Klaus? Klaus? The Pinata’s Drooping.

Sorry. I had to do that. I’m easily distracted these days. So, try not to bail on me as I run through random thought theater.

Thought I’d catch you up on the growth and development of the baby. Next week, this little hobbit turns two. Which is amazing, considering it feels like she just debuted a mere week ago. But, two years. Wow.

However, this morning Gert’s cuteness hit an all-time perplexing level.

I was out late last night and managed to somehow disengage the alarm clock so that we over slept. By disengage I mean “broke” and by overslept, I mean “still didn’t bother to get out of bed when everyone else got up.”

Gertrude came into the room when Mom went into the shower.

“I want Oatmeal,” she says.

“Now?”

I want Oatmeal,” she repeats. Her eyes were sad and she was standing there in her jammies looking all cute.

“Okay,” I said. "Let me put some water on."

So I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on and grab a packet of instant oatmeal.

“I want Oatmeal,” Gertrude says again. Now her voice is trembling and her eyes look a little misty.

“I’m working on it. The water has to boil.”

“Now!”

“Look, I have to get it up to 212 degrees and it’s about ten in here this morning. Give me time.”

She starts to fuss and wander around, muttering like a wino looking for a bottle of mad dog.

I take the water off the stove and mix up a packet of oatmeal. All the time I keep thinking, “Damn, she must really be hungry.” I sit her down in her chair, hand her a spoon.

She looks at me, confused. “I want OATMEAL,” she says with a new urgency.

“That is OATMEAL,” I answer, getting irritated. After all, I’ve been up for a full three minutes.

“I want Oatmeal.”

“Then eat the oatmeal,” I say, pushing the bowl towards her.

“No want it! I want Oatmeal.”

I’m thoroughly confused now. So the fight really begins. We start haggling over the oatmeal. She’s crying, I’m threatening to take her out of my will unless she eats the food she requested. It’s like watching a presidential debate and we’re discussing fuzzy math and intelligence failures. We both have throbbing veins in our foreheads.

“I want OATMEAL,” she screams.

Mom walks in and hands Gert a tiny stuffed dog. “Here you go honey.” And then she’s gone.

“Oatmeal,” squeals Gertrude. Smiling she jumps off the chair and goes rambling after mom.

And there I stand in the kitchen, confused, cold and alone.

What the hell just happened? What was going on?

Oatmeal is a flippin’ dog?

Why am I always the last to know?

I'm going back to bed.