The Ideal Job for Snookums

When you have sex in the United States -- or anywhere, for that matter -- you might wind up having a baby. But if you're really lucky, you wind up having an elf. Which is what Snookums is, as you can clearly see from this photo.

(I always used to tell Zany Dad he reminded me of an elf -- specifically, of that elf who wanted to be a dentist, from The Year Without a Santa Claus. Little did I know that I carried the recessive gene for elfishness.)

Apparently, the entire nation of Iceland believes in elves, according to an article I just read in Vanity Fair. The Icelanders haven't been reading this blog or anything, it's just part of their cultural tradition. In fact, when Alcoa tried to open an aluminum-smelting plant there a few years ago, it had to hire an official government inspector to certify the construction site as elf-free.

I kid you not. There is a civil servant in Iceland who actually gets paid to check whether there are any elves (or "hidden people," the politically correct term) on construction sites.

This would be the perfect job for Snookums. Who better to spot an elf than a fellow elf? When she spotted one, she could point at him with her tiny, elfin finger and speak to him in Elvish, asking him to please leave so the nice Americans can smelt their aluminum.

Who's Your Daddy?

Snookums was watching Sesame Street the other day, and the Count came on. You know... the Transylvanian vampire who teaches children how to count in a Bela Lugosi accent.

Snookums looked up at the screen, pointed and shouted, "Daddy! Daddy!"

It was most unusual in that normally she says, "Da-da." But she was especially careful to say the word correctly: "Da-dee." As if she didn't want there to be any confusion: This was her father.

My mother (visiting for the weekend) and I dissolved in laughter.

Is Abu Ghraib Hiring?

Because if they are, I know a little 13-month-old who should totally send them her résumé.

Today, Snookums subjected me to sleep deprivation, made me stand for hours (with her perched on my hip -- I'd like to see Rumsfeld do that!), and administered various forms of physical abuse, including biting, kicking, hitting, and screaming loud enough to hurt my eardrums. She also kept making me go topless.

About the only thing she didn't do was make me wear a hood and stand on a box. But there's always tomorrow.

"Without Breasts, There Is No Paradise"

Last night Zany Dad was watching soccer on Spanish TV when he happened upon a telenovela.

"What a title!" he muttered.

"What?" I asked.

"Sin Senos No Hay Paraíso," he said. "Without breasts, there is no paradise."

I looked at the TV, expecting to see one of those Spanish-language variety shows where a guy dressed as a bee is surrounded by women in bikinis.

"That's weird," I said. "With that title, it should be a comedy, but it looks like a drama."

It is. Sin Senos No Hay Paraíso is a Colombian soap opera that tells the story of a girl who becomes a prostitute to get out of poverty, but has to get implants when she discovers her ta-tas aren't big enough to attract the coke dealer of her dreams.

The only thing more preposterous than that plot is the fact that NBC is apparently working on an English-language version.

I don't dare tell Snookums about this show, because she'll insist on watching it.

Snookums Meets Snow

This weekend, I bundled Snookums into the new snowsuit she got for her birthday and took her to the park to discover snow.











Snow, Snookums.

Snookums, Snow.

Pleased to meet you -- NOT!







Notwithstanding these photos, it seems Snookums and Snow didn't get along very well. This comes as no surprise, considering Snookums' strong dislike of Snow's posse -- Hat, Boots and The Ever Lovin' Glove Twins.

Even so, her cousins in Brazil will be jealous when they see these pictures. Snow to them is like palm trees to us folks from New Jersey.

Just Do As She Says, and No One Gets Hurt

Right after Snookums was born, I started calling her "The 6 pound, 5 ounce CEO." And it's only gotten more like that.

I used to laugh at parents who were controlled by their kids. How can something that weighs 100 pounds less than you boss you around? I thought.

Oh, the irony.

I am completely in the thrall of Snookums, The 18.8 Pound CEO. Whatever she says, goes. Because she wouldn't have it any other way.

Time to change her diaper? Nope. Time to flip over on her stomach. Or stand up and start dancing. Or -- if the diaper is full of crap -- to wait until I take it off, then sit down so it smears all over everything.

Time to get in the high chair? NO!!! Time to arch her back in protest and scream. And when she arches her back, there's no way, short of breaking it, I can get her to bend. (Tickling her used to work, but she got wise to that pretty fast.)

Babies don't fight fair. No Marquess of Queensbury Rules for them, no sirree! Or Robert's Rules of Order for that matter. Parliamentary procedure goes out the window as they pinch, scratch and gouge their way to victory.

Which is why, if Snookums and Mike Tyson got in a fight, Snookums would win.

Even if she lost part of her ear.

Snookums' New Address

It has come to my attention that Snookums has moved. Her new address is:

1000 Doo Doo St.
Poopytown, NJ 12345

I swear I never changed so many diapers in my life.

A New Year's Observation

All the practice I've had communicating with Snookums sure came in handy on New Year's Eve. Over the past few months, I've learned how to interpret -- or at least pretend to interpret -- nonsensical babblings, like "Ga ba da ga ba ba?" and "Fweh?" I found myself drawing on those skills frequently the other night talking to people who'd had too much to drink.

Like the totally soused lesbian who told me she made jewelry. I asked, "What kind?" and she mumbled, "Centrifugal, centrifugal," as she waved her little one-hitter around.

Bonus observation: Everyone thinks Barack Obama got that "Yes we can!" stuff from Cesar Chavez. But he really got it from Bob the Builder.

Aloha, Snookums!

Snookums went to a Hawaiian party today. Unfortunately, this had nothing to do with our new president and everything to do with the fact that a member of the mothers' group I belong to is originally from Hawaii. She even plays the ukulele. (That is not her in the photo, by the way.)

So we brought some musical instruments -- a tambourine, a shaker, a squeaky toy -- to the playroom of Malia's apartment building. She played "Itsy Bitsy Spider," "The Hokey Pokey" -- the usual playlist for the one-and-under set -- on the ukulele, and the babies just sort of sat around and stared at each other. That is, when they (meaning Snookums) weren't crawling over and grabbing another baby's stuff, or playing an instrument at a totally inappropriate time, or COMPLETELY IGNORING THE DIRECTIONS (it's your right foot, dammit, not your hand! You put your right foot in and you shake it all about!).

The other babies mostly sat there placidly and smiled while their mothers fed or changed them and chatted. Not Snookums. She didn't stop moving for a second. Finally she found a way to amuse herself by pushing another baby who was sitting on a little car around the room endlessly. Every time she got to the wall, the other baby's mother would turn the car around, and Snookums would run across the room to the opposite wall, pushing the other baby. This went on for a full five minutes -- an eternity in Snookums-time.

Maybe she has a future as a pedi-cab driver.

Snookums: Indifferent to Her Jewish Heritage

On the fourth night of Hanukkah, Joan Novark brings to thee . . .

a Dancing Dreidel bear! Snookums, unfortunately, couldn't care less.

Was anyone besides Joan unaware of the second verse of this song?