leave it to beavers

The past few days have been filled with headaches, deep freezing, deep snow, and nudity.  Lots and lots of nudity.  The headaches, ass-freezing, and the white stuff, well I blame Canadian Winter for that but the nudity - well that's my offspring for you.

For some reason my child is deathly allergic to clothing and for a parent who would love to hibernate from January 1st until about March 30th each and every year, with my cub firmly strapped in next to me, well I find this rejection of warmth and comfort completely confusing.  Currently I'm wrapped in a duvet, underneath I am wearing butt-ugly long johns that do nothing but scream FAIL in the realm of flattery, I've got on socks WITH my slippers, and I'd direct life from my bed IF I COULD.  Meanwhile, any time of day my daughter is running around in - at most - her underwear, all the while mocking my inability to stay warm.  This of course, plays on my paranoia and makes me worried for her sanity.  What if I'm raising someone as wackydoodle as me? How can she not be cold? It's minus seventy-five outside and that's before the windchill and our apartment walls are made from tissue paper and spit.

ANYHOW, this past Saturday, Gigi and I went to visit her bad family and Catherine and I had this total "June Cleaver hanging with her homies" moment.  We were sitting in the kitchen, passing Jasper back and forth like a medicine ball - because trust me, they don't make hot potatoes in that size - while trying to create something that would satisfy the gastronomically fickle demands of our three year olds - which when you think about it, is pretty funny.  Because neither of us like to cook, nor are we very June Cleaveresque save for the fact that after giving birth we both discovered the magic of home delivered groceries and that there really is such thing as a perfect vaccuum and thy name is Dyson.  I felt like buying myself an apron the day I discovered that little homemaking tidbit.

Anyhow, here we were, entering a new stage in the evolution our parenting accomplishments - one that includes being domestic & not complaining about it - albeit we were doing this while both checking email on our PDAs and discussing how PR folks really don't get how viral marketing happens - because you know what PR people? It doesn't happen just because you ask me to link to your stuff - for free. Ah shit, I'm totally losing my train of thought (what a surprise)....

Bottom line: We were being all domesticated new millenia-style, all while trying not to drop the world's strongest seven month old.  Or burn the food.  The imagine I'm trying to conjure for you is: we were being momish.  Which is nothing like amish or moorish but perhaps a bit boarish.  Or a lot.

So Catherine had just finished marvelling out loud over the fact that our daughters were being such little ladies - playing upstairs without supervision - and there was nary the sound of bloodshed OR pillaging to be heard.  It was a beautiful moment which of course, promptly ended as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

That's when we heard the taps running and some giggling. Giggles and running water, is never a good combination I say. NEVER.  Just ask anyone on a waterboard.  HELL, countries have been brought down by lesser assaults than the terror that two three-year-old girls can inflict, let me tell you.  So I sprinted up the stairs and rounded the corner to find my daughter stripping down and pouring every last drop of bubbles into a bath - with the help of her usual partner in crime.  I'm 98.6% sure it was just an excuse to get naked.  So no death, torture, or destruction - this time - but lots of nudity.  Do you know we've never had a playdate that didn't end in nudity? It's true.  Nudity breaks out whenever our girls get together.

Oh hell, are these two going to be leading the chant of "HOT TUB!" at parties when they are eighteen?

*shudder*  someone hold me and tell me she's gonna want to be a nun.