Totland Fun and a Blast from the Past!

A photo montage of last Wednesday with my dear friend, Belva (Mystress Fyre), down from Canada to work on The Crucible's Fire Arts Festival. She's back in Canada now, but returns in September permanently to once again teach fire perfomance and grace us all with her amazing self.

A bit of history:

This is our fire troupe, Kabari, which Belva founded three years ago, performing at The Crucible's 2004 Fire Arts Festival. We have since gone on to other things (Belva back to Canada, I had a baby...etc.)


I am on the left, then Betsy, Belva and Summer.

Here is another particularly dramatic shot of Summer and myself (I am kneeling to the right seemingly engulfed in flame, while Summer spins near me):


Yes, I really do play with fire! (The stuff about the sharks and the scissors is also true, but those are stories for other times.)

Cut to one week ago, where we had a fabulous day at Totland in the sun. The Bit ran wild all over the park, with Monkey Boi, her ever present attendant, close at her heels. This gave Belva and I much chance to chat, compare lives and future plans.


Who's the rock star?



Not so hot about the swing-experience, despite Monkey Boi's careful attentions.




Staring contest. Belva and Arabis.




"Okay, so this one time, your mama was doing a show and there was this guy I knew..."

Yes. Belva was the woman who introduced Mojo and I and is thus indirectly responsible for my lovely daughter's being. She is also the best nanny in the world and I can't wait for her to come back to the Bay Area again and be a part of our lives!


NOTE: Fire photos by Waldemar Horwat. (Thank you!)

Sleep Issues

Had an absolutely *horrible* time putting Arabis down tonight. She fought sleep in a visually taxing battle for two hours before finally passing out on my shoulder in front of the computer. We tried singing. We tried a bottle. We tried playing. We tried lying in bed together. We tried cuddling. The cat tried cuddling with us. Cat quickly left.



It's so bloody hot in here. The skylight is open but offers minimal ventilation (it's 26 feet overhead). (I live in a warehouse, for those of you who don't know.) I can't open the door to let fresh air from the hallway in as the cats will run out. I can't open the front window without being assailed by exhaust and soot. The fan runs but only tends to blow the hot air around. I've been squirting Arabis and me with a bottle of water all day. We both had about an hour of human interaction after we bathed, but we can't spend all day in the tub. The diaper pail is starting to smell.

I'm sitting here in a pool of my own sweat, drinking fruit juice and water and wishing I liked alcohol more, 'cause this would be a perfect time for it. Oh, I talk a good talk about my fruity rum drinks, but the truth of the matter is, I hate booze. I like the *idea* of it, just hate the reality.

I need to cultivate a vice.

I used to smoke clove cigarettes. Only outside and very rarely...well, not so rarely in times of stress. I quit when I got pregnant and it was the easiest thing to do. There were no second thoughts, no cravings, no going back. Occasionally I feel the desire for one gnaw at my insides like a starving rat, but when the cheese is placed in front of me I turn my nose up at it. It disgusts me.

I actually kept some cloves. Four of them. In my metal cigarette case, with a zippo, on the gold shelf in the entryway. They are there and I know they are there. They know that I know that they are there. And even when I am feeling especially stabby and *really* wanting to smoke, I don't. I don't even look at them.

They're probably stale by now anyway.

I need the ocean. I need to surf, to kayak. To use my body again, feel strong and healthy. I have accepted that the weight gain with my pregnancy, besides the preeclampsia, could also be a product of quitting smoking. But now, fourteen months after Arabis was born, I am still the same weight. I am *FIVE SIZES* bigger than my good winter surf wetsuit (O'Neill Psycho Zen Zip, for those who care). Even my spring suit, which is a size bigger, in no way will fit my fleshy form.

The irony is I can still feel my muscles buried deep. I am still strong. I don't *feel* fat, but when I look in a mirror, or try on clothes, the truth is brought home with brutal clarity.

Heh. This was supposed to be a quick update about the challenges of putting a baby to sleep in 80 degree weather and my returning insomnia, and here I am tiptoeing off into the land of neurosis. Ring around the mental trash, psyches going to collapse. All fall down?

I'm going to be good and attempt to sleep early tonight. Whether I do or not will be apparent if I end up posting again.

It is lovely to have the house to myself though, without the boys around. Just me and my daughter. Fighting sleep.

Zombies! Zombies! And It's ALL YOUR FAULT!

We are all a little stretched to our respective limits here at Chez WTF. Monkey Boi is stomping around the house playing Ninja, wearing a red fleecy throw with multi-colored butterflies on his head topped by a red plastic garbage can (because I suppose that this is what the fashionable ninja is wearing these days).



Mojo is surly and growling.

Arabis has turned into a little poop machine and stomps around clapping at everyone and everything. Four of the six teeth have broken through though, thank the deity of your choice!



And me? I have a headache the size of Cincinnati and a knee that looks like it was attached by Dr. Frankenstein. I just want to be kidnapped by a group of rogue beauticians and be massaged and pampered for a while.

Last Saturday, we had dim sum with Pixie Bleu and her brood, Shemena(with her boy Elvis) and another old friend, Janna. All told there were 11 of us, clustered around the table (including the two babies [in their Cuir Bleu onsies!] and two almost-teens) consuming vast quantities of lovely food. Our lateness was blamed on me, and Mojo gleefully related the following tale:

It was about 2:00 AM, and Mojo had finally gotten the Monkey Boi to leave him alone and go to sleep so he could work on a free-lance article he is writing for an obscene amount of money. He is wearing his headphones and typing away furiously on his laptop when he hears me scream, "No!"

He removes the headphones and comes to check on me, in bed with the baby and thrashing back and forth, still screaming at the top of my lungs.

"Zombies! Zombies! And it's ALL YOUR FAULT!!"

"Honey. Honey. Wake up. You're having a bad dream."

"No! They're going to get me! You did this! This is YOUR FAULT!!"

"Honey, you're going to wake the baby."

"Zombies! They're trying..."

"You're going to wake the baby."

"...to get me..."

"You're going to wake the baby."

"...and it's YOUR FAULT!!!"

"Honey. You woke up the baby."

"Wha...what happened? Where are they? You DID this to me!"

"It was just a dream"

"Where is the baby?"

"I've got her. She's awake. You've been screaming at the top of your lungs."

"Oh, okay."

This is the point where I apparently rolled over and went back to sleep.

I am woken at 3:30 AM by Mojo, seething with exhaustion, frustration and rage. He has been up with the Bit for an hour and a half and cannot get her to go back to sleep. He rouses me and gives me the baby, then takes the bed and passes out before I can object.

Arabis and I were up until almost 5:00 AM before I could finally get her to sleep. So, yes, we were a *tad* late to dim sum this morning. It did not dampen the festivities one bit.




Janna, Shemena (with Elvis), Pixie, me (all friends since high school).



Makana, Monkey Boi, C and Janna



Arabis and a still-annoyed Mojo



Silly kids

Dim sum cures all ills.

More Milk

After dinner this evening, as we were all sitting around the table chatting, Arabis looked at Mojo and clearly signed "More milk." We were shocked. Did she mean it, or was she just playing with her hands? So Mojo asked her if she wanted gatig (Armenian for milk - this is the word we actually use) and she repeated the signs.

So I gave her a bottle. She was happy as a little clam. I'm amazed. And surprisingly pleased.

Tonight at dinner, Mojo said he contacted a woman who was a "Mother's Helper" and was checking references. If they worked out, he was going to hire her for one morning or day a week to come and help me out. And I, like the silly woman I am, started crying, because my first thought was "I've failed." I've worked in museums, bought merchandise for national retail stores, coordinated huge corporate events for thousands of guests, have published poetry, run a successful business and taught hundreds of people to sea kayak...but I can't raise a baby and keep a house. Where did this come from? What the hell am I channeling?

"This is not the reaction I was expecting," he said.

Maybe if he'd asked me and discussed it with me before he just went ahead and did it, I would feel grateful. I am trying to accept that it is not a failure. That I never had the chance to properly "nest" and get the house ready prior to giving birth (bedrest due to preeclampsia) and afterward it was impossible (recovery from emergency c-section, inability to breastfeed and intense post-partum depression).

But I hate the disorder we're currently living in and I am unable to combat it alone.

Perhaps after I sleep tonight (if I sleep tonight) I will have a better perspective on everything tomorrow.

Still much to ponder and relate after the funeral, but I haven't the ovarian fortitude to tackle it right now. I pray for sleep. There is nothing worse than insomnia on top of sleep deprivation.

Obituary

Will wonders never cease? Not only was my mother actually mentioned in the obit, but both my daughter and I are included in the count of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Although there is a mysterious fourth grandchild listed, this is most likely a mistake on my uncle's part (the miscount, not the grandchild).

There is no mention of his Masonic ties, which is a shame. He was a Mason for over 70 years (32nd degree) and a past master. It was a thing very important and central to his life, but because of my uncle's wife's conviction that "Masons drink blood from the skulls of babies" there was no mention. When my mother talked to one of the lodge brothers (who happens to be a cousin) he mentioned that he would be honored to do a Masonic funeral, which would be more than appropriate. When my mother called my uncle he shot her down quite rudely and vehemently. So we are having a Catholic priest, the same one who performed the funeral for my grandfather's hated wife. We are not Catholic. But my uncle is in charge and all will done his way, whether it is the "right way" or not.

I am leery of seeing my uncle and his wife. My last contact with them resulted in her not letting me in their house because I was "a witch" who wore all black and consorted with the devil. You see, many years ago she found that "old time religion." You know the kind: speaking in tongues, laying on of hands, burning heretics. She's been trying to get me on the fire for years.

I am going to the funeral for my mother. To protect her, to stand by her, to support her. That is the only reason I go. My last contact with my grandfather was five and a half years ago and resulted in him rudely pushing past me and out the door of the family's store. In speaking with my "sister" (who holds that title purely because of my grandfather) she said to remember the good and let go the bad. But I find it hard to remember the good.

The reality is that he left almost no direct impact on my life whatsoever. But his actions affected it like the ripples of a stone sinking in a pond, a voice echoing in a cave. My memories are of the repercussions of his actions, of his extreme selfishness and sense of entitlement.

He was a charming man, handsome and shallow, who passed through life exerting the least amount of effort necessary. My grandfather cast no shadow. He caused those who loved him great pain simply by his inability to do.

My grandfather was a wraith, a living ghost. His death is almost an afterthought. His crimes were those of inaction, insensitivity and inability. Nothing really touched him. Already dead inside.

The hypocrisy of death, that we musn't speak ill of the dead. Does that automatically canonize a sinner? Does this mean we musn't speak the truth?

"And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!"

from The Ballad of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde

Conflict

My grandfather died around 4:00 PM yesterday. And I am a mass of odd emotions, feeling things I didn't think I'd feel. Emotions I can't allow myself to express right now because of the presence of the kids. I'm drained.

Twelve Stitches Later...

Just a very quick update to say thank you for all the calls and well wishes.

Mojo stayed home from work today and has been wrangling the baby and the boi. And me? What have *I* been doing? Sleep. Wonderful sleep. There has been much, much sleep. And napping. Did I mention the naps? There have been two naps already today. Lovely, lovely naps.

The upshot of this is that the swelling has gone down tremendously. I can even wiggle my toes now! I am also able to put a little bit of weight on my leg. Go me!

My mom is coming over tonight when Mojo goes off to do his radio show and tomorrow I have a couple people who'll be stopping by. If anyone else wants to come, we'll make it a party!

There needs to be some musing on the fact that Mojo has been primary caregiver for the last 36 hours...something he has been more than a little nervous about. He is doing *fabulously* and Arabis is shining with so much Papa time.

Off to take more drugs now...and possibly another nap.

Aborted Trip to the Land of Carnivorous Plants

This weekend was the trip to one of my oldest friend Shannan's house in rural West Marin to celebrate her daughter, Xinia's first birthday. Shannan and I have been friends since the summer of 1980. I was fourteen and she was twelve. Even then, she was taller than me!

She left Oakland to live with a man who is the caretaker of a large ranch in Marshall, West Marin. They now live in a house built on the foundations of an old milking shed, behind a 19th century farmhouse, in the middle of hundreds of acres of some of the most beautiful country in Northern California.

When I found out I was pregnant, Shannan was the first person I called. Two weeks later, she called me to tell me the same news. We shared our pregnancies and this first year of our daughters' lives. Though we now live over an hour's driving distance from each other, we talk once a week to compare stories and milestones.

This visit would've been the first time we'd seen each other in a year.





Here is a photo of Shannan and I last July, when our daughters were new. This is in her greenhouse, filled with Venus Flytraps, Pitcher and other carnivorous plants.

Last year, I took Monkey Boi out to visit and he spent at least an hour gleefully hunting insects to feed the plants. He has been looking forward to this visit for the last week.

Yesterday afternoon, we made the trek from civilization out to the coast, driving through the redwoods while the kids dozed in the backseat. Mojo and I have been very companionable the last few days, and the ride was filled with talk and happy banter.

We exited Highway One and head up the side road that quickly became dirt. We had to stop twice to let wandering herds of cows cross the path or to wait for them to clear out of the road. Two miles of dirt road and a steep hill later, we arrived for the party.

Within 15 minutes, I was laid out on a bench in the kitchen with a inch deep gash just under my knee. We ended up going to the hospital in Petaluma (which just happens to be two miles away from my mother's house). Mom met us there and took Monkey Boi, while Arabis and Mojo stayed with me.

Gentle reader, I leave you with this, as I am in too much pain to continue writing and need to go and elevate my leg. I fell. I hit a rock in a bad way. I now boast 12 stitches in my right knee, nine on the surface and three about half an inch down to hold the tissue together. I cannot drive the Bit to her doctor's appointment tomorrow. I cannot baby wrangle. I cannot bend my knee. And tomorrow is the first day of Mojo's new job, so he cannot stay home with us.

Anyone want to come over and help the invalid tomorrow?

Update

Post coming soon with lots of photos. I promise! I'm still trying to recover from the long holiday weekend and getting used to wrangling two kids, since Mojo's 12 year old son, Monkey Boi is visiting for the summer. The Bit is excercising her free-will and inherited-from-both-sides tenacity and currently on a nap strike, so there hasn't been a lot of free writing time.

But soon. I promise! Lots of good stuff. Don't go away.

Poop Floats

Frankly, I'm just too damn busy and too tired to bother typing this out in an amusing narrative format. Instead, I give you the text of a recent IM with the Mojo Man:

me: There is an old wives tale that says "Babies do not poop when immersed in water."
mojo: *laughs* Is it true?
me: I'm a-wanting to find that old wife and punch her right in the nose.
mojo: Heh
me: Wanna hear the funny part?
mojo: ok
me: I was in the bath with her.
mojo: *chuckles* It's funny because it's funny.
me: Poop floats.
mojo: Only if you aren't getting fiber
me: She must need more fiber in her diet then.
You should have seen me fly out of that bathtub.
There was a brief moment of..."Honey, did you poop?"
I looked behind for bubbles and there was nothing. All of a sudden she uttered a big relaxed sigh and POP right to the surface.
mojo: Like a half-eaten surfer
me: Ha ha ha ha...evil man. You are my delight.
After I jumped out of the tub I pulled her out and put her naked and wet on the bathmat.
Do you remember when we last laundered the bathmat?
Neither do I.
mojo: I imagine it will be getting washed soon.
me: She crawled across the bathroom while I attempted to drain the tub and catch the poop which was eluding me.
I had to get Monkey Boi to help.
He was not amused.
Then I had to wash all the hair and dust off the baby. From crawling on the floor.
And wash the tub.
Monkey Boi is in the shower now.
Probably wearing flip flops.

Our Fine Four Fendered Friend

On an utterly absurd and completely random note: I watched "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" on Monday night for the umpteenth time. Despite the fact that the film is long overdue for a date with a superior editor armed with a sharp pair of scissors, it never fails to cheer me.

What stuck in my brain this viewing (among a few other things) was supreme admiration for the choristers forced to sing the "Toot Sweets" song. *YOU* try saying "the eatable, tweetable treat" three times fast, *THEN* try singing it. I hope they got hazard pay for that number.

That particular ditty apparently caused great upset in London while filming as, according to the trivia section of the website, the musical arranger included 22 flutes in his 85 piece orchestra. To fill the seats, he lured away every flautist from every symphony orchestra in London.

I bet *they* got hazard pay.

Number of the Day

SIX.

The Bit is cutting SIX teeth. One, two, three, four, five, SIX.

Just. Shoot. Me. Now.

Please?

Happy Birthday, Debbie!

Bit and Nana in Maine, February 2006
Originally uploaded by Artemis Rich.

I quickly want to wish many happy returns to the most wonderful step-mother a girl could have, my Maine Mama. The only woman in history (other than my grandmother) who could put up with my Dad for almost 30 years.

I love you!

I Know Why the Teething Baby Screams (or Why My Baby is Channeling the Forces of Evil)

Bit is cutting five teeth.

May I repeat that?

FIVE TEETH. FIVE. All on top. She is attempting to push out the two in the middle, both canines and one bicuspid (she already has her two incisors).

Sigh. My little over-achiever. Of course, the fact that she's making Damien look like the recipient of a "My Child Was An Honor Student" bumper sticker is not lost on anyone right now.



In other news, she had her 12-month well-baby visit on Monday. The stats are as follows:

Weight: 20 pounds, 12 ounces (45th percentile)
Head Circumference: 46cm (80th percentile)
Height: 31 ½ inches (above the 97th percentile)

We also had a hemoglobin test (the dreaded finger prick) which she passed with flying colors (good iron, excellent blood according to the doctor).

Our doctor is absolutely thrilled with her progress. I was worried that she was too skinny, but was assured that she just looks that way because she is so tall.

"Most babies we see have the exact opposite height and weight of yours and *that* is a problem," she said. "You have one of the healthiest babies I see."

Woo hoo! I'm doing something right! I know that sounds silly, but I worry about these things, you know.

We were given the okay to make the switch to whole milk and have had great success. Bit had a taste of pasta for the first time and had quite a bit of fun with it (I think some actually got in her mouth, too). I also gave her some spinach off my plate last night which she seemed to enjoy. That pleased me as I adore spinach and she had turned her nose up at "baby food" spinach in the past.

She has also taken up to five unassisted steps at once, before either falling back on her bottom or grabbing hold of something for support. Her steps are strong, her legs straight and true. There is none of the bow-legged gunslinger stance of your average toddler.

I'm afraid this kid is going to be taller than I am by the time she's seven.

Driving Lesson

While on the way to the airport to pick up Monkey Boi, Mojo's 12 year old son from Ohio, who will be spending the summer with us:

Mojo: You know you drive like a crazy person?
Me: How? How do I drive like a crazy person?
Mojo: I'd tell you, but I'm not allowed to talk to crazy people.
Me: My mother says I drive like a little old lady.
Mojo: Your mother drives like a homicidal maniac.

So, um, Mom...those performance race car driving classes when I was a teenager...scare my boyfriend. The fact that I've never had a ticket or an accident means in 24 years of driving mean nothing.

At least I'm keeping him on his toes!

My Guardians

Home from spending last night and today at my mother's house to give access to workers doing repairs on her flood damaged home and wanted to quickly recount two episodes before I forget.

My mother has a large (2'x3') framed photograph of my great-grandparents, my uncle Rousas at about age 9 and my grandmother at about age 7 (my uncle Haig hadn't been born). This picture was on the floor, leaning up against a small ledge behind the TV and out of sight.

Bit managed to crawl over there, find the picture, stood up and began eagerly kissing the faces of my Great-Grandmother Rushdoony and my grandmother. My mom called me over to see it. She ignored my uncle Rousas (he was a piece of work, but that is for another time) and my Great-Grandpa Bodvelli (the only one of my maternal great grandparents who I didn't have a personal relationship with as he died before I was born). I sat with my daughter while my mother watched and told her who the people were in the photo and a few stories about them.

When Bit and I got home about an hour ago, I changed her diaper, put on her pajamas and settled down with her to give her a bottle before bed. I tend to bury my nose in her hair when we nurse (yes, though I bottle feed, it is *still* nursing) and I started at the scent in her hair. It was my grandmother's scent. She had a very particular smell, of jasmine, roses and some unknown spice. It is a unique and unmistakable aroma. Nothing else smells like it. In the ten years since her death, I have smelled it at strange times, but I always know that she has been with me. Tonight, she came to my daughter as well. And this makes me smile. And cry. And miss her all the more.

I was lamenting the fact recently that Bit would never know her great-grandmothers like I did, but I'm wrong. She'll just have a different relationship with them.

Sneeze

Bit sneezed so hard her pacifier went flying across the room, causing me to giggle. She looked affronted. I mimicked her sneeze in a very drawn out and exaggerated way which made her throw her little head back and guffaw. I laughed back at her and did it again. Huge belly laughs erupted from the little girl.

We continued this for a long time, back and forth, until finally collapsing in a heap of exhausted giggles.

This. This is what makes it all worth while.

TGIFuck

I looked at the calendar this morning and thought, at least it's Friday. Before realizing that didn't mean a damned thing. I don't get weekends off. Weekends mean nothing special anymore.

I want to smoke, too. ALL. THE. TIME. I dream about smoking. However if I'm even near a cigarette I get repulsed. Even a clove. Even my brand of clove. But I *REALLY* want a smoke.

It's okay to want, I guess. Just not to indulge.

Mojo comes home on Sunday and will be all full of his adventures on the AIDS/Lifecycle and quite frankly I'm feeling like I don't really want to hear about it. I just want to hand him the baby, go to the bookstore and spend the rent money. When I come home, I'll expect the dishes and laundry done, a masseuse, a box of Godiva chocolates and a pitcher of fruity rum drinks.

I am a horrible person.

I'm really much nicer with sleep.

Time to go play with the baby now.

I Fell Off the World

I fell off the world for a couple of days. I know there are a few messages on my cell phone, but I haven't actually listened to them yet. I will tonight. I'm just not in the proper state right now. I'm sorry.

In good news, the tooth on the right *finally* broke through. The bad news was that it was a horrendous struggle that left us both battered and exhausted. Bit was so miserable and inconsolable. She would play for a while, then proceed to just fuss and throw herself around. This resulted in a bloody nose at one point in the afternoon.

Oh, it's the most painful thing to watch: the silent scream of the baby in pain. Her mouth opens, her eyes squeeze shut and her face slowly reddens. You can visibly see the shriek building from her toes, her body almost expanding as it works its way to the opening.

After I assessed that her nose wasn't broken and we probably didn't need to go to the emergency room, I cleaned her up and grabbed the bag of frozen corn to put on her nose. She, of course, instantly stuck it in her mouth. I eventually gave up trying to get anything on her nose and let her suck on the corn for about an hour until we both fell asleep exhausted. Oh, and I broke down in there too, after the point I knew the baby was, indeed, not permanently damaged. There is nothing more terrifying than watching your child bleed.

We woke in a pile of defrosted soggy corn and potato chips. It wasn't pretty.

I'm broken. I felt sure that this week I was going to get so much accomplished while Mojo was away on the AIDS/Lifecycle ride, but no luck. Oh, I managed to vacuum today and change the cover on the sofa, but other than that, nothing. I realized at lunch that I didn't even *eat* anything yesterday (other than an english muffin at breakfast and the potato chips for medicinal purposes).

I'm not even sure how exactly to safely take a shower since Bit has figured out, quite successfully, how to climb out of her Pack-N-Play. She hangs onto the top and walks her feet up the net side, then just flips over the rail.

My mother's curse has come true. I have a daughter who is just as much of a daredevil as I am.

She also took on unassisted step today, enroute from the recliner to the sofa. It was steady and true and done without any hesitation. I don't even think she realized she did it.

In Mojo's absence, I am realizing that things have got to change around here. I can't do this all by myself. I need help. I need time off. I need a life away from this house. I need sleep.

But mostly, right now, I need a shower.

The Baby in the Mirror

Bit is obsessed with her own reflection. She will spy herself in the dark screen of the TV, or in a pane of glass and become instantly entranced. Heaven forbid we should go by an actual mirror!

Her current mirror fetish is kissing. She loves kissing the baby staring back at her. Her eyes get droopy and heavy lidded, she sighs and leans in very close and then, BAM, just plants one right on the lips. She grins afterward, very proud of herself. If she is feeling particularly affectionate, she will come up for air only long enough to dive back for more. This makes her laugh and clap her hands.

For her birthday, my mother brought her a balloon with "Happy Birthday" on one side and the other plain mylar. Bit was fascinated. She sat in Papa's lap and very methodically, hand over hand on the ribbon, drew the balloon down to face level. She stared long and hard at the face gazing back, as if daring it to blink. Then the kissing began in earnest. Occasionally she would release the ribbon and the balloon would shoot back into the sky, anchored only by the green star tied to its base. Again, very slowly she would travel the length of the string, hand over hand, until the baby in the balloon would appear again.

When she got bored with that, she proceeded to suck all the mylar off the tail at the base.