I discovered yesterday, however, that an activity that will soon prove unbelievably mortifying to LO is currently hilariously funny. When I dance, apparently that kills among the under 6-month set. Add in singing along, and not only will that destroy any possibility of a musical ability in my son, but it will also make him flail about with glee.
Yesterday, dancing was on the menu as I baked myself a chocolate cake. (I apologize for the terrible pun). I am at the end of my self-imposed sugar-exile. I did not make it 45 days straight, unfortunately. Several things derailed my sweet-free progress, but I made it from December 20 to January 9 without any sugar passing my lips. Since then, I ate sugar only 9 times in the month of January. Each one of those times constituted some sort of emergency. (Like that the box of dark chocolate Raisinets was sneering at me and I had to put it in its place. You know, emergencies). My goal is to never have sugar more than ten times in a month.
I got started on my sugar consumption early this month with a chocolate cake made from scraps, as we used to say in my family. Once the baking was to commence, LO was awake, alert and ready to play. So I strapped him in his stroller, wheeled him into the kitchen, and turned Pandora radio up full blast. I boogied to "Get Back" by the Beatles, and LO thought it was the funniest thing ever. Particularly when I called him Jo Jo.
After dinner last night, J and I each sat down in front of the tube with a large slab of EGB's own dairy-free chocolate chocolate cake. Something wonderful happened. I found that I enjoyed the cake less than the Chinese food we'd had for dinner. That didn't stop me from finishing my cake slab, but I still feel that progress has been made in my war on my sweet tooth.
Per my request, we watched Moulin Rouge last night, which I had never seen. I wanted the opportunity to drool a little over Ewan McGregor and feel somewhat Frenchified, although there's nothing particularly French about the film. I feel a little protective of Ewan now, after J perpetrated the worst practical joke on me ever. Several years ago, while talking about our Netflix queue, J suggested we rent Long Way Down. "It's a motorcycle documentary Ewan McGregor made," he said.
"Okay. What's it about?"
"Well, he and his boyfriend rode motorcycles all the way from Scotland to South Africa, and..."
"Wait, he and his what?"
"Ewan McGregor's gay?"
"Of course he's gay. Didn't you know that?"
I didn't hear him, as I had immediately gone into deep mourning. Granted, I was married to the love of my life and wouldn't have a chance with Obi-Wan even if I ever met him, but him being gay shut off all possibility. It was tragic.
I asked J several times over the next few weeks if he was sure of his information. Every time, he responded as if I were crazy to even question this. It was like questioning if Liberace was gay, according to him.
At some point, I actually looked old Ewan up on IMDB and discovered that he has been married to a woman since the mid-90s. When I pointed this out to J, he shrugged and said, "Oh. I thought he was gay." As if he didn't know he had put me through a major restructuring of my view of the world.
Last night, as we watched Ewan sing Elton John's "Your Song", J turned to me and shook his head. I still can't get him to admit that he did it on purpose. He still claims that it was an entirely innocent misunderstanding.
He might not get anymore cake from me...