Ugh, sorry for the bad pun. My mom just wrote me an e-mail with the subject "Jenny's blog" and it struck me as very funny. Nobody who met me after 1991 calls me Jenny: I guarantee anyone calling me that is either related, a voice from my childhood, or trying to be cute. I guess that covers most people I know, though.
For years my mom insisted that she had named me JENNIFER, and that my kindergarten teacher had been too lazy and just taught me to spell Jenny, but even in my baby book, in my mother's own hand, I was Jenny. I'm only Jennifer at work or if I get in trouble. Again, that kinda covers a lot of ground....
On with the pictures! I haven't uploaded many lately, so these are from before Christmas. Please note that though our kitchen usually looks like this, we have since cleaned and straightened and done all sorts of things so it's much much better. For now. This is the first time V ever helped me bake. She found a box of cake mix and carried it around with her for three days, thrusting it at me periodically and calling out "Cake!" in a demanding tone. I finally caved in after my grades were turned in.
She's on a barstool here, and soon after these pictures were taken, she realized the benefits of life from this height. Now she climbs up on it regularly, and she especially loves to pepper everything in sight. Cauliflower, milk, dishwater...all peppered. She likes salt, too, but that she mostly uses to pour in her little play cooking pots and then dump on the living room floor.
Thank god for hardwood.
This is a photo I adore. She clearly has both her mother's love of chocolate and graceful eating skills.
One of my goals of parenthood (what? I have parenthood goals??) is that V will know that cooking/cleaning/thinking is not gender specific. But Shaun doesn't cook, so that one will be hardest to prove to her, I imagine. Of course, neither of us clean or think very often, either. In the kitchen realm, though, I mostly hope she won't be like me: when I had my first babysitting job, when I was almost 12, I was supposed to make macaroni and cheese for lunch. I had to call my mom and ask how to boil water. Once she stopped laughing at me, she graciously talked me through it, and I graciously pointed out that if she had just shown me how to do that one time we never would have had to have that ridiculous conversation.
The moral of this story is, V can now bake a cake mix. Soon she'll be bringing me French toast in bed. Merci. Etcetera.