Monday, May 12, 2003
An Excerpt from The Journals of Dale R. Price III.
From Volume I: The Diaper Years.
Day 77:
Well, I'm beginning to get my feet under me--metaphorically speaking. Realistically, I can't see my feet, much less put them under me. But more about that later. This will be a lengthy entry, because I'm finally beginning to form an assessment of my surroundings.
I'm beginning to understand how things work around here, in what is called "the Price household." There are three individuals I deal with on a regular basis. I will deal with them in order of preference and/or competence.
1. The first is the caregiver called "Mama" or "Mommy." She has an odd sense of humor, but around here that seems to be par for the course. I have to admit I really like her--she's very attentive and seems to be a thoroughly competent individual. She nurses me and changes me quite regularly, and lets me nap on her frequently. Lord knows I love my naps. She also sings me to sleep at night, which is nice. She doesn't have a future in the opera, but it's still much appreciated from my end. With her, I only have two complaints.
First, what does the woman eat? From the ample fat rolls on my enormous thighs (I can see them over my dunlop gut, for pete's sake!), I have to imagine she steps out for a suet ball while I'm asleep. Or drinks a can of warm Crisco through a straw. Whatever it is, it's not sticking to her--it's going straight to me! Merciful heaven, I have no neck: My oversized head floats on a ring of fat anchored to my shoulders!
I think I have feet. The people around here keep mentioning them. But I haven't had any visual proof of them since around Day 14.
My second problem with her is the aforementioned weird sense of humor, which manifests itself in various nicknames based on my girth. "Hello, pudge!" "Hello, 'thunder thighs!'" Yes, yes, I'm fat and have a large curd cottage cheese butt. Delightful! Like it's my fault. Lately, however, she seems to have made an effort to call me "baby Dale," which is an improvement. And she's much better than the nickname machine that is Caregiver Number
2. "Dad" or "daddy" seem to be his two titles of note. First, the good: he is marginally competent. He's decent with the diapers and baths, but he is an absolute master of coaxing the deeply-seated, painful belch out of me. I really appreciate it, but he seems to take an unseemly delight in my louder belches, giving what can only be described as war whoops in response. Well, whatever works I guess. He also seems to like me, in part because I'm apparently named after his father. Interesting.
Now, the bad. As a feeder: He. Is. Use. Less. At most, he can distract me for a minute or so by swooping me through the air until I get cross-eyed and he hands me to Mama (and then he wonders why I spit up). Recently, I have been subject to a bizarre series of experiments whereby he attempts to feed me by way of a strange rubber hose. I despise it, and invariably let him know in no uncertain terms. The contents taste familiar, but the hose seems rigged to ensure that I either get too much or too little. The good news is that he doesn't press the issue too much, and stops using the device after a few minutes. The bad news is that the experiment seems to be continuing.
Oh, joy! Go back to swooping me through the air. We'll both be happier.
What's even worse are his nicknames for me. I have a name. Three, to be exact. And none of them are "Tons-a-fun," "Large 'N' In Charge," "Michelin Man," "Chunky Monkey," "El Grande," and the most recent, "Il Baldo." This last one cleverly comments about my lack of hair. However, he recently started to note my obvious hair growth in admiring terms. He also followed it up with a mumbled "Don't get too attached to it." I will have to investigate this cryptic comment at a later date.
He's very much a mixed bag, this "daddy" fellow. However, he did get me a new toy today from the attic: it's called a "swing," and I have to admit, he put it together quickly. It's quite nice, and I enjoyed it immensely. Except for the interference of the Creature I simply call Number
3. This diminutive being is called by the first two, "Maddie." Evidently, she is my "sister." Apparently, a "sister" is an unusually peppy dwarf who is also an expert in violating personal space and inflicting psychological torture. Whenever I hear the rapid slap of her feet on the floor, I can soon expect her deranged smiling face about a half inch from one of my eyes, and a hoot of "bay-bee." Or "dude." That's another one of "daddy's" nicknames, no longer used by him, but popular with the dwarf. She usually follows up her greeting with a klutzy try at a hug.
She is self-evidently a disturbed (if horribly energetic) little person, and her efforts to communicate are impaired by her crippling speech impediment. Granted, I can't speak well, but then again, I have the sense not to try right now. Despite our inability to see eye to eye on anything, I think underneath that hyper exterior she actually means well. Sometimes she has actually hugged me with something approaching gentleness, and she quickly informs the other two when I am upset with a shouted "Baby cry!" Plus, I generally seem to make her smile a lot. This leads me to think that, with an appropriate regimen of therapy and medication, we may be able to get along one day. But she has to stop banging her fists together an inch in front of my nose first.
Well, that's pretty much all for now. The sister is asleep in her toddler bed, and, after my bath and nightly feeding, I'm feeling more and more drowsy myself. But I think I'm beginning to like it here. I actually caught myself smiling as Mama tickled "my little fat rolls" today, and grinning as daddy walked by. Not too bad at all.
Until next time,
D3
From Volume I: The Diaper Years.
Day 77:
Well, I'm beginning to get my feet under me--metaphorically speaking. Realistically, I can't see my feet, much less put them under me. But more about that later. This will be a lengthy entry, because I'm finally beginning to form an assessment of my surroundings.
I'm beginning to understand how things work around here, in what is called "the Price household." There are three individuals I deal with on a regular basis. I will deal with them in order of preference and/or competence.
1. The first is the caregiver called "Mama" or "Mommy." She has an odd sense of humor, but around here that seems to be par for the course. I have to admit I really like her--she's very attentive and seems to be a thoroughly competent individual. She nurses me and changes me quite regularly, and lets me nap on her frequently. Lord knows I love my naps. She also sings me to sleep at night, which is nice. She doesn't have a future in the opera, but it's still much appreciated from my end. With her, I only have two complaints.
First, what does the woman eat? From the ample fat rolls on my enormous thighs (I can see them over my dunlop gut, for pete's sake!), I have to imagine she steps out for a suet ball while I'm asleep. Or drinks a can of warm Crisco through a straw. Whatever it is, it's not sticking to her--it's going straight to me! Merciful heaven, I have no neck: My oversized head floats on a ring of fat anchored to my shoulders!
I think I have feet. The people around here keep mentioning them. But I haven't had any visual proof of them since around Day 14.
My second problem with her is the aforementioned weird sense of humor, which manifests itself in various nicknames based on my girth. "Hello, pudge!" "Hello, 'thunder thighs!'" Yes, yes, I'm fat and have a large curd cottage cheese butt. Delightful! Like it's my fault. Lately, however, she seems to have made an effort to call me "baby Dale," which is an improvement. And she's much better than the nickname machine that is Caregiver Number
2. "Dad" or "daddy" seem to be his two titles of note. First, the good: he is marginally competent. He's decent with the diapers and baths, but he is an absolute master of coaxing the deeply-seated, painful belch out of me. I really appreciate it, but he seems to take an unseemly delight in my louder belches, giving what can only be described as war whoops in response. Well, whatever works I guess. He also seems to like me, in part because I'm apparently named after his father. Interesting.
Now, the bad. As a feeder: He. Is. Use. Less. At most, he can distract me for a minute or so by swooping me through the air until I get cross-eyed and he hands me to Mama (and then he wonders why I spit up). Recently, I have been subject to a bizarre series of experiments whereby he attempts to feed me by way of a strange rubber hose. I despise it, and invariably let him know in no uncertain terms. The contents taste familiar, but the hose seems rigged to ensure that I either get too much or too little. The good news is that he doesn't press the issue too much, and stops using the device after a few minutes. The bad news is that the experiment seems to be continuing.
Oh, joy! Go back to swooping me through the air. We'll both be happier.
What's even worse are his nicknames for me. I have a name. Three, to be exact. And none of them are "Tons-a-fun," "Large 'N' In Charge," "Michelin Man," "Chunky Monkey," "El Grande," and the most recent, "Il Baldo." This last one cleverly comments about my lack of hair. However, he recently started to note my obvious hair growth in admiring terms. He also followed it up with a mumbled "Don't get too attached to it." I will have to investigate this cryptic comment at a later date.
He's very much a mixed bag, this "daddy" fellow. However, he did get me a new toy today from the attic: it's called a "swing," and I have to admit, he put it together quickly. It's quite nice, and I enjoyed it immensely. Except for the interference of the Creature I simply call Number
3. This diminutive being is called by the first two, "Maddie." Evidently, she is my "sister." Apparently, a "sister" is an unusually peppy dwarf who is also an expert in violating personal space and inflicting psychological torture. Whenever I hear the rapid slap of her feet on the floor, I can soon expect her deranged smiling face about a half inch from one of my eyes, and a hoot of "bay-bee." Or "dude." That's another one of "daddy's" nicknames, no longer used by him, but popular with the dwarf. She usually follows up her greeting with a klutzy try at a hug.
She is self-evidently a disturbed (if horribly energetic) little person, and her efforts to communicate are impaired by her crippling speech impediment. Granted, I can't speak well, but then again, I have the sense not to try right now. Despite our inability to see eye to eye on anything, I think underneath that hyper exterior she actually means well. Sometimes she has actually hugged me with something approaching gentleness, and she quickly informs the other two when I am upset with a shouted "Baby cry!" Plus, I generally seem to make her smile a lot. This leads me to think that, with an appropriate regimen of therapy and medication, we may be able to get along one day. But she has to stop banging her fists together an inch in front of my nose first.
Well, that's pretty much all for now. The sister is asleep in her toddler bed, and, after my bath and nightly feeding, I'm feeling more and more drowsy myself. But I think I'm beginning to like it here. I actually caught myself smiling as Mama tickled "my little fat rolls" today, and grinning as daddy walked by. Not too bad at all.
Until next time,
D3
