Friday, March 31, 2006
I have never understood how my husband can tell me the most intimate details of his bowel movements and share his gas - almost proudly - with anyone near him. But ask him to share his thoughts or feelings and he clams right up. How can bodily functions that are usually kept secret be easier to share than inner thoughts? Most of my inner thoughts come right out. Even when nobody wants to hear them. I share more about my disfunction than can be good for anyone. I have so many issues, there is bound to be SOME spillover. Once, he was joking around, and with great fanfare picked up my cup and put his tongue in my coffee. I was livid. I can't even describe how angry I was, that he would do that. His shock at my reaction was clear on his face. Sure, he figured I might be annoyed but ANGRY? Why was I so angry? I do not like people touching, messing with, or putting things in my food. And as far as I was concerned, this violated all three of those rules. "So let me get this straight. I can put my tongue in your mouth, but not in your coffee cup". It was not funny at the time, and we had a really big argument. But that line stuck in my head and every once in a while one of us will say it and we will both laugh. But he always adds "I still don't know why you were so MAD". In my warped and dysfunctional mind, food and beverage are more than just fuel to keep the body going. Food is love, baby. Food is LOVE. Not only do I show my love by preparing meals and snacks for those that I care for, but I also use it to comfort myself. It is almost sacred. For somebody to defile or devalue that love, is unthinkable and makes me angry. After all, he didn't do anything to HIS coffee, did he? No, he did it to MINE. When we first got married, he would do things like poke my food. "Is this hot?" as he shoved his finger through my burger. This was the sort of comraderie he shared with his father. It showed that you were close, and sharing a joke. Well, it did in his world. In my world, it said "You are not worthy of having love, and this is what I will do with it". Pretty sad, huh? My mother was good at using food as a tool. When she did cook it was usually Sunday dinners and special occasions. Because her cooking was SPECIAL for us. She would pile it on, loads and loads of food. More love - er - food than can be imagined. And we would partake of it, and feel that love and warmth. And once we were done, she would glare at us. And call us pigs. And tell us nobody needs to eat that much! So in effect, immediately tell us we were undeserving of the love we took. This woman would give you a gigantic piece of cake, and when she saw the last crumb disappear, comment that you will always be fat if you ate that way. Give the love, then yank it back. The women in our family were/are compulsive dieters. Weight watchers. The zone. Cabbage soup, rice, banana, grapefruit, we tried them all. I went on my first diet in grade 1. I have eaten so much skinless baked chicken that I gag to think of it. The sight of a shaker of Mrs. Dash makes my gorge rise. Don't even ask me about melba toast. We would lose a pound or two, then immediately go back to steak and potatoes with sour cream. Then the next week, it was on to a new plan of one sort or another. It's no wonder I have food issues. I don't binge eat anymore. At least, not like I used to. Ah yes, the binge. Never learned to purge (I don't like to throw up and laxitives are just too gross to think about), but that binge, oh I could BINGE. I could eat an entire spaghetti dinner (with bread and salad), then a half chicken, then part of a meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Cold ravioli and spaghetti and beans straight from the can. Cans of stew eaten in the car after visiting the all-night grocery. Sliced lunch meat rolled and eaten from the package. All washed down with strawberry milk. DH of course had no idea. Who paid attention to what food is in the cupboards or who was eating what? But eventually he got a clue. And I confessed. And he started counting cans and keeping an inventory of what was in the fridge. He was trying to help me in the only way he could, by controlling me. Unfortunately, that is not what I needed. So I no longer took cans from the cupboard or food from the fridge. I would hit drive-thru after drive-thru on the way home from work. Then eat a full dinner. Then make an excuse to go out so I could maybe visit a grocery store or deli. My car was like a rolling garbage can. Wrappers and packages and cans and things. To make up for the binging (and lack of purging) I wouldn't eat during the day. No breakfast, no lunch. Coffee and cigarettes only. I don't think anyone had any idea of how bad it was. It did eventually stop. At least, there was no more regularity. A couple of times a year things get stressful enough to drive me to eat a pint of ice cream (when normally a tablespoon makes me sick. I don't really like ice cream LOL) or want chinese food late at night. I wax poetic about eating velveeta out of the box, cheezWhiz out of the jar, or squeeze cheese from the tube. What is my obsession with fake-orange coloured artificial cheese products? That there is a new therapy bill for sure. But while I talk fondly of it, I no longer do it. I don't want DD to learn any of this, the eating disorder cycle will end NOW. My grandmother (constant dieter), my grandfather (anorexic, refuses to eat for days), my mother (bulemic, a side effect of gastric bypass surgery she had in the eighties), my sisters (obsessive dieters, diet drug users). None of us have escaped it. I want to break the chain. Some sort of cosmic quirk I think is helping me in this quest. For I have given birth to a picky child that does not really like to eat. Now don't get me wrong. She is a good eater in that she has a good appetite. But she is a PICKY eater. What she eats today, she may turn her nose up at tomorrow. She goes into throes of horror at the sight of vegetables, and don't dare give her food with "edges". Edges of any kind (or discolourations or crust or breading) must be peeled off with disdain and discarded in disgust. She will eat plain pasta, but only certain shapes. The first time I gave her bowtie noodles, she licked the edge of one, shuddered, and rejected it. I had to go stand on the porch I was so mad. IT IS A NOODLE. SHE EATS NOODLES ALL THE TIME! She finally tried one and now they are her favourite, but let me tell you some days it is all I can do to not throttle her over rejecting different shaped chicken nuggets. She is always hungry, because she is always refusing part or all of her meals. I have a new mantra for her. "Picky eaters go hungry". And I know for a fact, after refusing one or two meals, at the next one she is more than willing to eat those different noodles and meat with edges. DH is another one that likes to eat, but cares little about what it is. Food is fuel, to be eaten as quickly and with as little thought as possible. He never knows what he wants to eat because, frankly, he really doesn't care what it is. He has no favourite food or meal. Handmade perogies are eaten with as much relish as frozen store bought ones. Foods prepared from packaged mixes are eaten with the same attention as their home-made versions that take hours to make. That is, no attention other than bringing fork to mouth. He can eat all four puddings in a package then admit they were only "okay". If they weren't very good, why eat FOUR? We just have totally different perspectives on food and eating. I get excited about ingredients, he gets excited because it is time to eat. Wouldn't you know the "food is love" person would end up with a husband and child with this attitude about eating?
Thursday, March 30, 2006
The weather is finally turning. Yesterday it was mild and the sun was shining. After school DD wanted to play on her swing set. She doesn't like being in the yard alone. So I grabbed a book and a lawn chair and enjoyed the weather with her. Of course, Ruby was overjoyed to have visitors in "her yard" and got all excited when she saw the lawn chair. For lawn chairs mean sitting and sitting means laps, and she likes nothing more than to be in "her yard" on a nice day in a soft lap. My child spent more time climbing on the swing set like a monkey than actually swinging, which is another clue that maybe she is already outgrowing it. Which ticks me off, since we basically just got it. I counted on far more years of use, after the trouble we went into to get it and put it together. I still have nightmares about fitting the canopy on the chair swing part. But I guess this is what happens when children grow, something I sternly remind DD not to do. There are many signs that she is igoring this directive, however. Shirts that don't quite meet the waist band of her pants. Pant cuffs that hover above her ankles. Knee socks that fit like sport socks, sport socks that fit like anklets, and anklets that barely cover her toes. We won't even talk about shirt sleeves that barely touch elbows, let alone wrist bones. It's not like we never buy her clothes, either. We buy them big hoping to get a few wearings out of them before they no longer fit. Yet it seems that all too soon, they go from being too big or too long to being too tight and too short. And let us just say that I have seen more than my share of little-girl buttcrack. She tends to grow out of the MIDDLE of the clothes first, then gradually the length. Most of her clothes are loose at the sides, so she isn't growing out of them sideways YET. Doesn't mean she can wear them though, I am not the kind of parent that advocates midrif baring tops and low rise jeans on a six year old. I wish I could find more leggings for her. Leggings are the miracle article when it comes to childrens clothing. They never seem to grow out of leggings. The seams fall apart far before they become too short or too tight. How is that? What kind of magic is this? What kind of legging physics makes it so they can wear them through three grades and countless growth spurts? But alas leggings - for now - have fallen out of fashion and are hard to find on the racks meant for children. Right now they have all the lovely colourful completely impractical spring clothing out for girls. The cotton skirts and tops that wrinkle so badly after the first wearing that no amount of steam will make them flat again. The light coloured pants that are dirty at the knees before the child leaves the house for school. The short sets that come with their own little purse and headband and are quite lovely, but so badly made that they are already covered in loose threads. One washing, and they fall apart like so much spring gossamer. And what is it with the socks that have TOES in them? Individual little tubes for toes. Sure they look cute, but are there children out there that will WEAR them? My daughter has such sensitive feet that she freaks out if the toe seam is slightly crooked. She has stopped, dropped, and rolled in the mall when her sock bunched under her toes. "FIX IT! FIX IT!" she screamed. DH, another sensitive foot person, knew exactly what the problem was and took charge. "Stand back! Her sock is twisted!", then removed her shoe and performed delicate sock surgery right there in the food court. I have no idea where she learned to be so dramatic. *cough* I am a crocheter, and now a knitter as well. DD has no defecit of wraps, shrugs, and ponchos. Perhaps, if I am lucky, before she graduates from college she may even have a purple sweater. Ahem. Every time we are near yarn, she brings me her choice for something to make for her. And I oblige, I am glad she likes my creations. When she gets compliments, she beams and says "My mommy made it for me". Warm fuzzies all around LOL. Yet still, she is drawn to those machine created webs sold this time of year in the girls section, loosely referred to as pashminas or ponchos. They are child size, impossible to keep in shape, and cost over $25.00. "I can make one just like it for you". No, she wants a STORE BOUGHT one. Which leads to fights, and leaving the store empty handed and angry with each other. Now, truth be told, sometimes I can't even buy the fiber for one for that price. Novelty yarns are not cheap and come in tiny 50 gram skeins. That is like 100-200 meters, which is really not very much so you need a heck of a lot of balls of it. But the workmanship, the care, the love that I put into each item just can't compare to that machine knotted thing. Or at least I like to think so. Another thing we can't keep her in is shoes. She has never worn out a pair of shoes before growing out of them. Some pairs were so pristine it was a wonder that they were worn at all. Maybe girls just aren't hard on their shoes? We finally relented and let her pick out a pair of velcro shoes. I have a thing against velcro shoes. I feel it keeps kids from learning how to tie their shoes, which somehow in my mind is an invaluable skill (along with learning to tell time on a real clock with a face and how to make hospital corners when making the bed). Since DD was doing very well in that respect and had INDOOR shoes at school with laces, they wore me down and she got her first pair of velcro closure shoes. The velcro wore out long before she outgrew them. Those shoes cost more than what I pay for my own, and the velcro wore out BEFORE SHE OUTGREW THEM. Sorry. It is still very painful for me, a cheapo at heart that weighs every dollar and tries to get as much as value as I can for each one. Yes, I wrote to the manufacturer and they basically insinuated that I was completely insane for even caring. "Dude, they're kid shoes, get a life". All of these things came to mind, as I sat on that lawn chair with Ruby on my lap, in between conversing with DD ("Yes, mama is watching. Yes I see you hanging there. Yes I see you climbing") and reading my book (Yarn Harlot, The Secret Life of a Knitter). And laughing my arse off intermittently. This is a lady after my own heart. She is hilarious, to be sure. And it doesn't hurt that she is a Canadian ;). If I can find her next two books, I will buy them. No saving them as a special reward, no waiting to list them as a gift idea for a birthday or holiday. If I see them, they are mine. Once again, who needs shoes? Oh, DD does. Well, there goes the mango money. ** still no pics today. My rechargeable batteries have decided they no longer want to live and refuse to recharge. I'll have to *sob* buy new ones. Never mind mango money, there goes the fancy yogurt budget.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
I had dreams last night that my husband was trying to kill me in my sleep by covering my face with a pillow. Not violently, just camly placing a pillow over my face and I could not breathe. Each time, I woke to find that Ruby had pressed her flat face right into mine, and was covering my nose and mouth. I don't know if she was cold, if I had bad breath, or she was trying to keep me from snoring ( am all stuffed up right now). Or perhaps she figured if she bumped me off she could have the pillow all to herself, who knows. I know it was the dog and not my husband, but I still keep looking at him funny today. Once I had a dream that he was chatting up an old girlfriend, a person we both went to school with and had bumped into at the mall. A few nights later, I had the dream. I guess I had some insecurity about her, being an old girlfriend and all. Now, DH never actually did anything wrong. He barely even said hello when we saw her. There were no "sparks", he made no inappropriate comments. It was my dream, and my warped mind that created it. And still, I was mad at him for like two days ROFL! Another time I dreamt that he left DD in the car and she disappeared. I was REALLY mad that time. Poor guy just can't catch a break ;). A few years ago, friends of ours split up. He was having an affair, and told her over christmas dinner. They had just gone on a cruise together to celebrate their 10th anniversary. He had given her diamond earrings. Then he dropped the bomb "I don't love you, I am moving out, I have no desire for custody or visitation of our children" and that was that. Oh, he claimed there was nobody else, and lived in a hotel for about a week. Then he moved in with the pregnant 17 year old girlfriend that he didn't have. It was a shock, they seemed so happy. DH obviously had no part in this. It wasn't like he instigated it, nor even knew it was going on. But he was still in trouble, because he WAS a guy after all. We would be talking and she would tell me another hurtful thing her ex-husband did, and we would cast a glare at DH. He would visibly startle, then say "Hey! I didn't do it!". He does admit, though, that all men are pigs. Some try to deny it, some reject their own yearnings. But bottom line is they are all closet pervs and will do whatever they can get away with. I am a jealous person, sad to say. Not so much I get upset if he looks at somebody else, or admires a picture or something. Heck, I don't even care if he goes on an occasional jaunt to a strip club or looks at porn. But I don't like women paying him attentions, no sir. I can FEEL my nails growing. Especially if I know that this woman is using her wiles on him to GET something. We have a neighbour that does this. She parades around in a thong bikini, poking at her bikini line and asking the crowd of husbands drooling over her to feel and see if she needs another wax yet. Our yards go unkempt, while our husbands are over there crawling around picking crab grass and raking her leaves. Does not go over well at ALL. I pay somebody to mow our lawn because he doesn't do it, I better not catch him over there operating her mower. DH now knows that it is not a good idea to go over there. And he really does hate yard work. The view isn't as good, but he can still see her while sitting on our porch, sipping a beer, and watching the other neighbourhood saps do her bidding for a glimpse of her cleavage. He tells me that fair is fair, and if there is a manly shirtless neighbour I should feel free to watch them do yard work. I say it is NOT fair, since my choices are pastey factory workers that have been married for 10-20 years and think shorts with pulled up sweat socks is a good look. My complaint being of course, that there is nobody around for me to look at, not that he shouldn't look - tee hee! There is the yard-man, but I don't think he counts. I hire him to cut and trim the lawn, pull the weeds, that sort of thing. He is good looking in a muscular, pierced and tattooed sort of way. He is such a nice guy, but I find it hard not to stare while he talks. He has multiple tongue and lip piercings, a tattoo on his neck, and grommets in his ears. I find it unsettling that there is a view through his earlobes. Something in my brain has trouble wrapping around the fact that he knows the latin terms for the plants we have, can figure out a watering schedule, and can yank out bindweed while managing to save the veggies they are wrapped around, when he looks a buff and bald Tommy Lee. DD is transfixed by him, and she stares too. She draws him pictures and makes him cards and wants to bring him drinks of water. I am way too untrusting to leave them alone together, but he is very nice and patient with her when she wants to "help" him do the yard. I think he gets a kick out of her. Just about time to give him a call and work out the arrangements for this year. Hopefully tonight I get some better sleep. And maybe we will get a new tanned buff neighbour to look at this summer. Bwa-ha-ha-ha. Since I am SOOOOO ready for spring, I thought I would post something springy. And also, the battery charger was not working so I still don't have camera batteries. I snuck some pictures on our other camera (which DH thinks is HIS) but was foiled when I realized the card is different and won't fit in my little reader. DRAT. This is DD's closet door. It takes up so much of her room (almost an entire wall) I wanted it to be pretty. Her bed is situated so this is at the foot of it, and she wakes every morning looking at a spring scene. The perspective is off, but some of the individual elements are quite lovely, if I do say so myself. It was the first time I painted a scene on something so BIG. And it is much prettier in person. Some day I might fix up the rose bushes, which I was never happy with. I like the flowers, but the vines are wrong and they are too big relative to the trellis they are on. Oh well!
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Today was a day for unpleasantness. Today was the day, an intervention of sorts, when we were going to make sure it hit home for DH that things are NOT GOING WELL. He was coming to therapy with me. I have asked him before, and he basically said NO. Now was the time for him to understand that 'no' is not a choice. It's either do this, or move out. DH is somewhat of an old fashioned guy. He figures that if he isn't out drinking to all hours, chasing after women, and doesn't beat me then our marriage must be pretty darn good. Try to explain that there are emotional needs - not INTIMATE needs, emotional ones - that need to be met and his eyes glaze over. I have worked hard to get over some past issues, and all in all I think I have done well. See, I learned early on that sometimes people SAY one thing, but mean something else entirely. And that if you watch their body language and expressions, you can discern the real truth. I can do this so well, that if those expressive clues do not match with what is coming out of the mouth, it makes me anxious. I know they are lying to me. DH is one of those people that feels something, but does not express it outwardly. The clues I get are never in line with how he says he feels. So in effect, inside, I feel that he is lying to me and feels directly the opposite. He says he loves me and values me, but his outward expressions do not match that, so he must NOT love me and must NOT value me. The problem here is, DH never learned proper social interaction. He does not smile. He does not inflect. He does not look people in the eye. His posture does not indicate approachability nor friendliness. Many people remark that he is in a bad mood when he really is not. He never learned those nuances of communication. Sometimes it reminds me of a dog that was kept for breeding in a puppy mill, but was never a pet. They don't know how to play. They don't know how to express happiness and have trouble bonding with their new owners after being rescued. They weren't properly socialized and don't know how to be a dog. DH never learned how to be a PERSON. When you are a sensitive reader like I am, that leads to a whole lot of gut wrenching anxiety and buckets of unhappiness. DD is a reader as well. I can see her look at DH and how she reacts to what she thinks she is seeing coming from him. And it broke my heart! It's one thing for me to live in the unhappiness that I chose for myself, but no way am I going to let my daughter grow up and be as crazy as me. I am physically falling apart from stress and anxiety (my eye was twitching so bad I could no longer read, knit, or crochet). DD is getting in trouble and acting up at school, plus misbehaving at home. We are going down a road as a family that can only lead to bad places. Today, I think, we have started towards a new road. DH admitted he had a bit of a turning point when DD and I were away Friday night. Now, he didn't do anything different than if we had been at home. Watched a little TV, sang a little karaoke (oh shut up. Bad singing in the sanctity of our own home is allowed). Ate a snack, then went to bed. But he said the house felt so EMPTY without us there. Then he realized that this is what he is facing. This emptiness was about to become permanent. And he did not want that. He did some soul searching. Maybe his idea of what makes a good husband and father are wrong. Maybe going to work and coming home at night are not enough. Maybe there is more he can be doing. So now, today, we each came away with something. There were tears. There were things neither one of us wanted to hear, shaken in the air like old dusty sheets. And just like with the sheets, there is a residue we are still wearing. Sure, the sheets are cleaner and fresher after shaking, but the dust still hangs in the air. On the way home, we ran an errand. And DH pulled the car over three times, overcome with emotion and thanking the gods that DD and I are giving him a chance to make some repairs. We sat in the car, holding each other and rocking, crying like idiots, and laughing at ourselves as teenagers walked by wondering what the heck was going on in there! He is upset to be sure, but almost relieved - he half expected to hear that I was leaving him for somebody else. And I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders. I was able to communicate my needs, and had validation from a third party when DH claimed to hear something different than what I was saying. So. More drama. And that is okay, because I wouldn't be DancesInGarden without it. No pics today, my batteries are charging (both my emotional and camera ones lol).
Monday, March 27, 2006
Doesn't that sound like some gross thing you would find in the imported aisle of the supermarket? Oooh, Blogger Spam. The folks back home love that stuff. So. What is it with the blogger spam? Thank goodness it is just one or two here and there, but if it gets worse I will have to "moderate" the comments. You can still make comments, but they will be sent to me to be approved before posting to the blog. I don't wanna have to do it, but I despise spam like you would not believe. These days we pay premium dollar for our bandwidth, and I view this as bandwidth theft. There is so much garbage and flotsom and jetsam on the internet, think of how fast and smooth it would go if all this junk was abolished? Rant over, just because I am too lazy to rant more, and it's not like there are people who LIKE spam that need to be convinced. Last night I roasted two chickens for dinner. They looked gorgeous, like a magazine cover. And the temp was right in all parts. But why were some of the joints still bloody? I have been having more trouble with bloody chicken. The meat was cooked perfectly, but I cut it off the bones to serve. Which kind of irked me because I had just wanted to hack the chickens into pieces and serve that way. Plus the veggies on the bottom, despite being in a 400 oven for two hours, were still not done. I always cackle when I see those recipes that say "Add vegetables to pan 30 minutes before serving". I guess if you like raw carrots and potatoes that would be the way to go. I know it is not my oven, I have two thermometers in there that I use to regulate the temperature. And my chicken was never frozen so it wasn't only partially defrosted or anything like that. But how to explain that the leg moves easily and comes off when turned, but the end spurts blood? Blech. Maybe improperly butchered supermarket chickens? I like the big, plump chickens from the fresh market better, but I got started too late for that. I love that, going to the market on a Saturday or Sunday morning, buying chickens and veggies and all the ingredients we need for a nice family meal. The chickens they have there are so plump and so clean, it is like roasting newborn babies. Tee hee! Of course, we had a surprise guest. DH went to get gas and return a movie, and came home with MIL. And of course, my veggies needed extra cooking (I zapped them in the microwave until tender, then threw them back in the oven at 475 to brown). My dark meat was bloody (and we all know, she only eats the dark meat right?). The gravy, however, was a work of art ROFL. I am genetically not able to make good mashed potatoes (which is why the roasted potatoes). I like them fine, but then again I don't mind lumps or brown spots, heck I don't mind the peels in there. But DH and DD are picky about their mashed potatoes (and only like them mashed). Nothing but complaints, so now I don't make them. I figure they are going to complain anyway, and this way it saves me peeling and mashing time. Gravy? I can make gravy (0r sauce) - good enough to drink - out of nothing. What kind of cosmic joke would make me a master gravy maker, but then denies me the ability to make mashed potatoes? "What a shame, all this good gravy and no mashed potatoes to put it on". Bite me. Once we were done eating I chopped up the chicken carcasses (I love that word for some reason. Carcass carcass carcass), threw them back into the roaster, and covered with water. A good long simmer and voila! The best chicken broth one could ask for. I want to make chicken and dumplings so the broth will come in handy. Which was wrong of course, because she wanted what was left to bring to her dog "since the rest was garbage". I got a good three cups of meat off those bones after boiling, plus the broth. Enough for chicken and dumplings and a chicken noodle casserole. How is that garbage? Buy your own chicken to feed your dog, lady. Gawd, it ticks me off to no end. Then they were looking for dessert. I had a frozen cake and a frozen cheesecake so they lucked out. Normally we don't eat dessert and I usually don't have stuff like that on hand. Both were coupon buys, otherwise it would have been an apple each. Of course, I got to hear that real wives/mothers/women make a handmade fresh dessert every day. Apple pie would have gone down nice. I had half a mind to take an apple and smash it into a frozen tart shell and place that in front of her, but I restrained myself. She figures my score was low since my chicken had bloody joints, my potatoes needed extra cooking, and I had frozen dessert. I figure my score is astronomical since I managed two meals (breakfast and dinner) on a Sunday and didn't walk out the front door when DH brought her in. Why do I let it get to me? I get so pressured, why do I even care? And why can't DH understand all of this? What topped off the evening was as she was getting ready for DH to drive her home, she hugged DD and said "Don't worry. Next Sunday I will make stew and you and your daddy can have a GOOD dinner". But I am just being overly sensitive. Ah yes, this is the life. Lying in the "good living room", on a $300.00 Queen Anne chair, in a sunbeam. She looks miserable, but really she isn't. She can be such a lovey bear. A real cuddler. She is also a hand-holder! Lately she has been snuggling in between us at night. Which is fine, but from time to time she reaches out a paw and gives me a SHOVE. I mean hard enought to wake me up. Like she suddenly realizes that I have stopped petting her and fell asleep. WAKE UP AND PET ME! Look at the schmutz face. She just finished drinking so her face is all wet, and she came to me for sympathy (and to wipe her face on me LOLOL). She needs her eyes washed. When she wants something, she gets such a baby face. And those eyes! Bats her eyelashes, and everything.