying to exploit me for profit on the Internet. And the yahoos reading his blog didn't have the sense to say "hey these videos BLOW do something about it dorko." Idiots. UPDATE: I've just been informed that this same problem *might* have afflicted my previous posting of the horror mini-series that I'm acting in. That this problem could be a generalized error and not something simply limited to the stupidity of The Father is a small chance to be sure, but rest assured I will find the people responsible and have them shot.

The Folks are on my back like 24/7. I can't get a moment to myself. So sometimes, when they finally leave me alone for 2 seconds, I get up and walk around. Yea I've been walking for sometime now. I keep it on the down-low. As long as they still think I'm crawling they don't lock up the cleaning supplies. And I kind of have a swiffer habit. Not the mopping kind. The dusting pads. I sniff them. Kinda gives me a buzz. I think. Anyhoo its no big deal - its under control. The problem is, I forget that The Folks don't know about the ambulation thing. So sometimes, when they deny things that are clearly mine, or when I feel my personal liberties are being infringed upon, my sense of righteous indignation rises up and I decide to run to the closet, grab a swiffer pad and drown my sorrows in Lemon Pine scent. Or Citrus, by Everyday Living. Store brand. Not as good. Anyway as soon as I realize that I'm about to take off running, I remember that I'm ju

I've been doing a little acting on the side recently. Here is the first installment in my most recent work.

This is the twisted tale of one Brown Bear and his animal friends. Unbenownst to them, they are all being watched by a classroom full of children, hungry for their blood. Little by little, they come to know this, mainly by using their collective powers of deduction. I found this book amusing, in its illustrations (a purple cat - absurd), as well as its portrayal of modern animal life. Apparently these animals have nothing better to do than to look around at each other. Of course, in the end, this is what saves them from being killed by the children. At least that's what I assume happens - the book leaves it to the imagination of the reader, and I'm an optimist. All in all I give this book 2 thumbs up. This psychological thriller kept me on the edge of my seat from cover to cover. When I receive the sequel "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, How do you Taste?," I will review it as well.

Its incredibly difficult to come up with witty banter when your brain has not yet fully developed. And this keyboard was bigger than me about 4 months ago. I have to pound the mouse button with my fist. What a chore. But I think the worst part is the fear of reprisal. Its not easy when you're such a public figure, saying whatever comes to mind. I live in the constant knowledge that there is always somebody watching, possibly with a camera, just waiting for me to mess up. Or say something that goes too far. Have I received death threats? No. But I'm pretty sure thats only because I don't check my email. Someday, someday, I'm gonna be old enough to defend myself. I anticipate they'll attack before then. Let them try.

Because for months and months all I could do was lay there and stare at stuff and then finally, finally , I could wiggle a little bit and play with whatever was put in front of my face. And that curbed my boredom for about 4 seconds. Then it got really bad. Unless one of the Folks is just rotating stuff in front of me, life is just really boring. So eventually, the pushups I do everynight in the crib before falling asleep started to pay off and I could crawl around. And that was fine for a while. Like 5 or 6 seconds. And I'm bored again. Sure I may look happy, but its really just a courtesy for the rest of you, so you don't have to share in my endless pain. And so it seems that, at times, I can amuse myself, by recounting jokes I've heard on Good Morning America. Of course, since no one on GMA is very witty, the only way they are funny is if you scream them.

especially when he's just repeating the same thing over and over again like "push the orange button, push the orange button, the orange button, push it in and make the music go, push the orange button" or "can you say ball, ball ball ball ball ball ball." sheesh. or "no we don't touch the plants, no don't touch the plants, no thats a no-touch." blah blah blah. whatever. he flaps his gums alot. i do throw him a bone once in a while. I'll touch the orange button - but pressing it not quite hard enough to trip the mechanism inside. Or I'll pretend to think better about touching the plant (while really I sneak in multiple touches when they're not looking). Or I'll say something close to ball. Like "baa." or "all." I practice my words at night. I sneak out of my crib and watch reruns of "Happy Days" and random infomercials to work on my language skills. Someday I'll just throw a fricken

I know it was kinda cold when I came out, but no one told me this temperature would return. No wonder the Father is obsessed with making fires - living every day of his life not knowing if he would be warm or not.

So I'm on another death march with The Father and I'm like hey if you let me out of the stroller maybe my limbs will have a chance at avoiding frostbite, and he's like whoa whoa there tiger, you can't walk yet, and I'm like well I can crawl and at least it'll keep me from turning into a babesicle and he's like I'm not going to slowly plod along behind you while you crawl on the pavement picking up stones and dog poop and rotten leaves every few feet and I'm like whatever I can't feel my fingers anymore anyway and he's like whatever I'm gonna go back to my ipod. Unbelievable.

The Weebleville Town Center is recommended for 18 months and up, but like I care. Let me tell you what I really think about this toy: roll over dang it! How annoying is this? Frustrates me to no end - the mind games these toys play. Sure, Weebleville is an amazing place, with excitement and joy around every corner. But it's every inhabitant makes me want to shoot myself. Then the music starts and I can't stop myself from dancing. Its like some sort of music induced seizure. Its irresistible. So I give this toy one thumb up and and one thumb down.

A part of the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, The Mother says I have to read it before I watch the movies. Whatever. Its pretty good though. Can't really say I'm paying attention to a lot of it as its read to me, but I usually perk up during the fight scenes or when there is talk of the children getting eaten by giants. There was one other part though, that bothered me. I mean, I try to be as tolerant as I can be, and to just throw around the word "gay" as if it could have any other meaning, is just careless and rude. Not very P.C., Clive. You'll be lucky if your next book sells a few thousand copies.

Ok folks. The chair comes with a warning that says specifically not to put the chair on a raised surface, that its only intended for use on the floor. I can't even read and I know enough not to sit in these death traps when they're elevated. Maybe its the baby's fault. Or maybe not. Maybe they were trying to get out of the chairs at the time that they fell. Dumb babies.

I was recently introduced to the wide world by way of a road trip to St. Louis. Its this whole other place without cribs or exersaucers, but with an abundance of other little things that move. The one I was most acquainted of during this trip was called "Cat" and it was most interesting indeed. It held an honored place in the house, right over the box that people stare at, I assume in worship. It got to eat what has to the best looking food I ever wanted to try. And the feel of "Cat" fur and flesh in my small clenched fists - there's nothing like it. Needless to say, we became fast friends. And while he would never let on, I'm sure "Cat" misses me now. I miss him too, frequently calling out his name in case he might be around.

He's right - they're nasty. Penguins that is. Not people in St. Louis. Mostly. How they can stand to swim around in their own filth and then just watch as someone else cleans it all up, I just don't understand. I feel like I've been lied to by the media, books and The Folks. I thought penguins were these cute little birds, always doing cute things, being cute and all. They're not. Not cute. Smelly. Quite smelly. And they poop. Did I mention that? Oh, yea I did. Anyhoo.

Now there's a guy who gets me. I mean really gets me. Doesn't talk down to me. Doesn't sit and babble about sissy crap to me. Treats me like a human being. Tells it like it is. Or should be. There are so many yes-men in my life. They just want to tell me how great my poop smells. And don't think I haven't smelled it. It stank. It stank nast. But not Great Grandpa. He's a straight shooter. Long name though. I've been meaning to shorten it. Something like GGrandpa (pronounced: GaGrandpa). Or Greapa. Or G man. Or maybe just Hartley. Or H man. Or H. I like H. Or Cat. Cat it is.

I'm back at home. Its nice to be able to sleep in my own crib again. The Father is all geeked about getting to post pictures of me online. Whatever. He's stretching out the post into a few separate posts instead of just putting all the pictures in one post and making it easy for the rest of us. Its because of those ads. He's trying to make a buck. He's made like $2.34 since starting the website and he's somehow convinced that the money will keep coming in. Like $2.15 of that was made the week after I was born. Back when people actually went to his site. Anyhoo . You may be saying, hey hypocrite you've got ads on your site too. To you I say: I will completely remove the ads when you start sending cash, 'cause at this point I've got about zippo for income and even poorer prospects. Do you know how hard it is to hold a job when you can't keep your mind focused on something for longer than 30 seconds?

The Folks have taken me across state lines to visit people I've never met. Whatever. Its somewhat warmer down here and I'm fine with that. The grass is pricklier but its cool. Anyhoo, we went to the zoo this morning. Saw a penguin poop.

Sometimes at night, after the bath is over, the story read, the door has been shut, and the lights are out - when the day is done - I think about my day, how I spent my time. And I cry. How did I improve the world today? When did I provide a meal to a homeless baby? How many babies did I help get off the streets? How many alcoholic babies did I bring to an AA meeting? How many songs did I write? Did I cure any baby cancer or eradicate baby tuberculosis? Did I learn a new language? or about a new culture? No. I did none of these things. I wasted another day playing. And so I cry.

...to eat. well quarter of a cow. i've seen it, touched it. its cold. and they're eating t-bone steaks the other night, and i'm stuck with peas. peas! unbelievable. and i'm reaching for it, like hey i want some, and they're like here have some more peas. and I'm like um, ok and i take a few more bites and then i remember i wanted their steaks so i'm ticked again. so the other night the mother gives me some chicken mixed in with my carrots. first of all - thats disgusting. who grinds up chicken? second, hey you've got a cow in the freezer why am i stuck with poultry? anyhoo i expressed my disgust with the situation.

You know, when its 6:45 and I'm all whiny and I start shaking my head an rubbing my eyes its always oh samuel you must be tired you're rubbing your eyes and acting like a tired baby acts but you know what sometimes my eyes just itch and the best way to relieve the pruritis is to rub them, ever think of that? sure, occasionally , i find myself in need of a short brief respite and at times have been known to partake in a few brief dabs of my eyes subconsciously, but these moments are rare and should not be used to judge my entire life. it happens to be ragweed season and will be until at least the first frost so give an allergic brother a break. you know, instead of jumping all over me and rushing to tuck me in you could be checking into this itchy eye thing. maybe i have chronic dry eye. or intermittent pre-nap dry eye. maybe my tear glands are drying up. or they're blocked. or obstructed by a tumor. great i'm gonna be up all night thinking about this.

Sometimes I like to get out of the house hit the backyard swing and just let the winds take me where they will, wishing, hoping that it will all change, that I'll exit my craft a new man, able to walk and speak and use a pincer grasp, without a care in the world because I'm old enough to read by myself and start fires and tell the Folks what I really think. The horizon opens up when you realize that after you pull to stand you can do more than stare at your hands, you can take off at run, or a jog if you're going for distance, and just keep going until you're no longer just living toy to toy, diaper to diaper, you're really living , a life you can be proud of instead of the everyday, every few hours shame of realizing you're sitting in your own excrement, able to play in it, but unable to ever be truly free of it. And if that isn't bad enough there's the constant knowledge that you can't pick whats for dinner and sooner or later peas is going to make

As previously mentioned.

If you don't know what I'm saying, quit trying to fill in the gaps with your own thoughts ok? Number one, I'm not you, I don't think like you. Number two, I need nothing from you, apart from food and cleanliness, and a place to nap. Number three, I don't know who your friends are, but they kinda wig me out sometimes. Number four, how am I supposed to learn to wipe myself if you keep doing it? Can't you see I'm trying to help Sheesh. Number five, why don't we have Tivo, I heard about it in nursery the other day. I need it. Number six, whats with sticking me in nursery all of the sudden like you're too good to try and hold on to me while I make noise and try to eat the notes you're taking in Sunday school. Number eight, when are you going to teach me to count, sheesh, I'm like 8 months here. Well, almost. Number nine, I just want you to know that whenever your back is turned, I eat EVERYTHING I can get into my mouth. Grass, hair, fu

and I get a little crazy with it sometimes, 'cause the world looks cooler when its kinda spinning around you, and anyway, the mother's like "is that normal?" and the father's like "probably i dunno" and all the while I'm freaking out. Sure I'm in control of it now and I can turn it on and off at the drop of a hat, but what if someday I can't stop and I get that Shaking Baby Syndrome that you hear so much about these days, with the retinal hemorrhages, and the cerebral contusions, and the need for special schooling. I have to keep reminding myself not to think about this stuff pre-nap. I get so worked up.

This was a wonderful addition to my crib. I fall quietly asleep each and every night to the soothing sounds and tranquil lighting effects of my Ocean Wonders Aquarium. Fish swim by, clams say hello and the contraption plays one of 3 mesmerizing songs: Twinkle, twinkle little star, that Lullaby song, and some other song that no one can identify. I've taken the liberty to come up with my own lyrics for the third song: Cry, cry, cry your eyes out and weep, the day is done. Light is gone forever, will the morning come? Everyone who feeds me has left me here to die. Maybe if I'm louder they will hear my cry. Chorus: Yell, shriek, whine, despair Two thumbs up.

"Under the Tagalong Tree" is a complex book filled stories about family dynamics, social injustice, race struggles and politics. Centered around the delightful "Muffin" family, it follows the day to day life of Maxi and Mini, the children of the family. What most might describe as boring, poorly written and at times racist, I actually found to Forget it. This book stinks. I keep asking for Hugo, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, etc, and I get this. Seriously, the boy's name is Maxi. One half star because of the colorful pictures.

on the mother's phone and she's like here talk to daddy and she hands me the phone and I listen and he's all like hello, hello, hello can you say hi to dady and I'm like NO i can't I'm 7 months old and I haven't yet mastered the art of talking on the cell phone would you just give me a break and because I'm so upset I decide to eat the phone and then the mother's like no don't eat the phone and I'm like how else am I to voice my frustration with my limited abilities, other peoples expectations and society in general. Then she gets back on the phone and its all oh he's trying to eat the phone again. Someday.

and every time I do, everyone around me tries to describe what I'm thinking. You know, "he's happy" or "he's making noises and that's fun for him" or "he's pooping" or whatever. But they're wrong. Wanna know what I'm thinking? Sometimes, yea, I'm pooping. Sometimes I'm contemplating "should I poop?" or "should I poop now?" Sometimes I just did poop and I'm kinda mashing it in good, to make it harder to remove. And sometimes I'm pooping. Oh I said that already. Anyhoo.

I like to just sit, mini basketball in one hand, butterfly rattle in the other and just kinda yell. Then I open up a 4 ounce and sit and watch the fish music thingie before dozing. This is the life.

anyway I had this big long rant about how I thought it was Cutaneous T Cell Lymphoma and how it had mysteriously disappeared and I thought it probably had spread to another organ and my sudden early death was inevitable, and it was a great post full of passion and witty commentary that really epitomized not only my own struggle with the disease but the inspiring way that I face not only a daunting, killer disease but also a daunting, killer butt rash, when I accidentally deleted the post. So anyway it was really good.

So I guess breastfeeding isn't so great anymore. They've found that there is no protective benefits of breastfeeding on me getting asthma. So after all this I'm still at the same risk as any other shmoe who's hooked on the enfamil. Unbelievable. Sure I have the benefits of being insanely more intelligent than the bottle addicts. Sure I don't have the formula saddle bags. Sure I'm leaner and built like a machine compared to those "Biggest Loser" wannabees. But if we'll both be sporting inhalers at a prime time in our lives to score chicks, then who cares.

And I'm just sorta toolin' around the house, bored again, looking for entertainment, when I realize I'm totally lost. We have this enormous house and its not that hard to do. I have no idea where I am, I've never been here before, no one will ever find me, in this huge house I'm like a baby in a haystack full of other babies who all look like me, I'm gonna die of starvation and diaper rash before I'm found. Anyway turns out I was just facing the back wall in the living room. Kinda freaked me out.

We've seen a lot of winners come out of Solo before, but they really have it down with their new release: Green Plastic Cup. Combining form, function, grace and green into one single product reportedly took years of R&D and countless hours of consumer testing. But let me assure you, it was worth the wait. My initial impressions were that the taste was somewhat lacking, but I found that the slight scent of plastic and faint odor of stale ice grew on me. The texture and squeaking noise that it makes against my gums drew me into this product immediately. Its versatility allows it to not only be a cup but also many other things. Offhand I can't think of what they are, but I'm sure there must be something. Anyhoo. Look for a more in depth review in an upcoming post. One and a half thumbs up.

I have a friend who was raised this way . I believe he is some sort of penguin, but was adopted by humans. They're getting along well from what I hear. Anyhoo.

Why don't I have one of these ? Am I not dropping enough hints? So I'm talking with the folks the other day and I'm like hey when do I get my iPhone and they're like just as soon as we get one and you are old enough to buy one for yourself and you're out of our house, etc. And I'm like thats totally unfair and they're like, hey you pooped your pants, nobody else in this house poops their pants, maybe you should worry about that instead of getting a cell phone. I was so mad couldn't speak. Well, babble. You know what I mean.

I recently acquired an airplane swing , and feel the need to extol its greatness. Its great. The other day I was riding - no - flying in it and I went up so high that I almost *almost* thought I was going to fall to my death in a burning fireball with pieces of fuselage falling down on all sizes, hitting trees, houses, children, indiscriminately but then at the last minute I pull the cord and eject, gliding down harmlessly while surveying the flaming wreckage and terrified masses and then landing in a field and running, just running, because the plane is gone and I am free, and alive, and so many are not, all while guilt and some small amount of triumph slowly creep over me. But anyway I wasn't that high and pretty soon I just wanted to get out of the swing. Because that kind of power can be overwhelming. Two thumbs up.

So the governor lifted the burning ban for everyone but the UP and the daddy is out there again, playing with fire. I'm out there occasionally when he's doing this and I'm like hey daddy, that looks like fun, you smell terrific, and I can foresee no possible bad outcomes from me helping you out, what do you say? And he's like, uh, no. And I'm like, you never let me do anything around here, this blows. Anyhoo. I'll show him someday.

And we're discussing postmodernism, because you can't get the guy off the topic sometimes, and I'm like are you trying to say that postmodernism isn't ardently relativistic and he's all like exactly my point, look at the work by Kenneson and Placher. And I'm like I've seen it, and I'll tell ya what, I'm still not convinced. And he's like what would it take to convince you and I nod deftly to the green plastic cup on the floor. Whatever you say man.

Well it seems that the braniacs at some university have done some amazing research that shows that married men do less housework than unmarried men. Who does this research? Lets start looking into the big problems in the world. Like diaper rash. I'm sitting here with a raging case of diaper rash, and you're trying to justify your live-in boyfriend? For Pete's sake, go get married and get me some butt cream.

I will eat this camera, I swear I will. Or I'll at least make it GUBAR. Gummed Up Beyond All Recognition.

So apparently a hairy Baby was born and it made the news. Whoop de doo. Look, I could have hair if I wanted to, but some of us still follow that old respect your father thing, and how would it look if I beat him in the hair department. Yea, not very good.

To insinuate that I'm a Dell boy is a pretty low blow, even coming from the father. I don't get that guy sometimes. You know, I'm like hey get this Dell catalog out of my face and he's like no wait a minute its a cute picture, i'll put it on the blog everyone will think its super funny and I'm like forget that i'm sick of your constant exploitation. And then he does that thing, where he pretends to sneeze, and I'm laughing because, well, its just hilarious.

Dork. Went out and killed a few patches of grass with the stuff later that night. Unbelievable.

So I'm on my tummy the other day and I'm fine but you know I'm making a fuss like I do, just to throw off The Folks and they just keep throwing toys in front of my face, like I want them to do. Then I get picked up. Anyhoo, so I have a swing now.

Margaret Wise Brown's Good Night Moon is a rather innocuous book with a rich subplot. This book transports you to a world where enormous rabbits rule the world and when night falls evil awakes. Only death awaits those who dare stay up past their bedtime. A warning to toddlers and children alike lies within these pages: "Go to bed, for the love of God go to bed or we'll all die." Two thumbs up.

I can hardly stand it. Jump and play and squeak and bounce and stroller and nap and eat and play and crinkle and tummy time and bounce and grass and nap and sit and ..... Bla bla bla Shoot me.

Technology is amazing - I can type and address millions, if not more, within minutes. I remember when I was still gestating - nobody was blogging about the stuff that really matters, you know? I wanted to, but we didn't get wireless until my third trimester and by then space was kinda limited. Any hoo.

And he's like quit chewing on me every chance you get, and I'm like whoa whoa whoa you're the one with the soft chewy exterior that makes such a cool sound when I rub it just right on my gums. And he's like *sigh* whatever, jerk.

And I'm screaming about it, not in a real specific way, but just a generic scream, like I usually do, and The Folks aren't getting it. I'm like hey give me a tylenol or something sheesh and they're like oh oh oh lets check for poops or maybe its time to go outside for a bit or (my favorite) why are you so crabby today, like its my fault. And I'm like hey this could be a tumor or something. And then all of the sudden I couldn't see for a few seconds and I'm like whoa hey what the crap was that. And then it happened again and I'm thinking crap its retinoblastoma with mets already in my brain, i'm gonna die, i'm only 6 months and i'm gonna die, and I haven't even driven a car yet. Anyhoo, turns out I was falling asleep. Felt much better after my nap.

"Where's Elmo? A Peek-A-Boo Book" (softcover, 8 pgs) is a fun filled romp through Elmo's alternative lifestyle. The Father read me this book the other night and was I captivated? Yes. Yes I was. The books colorful pages, soft texture, and interactivity immediately intrigued me. The plot however, was definately lacking. "Where's Elmo?" I am not interested in the where he is. And when you look deeper, the book gets creepy. "Where's Elmo?" Where isn't he? He's under the table eyeing Cookie Monster's thighs. He's in the park ominously watching Bert and Grover. He's even in Ernie's bathroom, watching Ernie bathe from behind a towel. Its disgusting. Now, I did appreciate the crinkly parts of the book, and some of the better tasting corners, but all in all I give this book a thumbs down for general eeriness.

A group of "experts" says that artificial life is likely by the time I'm in grade school. Money quote is the last sentence, referring to those who worry that artificial life forms could get out and "run amok": "When these things are created, they're going to be so weak, it'll be a huge achievement if you can keep them alive for an hour in the lab," he said. "But them getting out and taking over, never in our imagination could this happen." As my daddy would say - "For Sure". My take on this? As long as they share their toys, and don't cut off the milk supply, I say whatever. Heck if they taste good and fit in my mouth, I hope they do come.

And he's walking the grass again. He just paces, back and forth, back and forth. And pushing that huge loud thing in front of him. He pays so much attention - this must the the 2nd time in as many months that he's done this - to the grass. Sheesh. I've seen it, sat in it. Its nothing special. But he treats it with such special care, making sure each blade turns a golden brown color. It makes me sick the attention it gets that I don't get. So sometimes, I eat it.

This guy was on the cover of some album that was popular way back when my parents were young. Anyway they photographed him naked and stuck the picture on the cover! Now he describes the whole incident as creepy. Yea I'd say so. Welcome to my life buddy. I live with the constant reminder that the Father could at any moment put one of many shall we say 'indecent' pictures of me on the internet for the millions who visit his blog to see. Try living my life man.

But I can pretty reliably touch anything I want to, when I want to. I just think about it, and it happens. My hands move at the mere thought of what I want to touch. And once I'm there - watch out I'm touching like crazy. Unless I can't reach. Then I get pretty Tee-Owed. Cause I usually end up on my tummy.

And she's all like hey lets go backpacking sometime, we're going on a quick 60 mile hike this weekend in the friggen' rockies, you could come if you want. And I'm like sounds great I love roughing it. I refuse to go without my lunch though, so I'm wondering, who's gonna carry mommy in their backpack?

Some day I will tackle thee. Your melodious insults taunt me as I try to climb thee. Your delicious music books and wood paneling threaten to distract me from my goal. But I will summit thee. And you will respect me. Or whatever.

Apparently those wacked out Baby Einstein videos are bad for you. I never subject myself to such filth, but you can just tell the babies that watch them. They're all like I'm so cool I watch these videos, I know its bad for my health but I do it anyway just for the image. And I'm like well you're dumb. I wanna get into a good preschool and I'm not gonna take videos to get there. And they're like c'mon take a look - it has bright lights and sound. And I'm like I don't need your videos to feel good about myself, I'm on a breastmilk high 24/7.

Yo mom - somebody threw up in the exersaucer and if you think I'm going anywhere near it until its washed, you've got another thing coming. Thats just disgusting. Anyhoo.

OMIGOSH THEY MAKE CARS IN ALL SORTS OF COLORS. Did you know this? I was out with the father last night and there were at least 4 cars in the parking lot. 2 or more colors were represented. Kinda freaked me out.

The folks get so worked up if I'm not pooping or peeing on schedule. Sheesh, you're feeding me pureed green beans and pears and you're worried I'm gonna get stopped up? Calm down some. Anyhoo. So sometimes I just hold it and wait for the perfect moment.

I heard the folks discussing that they're going to introduce peas this week, so I've been prepping the face I'm gonna make. Sort of a ewwww what the crap is this stuff give me more i'm starving face.

And the folks are like woo hoo yea good job way to bounce. So I stop. Cause I'm not into attention like that.

...and she's like I just went on this phat Canadian vacation with snowtrains and hotels and boxcars in the wilderness for days on end. How many Canadian vacations have you gone on ever? And I'm like, yo. Give me a break I'm like barely 6 months old. Physical age. Mentally I'm like 43.

I'm finally able to tell the world how things really are in the Machado house. I know you've been waiting to hear my side of things.