The Wily Filipino

The Weekend.

The other day I ran into my colleague Dawn Mabalon, who asked if I was going to any of the Pinoise Pop concerts this weekend. I said I wasn't; I didn't think Izzy would be able to handle punk.

This was because Madeline is taking off for a big "girls-only" weekend. Our friends Alice and Margaret are celebrating their birthdays by renting some cabin up at Bolinas. (Somehow I imagined (fantasized?) a dozen naked women downing margaritas and sitting in a jacuzzi, but Madeline says it won't be. Or so she says.)

In any case, I'm taking care of Izzy, and both of us are already eating too-salty crackers and sitting on the sofa watching our reflections in the (turned-off) television. She's derived much entertainment from dancing and watching her reflection on the screen; this is why I try to ply her with music (she really likes Elvises Presley and Costello right now) well before the TV gets turned on.

Here she is (probably in the middle of Elvis Presley's "Burning Love.")

But now she's requested a showing of Barney, of all things, which I detest only a little less than George Bush. I'd rather go out to the beach; the weather is gorgeous in the Outer Richmond for once. I hold firm and say no Barney, and offer her another cracker.

Five minutes later we're watching Barney. It dawns on me that it's not Barney I dislike; it's the creepy kids on it, with their infuriating overacting, that are the very essence of smarm.

Half an hour later we're at the beach and she has her big Elton John sunglasses on and she's hopping and skipping. It's beautiful out on Ocean Beach.

Then we're back home, and she's running up and down the kitchen crying "Hot milky! Hot milky!"

Everything now begins with "my:" my "clothie," my "milky," my rice, my dolly, my keys.

Me: "Izzy, they're Daddy's keys."
Izzy: "My keys!"

The baby books all say this is a natural phase.

Dinner didn't work out very well: she demanded her "hot milky" right before the food was served, which meant that she would be too full for the rice and leftover Costco roast chicken, which she ordinarily loves.

Me: "But even Julia Child serves Costco chicken to her guests!" (This is true, by the way; she admitted it in a New York Times interview.)
Izzy: "Don't like."

So a showing of the first half of Toy Story followed while I tried to eat as fast as I could; this was followed by more milk, a change into her sleeper, a collection of nursery rhymes, Dr. Seuss's Hop On Pop, Lucy Cousins' Maisy Takes A Bath, Lucy Cousins' Maisy's Bedtime, a toothbrushing, and finally bed. (Thank goodness she wasn't yelling for her mommy, whom she'd temporarily forgotten.)

Posted by the wily filipino at September 6, 2003 09:15 PM