Fake Samuel

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