Mommy Rockpots and the Quest to destroy Thanatos

So, I was chatting it up with my friend Ashley the other day and I may have mentioned some new recipes or some jizz I've been working up in the kitchen and she told me I was like "Better Crocker"; I corrected and said maybe Melonee Rockpots.
"I don't think I would buy food in the store with the label 'Rockpots'."
"Why not? Don't you get it? 'I be rockin' pots...'" That's me getting all colloquial. It comes naturally.
I had to sit back and think about all the meals I have cooked since the bourgie baby has been here and I must say, I have toned it down some and go more for meals that can be accomplished in 29 minutes or less. Beat that Rachel Ray! I may need that extra minute for like, you know...wiping noses, steering her walker away from some inevitable death trap...shit like that.

But what is even more challenging, I cannot promote my full prowess in the kitchen like I used to now that I have a wheeling and dealing baby who aspires to walk more than a blind man wants to see. She scared me the other week while I was preparing her clothes for bath time and I set her in her bed to play with her stuffed lamb we lovingly dubbed Wallace (she also has a chew toy that is some unrecognizable blue monster with gum friendly appendages that we dubbed Gromit - get it?). I hear her gibber jabber something and from the tone of it, I could tell she had did something miraculously mischievous. I turned around and this is what I saw:


She has holding onto the rails and bouncing up and down. What is wrong with this kid! From my studies in philosophy and literary theory, it is quite clear that being a mommy is more about suppressing your child's death drive than actual nurturing...or is that what nurturing is all about? Think about that folks.
Once I got her out of her bed to make myself more comfortable with her desire to stand up and hold up and pull up and topple things, she got down on all fours and acted like she was turtling away from the scene of the crime:

Now I make it my business to create a mountain of pillows on our bed to blockade her roving path of destruction as she juts for the remote, goes on the lam with the jar of vaseline, or perceptively peers over the side of the bed looking for her pacifier that she has jettisoned. The only thing that can keep her in place during the morning as I get ready for work is Blue Clues, the Steve years. We love Steve! I bet you're wondering where he is these days. "Now it's time for so long..."