Next Stop: Batty

Pox Revisited

2011-08-16T08:13:00.000-07:00

(Republished from 2006 because you didn't read it the first time, did you? Hmmm???)

Chicken Pox, Baby! We thought we had thwarted them with the miracle of modern medicine, and then they showed up anyway, ready to PAR-TAY! Taylor, then 7, told me her ear itched. Well, lots of people's ears itch from time to time, don't they? I mean, is it written in the Good Mommy handbook that you have to drop everything every time one of your kids has an ITCH? Lord, when I THINK of all the things that have itched around here...

So, her ear itched. I didn't think much of it. Next day, it still itched. I looked at it. It was red. I slathered stuff on it. Next day, the other ear itched. "What we have here," I announced, "Is an allergic reaction to some new shampoo, soap, or hat." Taylor gently reminded me that we didn't have new shampoo, new soap, or a new hat. But since the alternative theory was that my ear-scratchin' daughter had fleas, some part of me chose the allergy theory; it had a nice, clean ring to it. Slathered stuff on the offending ears -- with love. And, ummm... sent her to school. (Oh, stuff it -- like YOU never made a mistake in YOUR life!)

I did actually plan to pick her up early from school and take her in to the doctor that afternoon, but the doctor's office put me on hold, and I couldn't go into Target without losing the connection, so... I hung up on the doctor and chose Target. Hey! I was on hold for a long time, Sister! I was on hold so long that by the time I got the appointment, I bet school would have been over anyway. I mean, rashes come and rashes go, but those end-of-season sales are a get-'em-while-supplies-last kind of a thing. Wrapping paper, 99 cents. See my position?

Next day, ears itching, neck and face itching, doctor can see us at 11:45.

Here's the problem with doctors today: they make so much money, you can't even BRIBE them anymore. I mean, I offered that doctor $50 NOT to tell me it was chicken pox and she LAUGHED at me! Very funny. And what about your nice VACCINE, Doc...HMMMM? What the heck happened? And by the way, I'm no expert, but those don't even LOOK like Chicken Pox to me. Don't you think it could be some sort of allergic reaction...maybe to a...hat?

The problem with doctors today is they think they're some sort of EXPERT.

It's never a good sign when they fumigate the exam room after you leave and tape that yellow CAUTION stuff over the door.

So, it turned out that everyone on the PLANET but me knew that innoculated kids can still get the Pox. A watered-down version, though. Remember when WE had it? You know what the average number of lesions was? 300 to 400. Holy avian itchies! I can still smell the Calamine. Taylor only had 20 or so. She was still very uncomfortable and I still felt bad for her, but I had to fight like hell not to say, "You call that the CHICKEN POX?! Hah! That's nothing. I SPIT on your chicken pox! When I had it, I was so itchy, Nana wrapped my hands with duct tape and chained me to the bed to keep me from scratching! And we didn't have your Cherry Flavored Benedryl, either. No! We didn't need no stinkin' Benedryl. It was hell. I still have the scars. Wanna see them?"

So, there we were. Kid felt fine except for the itchin', yet she was contageous as all hell and I guessed as a responsible adult, I was supposed to make that MY problem and keep her home from school all week. That's what the doctor said (despite a SECOND generous offer of cold hard cash). If you ask me, this is why the vaccine was developed in the first place: to save us from having to stay home with our infected kids. And here was the rub (or the scratch) -- we were really just stuck with each other, she and I. No playdates. No restaurants. No errands. No Blockbuster. No trips to the liquor store to get mommy some good stiff stuff. No, little miss Typhoid Taylor was quarrantined and therefore, pass the Ben and Jerry's, so was I.

Actually, at the time, Super Pox Girl had a crunchy, lefty, Waldorf school and natural fibers mommy who almost never let her watch TV (I told her it rotted her brain while I counted the hours until I could plop my widening ass and fully rotted brain in front of that week's Project Runway.) Anyway, she was MAJORLY tv-deprived, so all I had toen do was declare open season, and that Partridge Family lunchbox on ebay could've be MINE before I heard from her again.

EXCEPT... by Tuesday, she was TV cranky, and by Wednesday, she was done...D-O-N-E... with tv, computer, playing in the street, etc. Now, this seven-year-old was generally wonderful. She was a joy. She listened and behaved and all that other stuff which will no doubt contribute to her body-piercing, pot smoking REBELLION later on. So, I liked having her around. The problem was she didn't really like having ME around. Well, that's not quite right. She liked me. I was her Mommy. I smeared stuff on her Pox and made her grilled cheese -- AGAIN. But she was, like, REALLY SMART (not enough TV), and keeping her occupied meant having to be able to...you know... THINK and stuff. Who wanted to do THAT day in and day out?

I tried. I really did. I got her some new...what do you call those things?...BOOKS. I broke out a new LEGO set I had been saving for that someone-has-an-oozing-communicable-virus kind of a day. These new LEGOs, by the way! SO COOL! There are all sorts of tiny two-way hinges and ORANGE pieces and eyes and WINGS. Love 'em. We played with those until we hated them. We looked up ATOMS and MOLECULES on the internet because she wanted to know if atoms were really moving around in our Silestone counter top. And really...WHO THE HELL KNOWS? I mean, I GUESS so. Atoms are the building blocks of life -- or the circle of life (no, that's Disney)...or the building blocks of matter...or of manmade kitchen surfaces, I suppose. It broke my heart to see her give up on her mommy's lame-ass explanation and resort to staring at the countertop, hoping to catch an atom moving. We made Jell-o. We took the dog for a walk and squinted against the sun as we felt it warming our now-pasty skin. But eventually, I just ran out of steam. I didn't know what to do, and she didn't know what to do, and we pretty much hit bottom when my poxed petunia sat crumpled on the family room floor wailing: "Oh WHY CAN'T I CRY?? I WANT TO CRY!! BUT I CAN'T!"

That's it. Big gun time. Finally, I announced, "Taylor, we are going to decorate the treehouse." We got out of our jammies and put on those CLOTHES thingies. Loaded up the wagon with whatever seemed cool-treehouse-ish. I got out the power tools (and let me tell you -- it takes A LOT for me to do that). Hooked up three extension cords and headed out to the world's greatest treehouse (built mainly by my dad and surely visible from space).

Here's Taylor's cool "ancient" treasure map showing treehouse and treasure.

God, we had fun. We put peacock feathers in a flower pot. Hung a big orange-framed print on the wall. Suspended those plastic dudes with the tangled parachutes from the ceiling. Made pegs from twigs and hung canteens on 'em. Installed a xylophone and a bell shaped like a pegasus. Fashioned a perch for a stuffed parrot I had bought at a yardsale (HAD to have it). Screwed this little gumball machine thingy to the treehouse table (otherwise, it'll find its way to the woods and anthropologists will find it in the year 2278 and think its some sort of incubator or primitive transporter or something). My girl was BEAMING. She was giddy. She learned how to change the bits on a power drill. She told me she could imagine staying in the treehouse forever.

The child could stay in the treehouse forever.

Smiling as I remember that day: the laundry sat soggy and molding in the washer, the dishes didn't get done, and we had leftovers and frozen veggies for dinner. And I had a GREAT day at work.

Yes, The Posts Below are OLD, but...

2011-08-16T06:58:00.000-07:00

...some of them are still worth a chuckle, so READ ON. I plan to re-vamp (this means I "vamped" before? How cool and vaguely racy!) and start writing again. Took time off to start a company, run it, sell it, move to South Carolina, where I am well and truly LOST-O-LA. Stay tuned. This oughta be good.

Artist Trading Cards!!

2006-04-19T17:01:00.000-07:00

My friend, Kate, has gorgeous red hair. That has nothing to do with this post, actually, but I intend to say nice things about Kate periodically because she's one of the six people who READ MY BLOG -- religiously. And here's another nice thing about her: she makes "crack potatoes." That's what one friend calls Kate's cheesy potato casserole because once you take a bite, your life becomes all about GETTING MORE. Damn that Kate, damn her! If only I had never tasted the crack potatoes!

And while we're on crack (well...not ON crack, but you know...), here's a little narcotic that my other pusher, Shelley, laid on me last week: ARTIST TRADING CARDS (ATCs). Oh, sweet Mary and Joseph, save me from the artist trading cards!

They work like this: people create little pocket-sized works of art, and then trade them all over the country (or the world?). Each piece must be the size of a baseball card, pokemon card, or other trading card (3.5"x2.5"), and anything goes. Photos, collages, paintings, drawings, doodles, etc... Here's the best part: the only way to get one of these little gems is to TRADE another little card for it for it. One can surf the web and fascinate oneself with as many cards as one likes, but one must break out one's CRAYONS (or whatever) to actually acquire an ATC.

It took me approximately five seconds to decide to make one. My girls and I used to play a game where one person makes a simple scribble on a page, and the other person has to find a picture in it and develop that picture. We've made some pretty whacky stuff. So, I decided to make my first cards using the scribble technique. Each card started as a scribble. It's a great way to let go and stop thinking so much. I love it when I don't have to think!

I had completed about a half dozen goofy cards when my girls (5 and 8) announced they wanted them (my biggest fans, those two!). "Well," I explained, "You can only get these by trading them. You have to make some cards."

GREAT! They loved the idea, and the three of us lost hours and days working on these little scribble masterpieces. Creating and trading original art with my girls -- what in the world could be better? I think my 8-year-old may even recycle some of her infernal Pokemon cards and cover 'em with tradable art. This makes Mommy happy. Makes Mommy want more. Damn crack cards.

(This is Carly's "Magic Window.")

Steve, who provided me with some of my scribbles, says he is going to have to make some cards because the girls keep getting his favorite ones of mine. If that guy sticks with me long enough, he'll be an artist yet! And if I keep working on his politics, why...he could be perfect before long.

You can find out a bunch about ATCs here. Or, google it. These cards provide a nice impetus to spend just 10 or 15 minutes doing something creative.

Taylor's "Dude."

I haven't traded any cards outside of my home yet. Want one you see here? MAKE ME A CARD! Fun, fun, fun.

I know! Why don't you come over? We can invite Kate, and she can bring her potato casserole. We can make art and get fat on cheese and potatoes together. Like smokin' crack, only WAAAY better.

10 Times I Refrained From Cursing

2006-04-07T07:35:00.005-07:00

Man, am I good. You don't even know how good. I have only said f---ing in front of my children once. One time. In a restaurant. In the midst of telling the adults at the table a story. I just forgot the kids were there! Oooo...it did not look good. But that was once. ONCE. My friend Bonnie was there. She was thoroughly aghast. But she, of all people, ought to know what a challenge it has been for me, this parenthood-induced clean language thing. I like the F word (sorry, Mom). It's a good word. I like almost all of the other words, too. But now that I'm a parent, I don't use them anymore. Even at night, when they're in bed, I'm so used to being clean that I forget to cuss. I just carry right on with the "darns" and the "dangs," and for no good reason. I call that reformed.

And if that doesn't impress you, here are some recent occasions on which I did not curse:

1. When dinner was really, really late because the dog ran away and we had to chase his ummm... doggie buttocks... all over the neighborhood, and then I dropped the entire pepper mill into the pot of boiling pasta water, thereby splashing scalding water onto myself -- and then, like an idiot, REACHED INTO said boiling water to retrieve the fudgety-fudge-fudge-fudging thing.

2. When the same dadgum dog ate three pounds of home-made BLUE play-dough and vomited NINE TIMES throughout the house. Yes.

3. The most recent of approximately 678,499 times that my 5-year-old has grabbed my breast as if it were a doorknob. And yes, it was during my period. It's as if she 'd like to check first: "Mommy, are your breasts tender today? Great! Let me at 'em!"

4. When I mistakenly shampooed with hand lotion at the Savannah, GA Marriott. And then had to spend the day -- sporting my fetching aloe vera and lanolin hair -- with Steve's family.

5. When they bumped Desperate Housewives for the olympics, and then it turned out to be pairs ice dancing, of all things. Pairs ice dancing all by itself is enough to bring a person to cuss. And if you don't watch Desperate Housewives and do watch pairs ice dancing, get off my blog. I've had it with you, Missy.

6. That time George Bush opened his mouth -- pick one.

7. When I saw that huge pile of horse poo-poo at Historic Williamsburg MILISECONDS too late, and Carly stepped squarely in it. Then, she grabbed my breast to steady herself while she lifted her foot in order -- not to scrape the sh-t off, but to gleefully smell it. It was, after all, the best flirking thing that happened to that child all day.

8. When our premium got raised because of those people who I rear-ended on Reisterstown Road back in October. At about -2 miles an hour. We were STOPPED at a red light, and then the light changed and they started to go and then they stopped. So really, they front-ended me! In their piece of ka-ka car. And puh-lease. There was no damage to their car. Their was no damage to their persons. (If you're reading this, you mean Reisterstown Road people, shame on you! It's not nice to lie. God was watching, and I pretty much hope you burn in H-E-double toothpicks!) And our insurance company PAID OUT seven THOUSAND dollars to these people. (See how FLAT that is?? You really need the F-word in there, just between "these" and "people.") (And come to think of it, you really need one between "thousand" and "dollars," too.) Okay, this whole jerks-who-I-rear-ended-and-why-I-should-have-left-the-scene-
of-the-accident is a blog post for another day.

9. 2:30 PM, one kid sick, other kid waiting at school, and the car won't start. And nary a cuss from me. I know. I have already ordered my halo from Amazon.

10. I have to strike the following dirty words from my vocabulary as well: don't spill it. Why? because when I utter the words, "Don't spill it," THEY SPILL IT. Most recently, blue gatorade, strategically spilled on the couch in such a way so as to hit not one, not two or three, but FOUR cushions. Four. Flippin'. Cushions.

Now, enough with the words about dirty words. Here are some nice words. You know the four cushions with the blue gatorade? Guess who took care of that mess. Steve. What a giving, thoughtful, selfless, rockin' thing to do. Makes me think of another F word I like -- one that really looks good on my dog chasin', shoe-poo scrapin', gatorade scrubbin' guy: Father.

Twenty Things...

2006-03-24T04:40:00.000-08:00

Dear Taylor and Carly,

Here are 20 things I want you to know about me:

1. I have reported for a newspaper, edited a magazine, helped to run a non-profit, secured many hundreds of thousands of dollars in grant money, taught writing to high school and college students, sung in a professional choir, counseled college students on academics and life, and managed a staff of 40 and a budget of $500,000. And when I quit this last one to raise you, I began the most difficult, most important, most wonderful job of all. No kidding.

2. In high school, my best two friends won "Queen" and "Miss Congeniality" in a pageant I didn't enter. And then they stood in their crowns on my front porch, and told me they didn't want me to go with them to the fair. And it really, really hurt.

3. I married my very best friend, and if you ever choose a life partner, I hope you will do the same.

4. I struggle with trying new things because I don't like change. But every single great thing that has ever happened to me came just after I stepped off some cliff or another. I want you to take risks in life. Do the thing that scares you most. Otherwise, why are you here?

5. When I really lose my temper and yell at you, I know it scares you, and I always say I'm sorry. But that sure isn't good enough for me. So I also say a silent prayer, asking for the strength to be an adult for you (no matter how silly an adult!) -- an adult who can get angry without getting scary. God and I, we're working on that.

6. It took me 37 years (and counting) to truly learn the following: sometimes you have to do what you don't want in order to get what you do want.

7. I never, ever had thin thighs. But the thighs I have are me. I love 'em. Treat your body nice. LOVE it. It'll love you back.

8. I always have a better day if I build in at least 30 minutes to do something creative.

9. I completed a 20K race when I was 28. Your dad and I trained in the rain and through the cold winter. We often ran before the sun came up, or after it went down. We often ran instead of doing what we really wanted to do, because we wanted to be prepared. That race is one of my favorite memories. The experience taught me that I can do just about anything I decide to do.

10. I am going to write a book one day that will get published and lots of people will read it. Dream big, girlies.

11. I am a sailor, and always will be, even if I never set foot on another sailboat. Water, wind, and waves are in my blood. What is in your blood? Be who you are.

12. I always wanted to be a famous Broadway star. Sometimes, when I'm alone in the car and singin' to a soundtrack, I still pretend I am one. Singing uses my body and my brain in a way that makes me feel supremely alive.

13. When I was a teen, I thought if I could JUST have the hair that Shelly Franco had and the clothes that Sue Trifoso had, I would be happy. I thought no one understood that. It wasn't that my folks didn't understand; they just knew I was wrong. Looks and clothes really don't make people happy. But it can be hard to believe that when you're a teen, I know...

14. At bedtime, when I lie with you and say nothing, I am really just waiting for you to talk. These are the times when you really tell me things. And I work so hard to just listen without trying to fix, or teach, or correct. These are the times I hope you'll remember, and keep telling me things. I'll listen. And if you ask me to, I'll listen without saying a thing in response.

15. There are so many times when I am in awe of you. God gave you both such HUGE spirits. Taylor, the way you try despite your fear or misgivings knocks me out -- every time. Carly, the way you try despite other people's warnings and nay-saying makes me more proud than you'll ever know.

16. I make lots and lots and lots of mistakes. Some of them, I can fix. Some of them, I can't. Some of them are small, and some are big. One time, after a really big one I couldn't fix, I ended up in a church in Salzburg, Austria. It was a toursit attraction, but there were no other tourists there. I was tired from all my mistaking, so I laid down on a pew. And then, some nuns began singing the most beautiful simple music I have ever heard. I couldn't see them because they stood behind screens, but their music reminded me that God loves me no matter what mistakes I make, and I can always start again. And when you make a really big mistake (you will, you will), God's not the only one who will keep loving you -- your dad and I will, too.

17. I'm not big on churches, but God is the real deal for me. That old kids' grace says it all: God is good. Where you see goodness around you, and it moves your heart, that ain't no accident. That's what I think.

18. Sometimes, you and I have big adventures, like building a treehouse or going to the ocean. But the simple times -- when we're washing the car and spraying each other with the hose, or drawing pictures together, or cleaning our rooms and finding old memories, or watching a toad, or snuggling the dog -- that's when I think to myself, "yep...this is exactly where I want to be, and right now I have everything I'll ever need."

19. I have written these things down to show that I'm just a person, like you. I have been a kid, and made mistakes, and had hurt feelings, and nurtured big dreams. Just like you. You're not alone. Your mama has been there.

20. I love you more than anything else in this world.

Love,

Mommy

I hope Michelle, from "la vie en rose...A Sweet Life" will be flattered, and not offended, that I was so moved by her letter to her own children, that I decided to try it myself. And thanks to my sis, Shelley, for showing me Michelle's letter in the first place.

On Lemonade Stands

2006-03-17T16:26:00.000-08:00

My feeling is this: the more lemonade stands, the better. This one started out with a bag of broken costume jewelry I had picked up at a thrift store for $2. When I presented it to the girls, they immediately divided the booty, each picking a piece in her turn. With the pieces and some beads and yarn, they decided to make "new" jewelry. Since it gave me time to empty the dishwasher and clean the counters -- and only cost $2 -- I was loving this activity.

Until...they announced their intention to sell their creations from the end of the driveway. As I surveyed their sparkling array -- necklaces of broken earring parts and purple plastic beads -- my heart sank a little. How was I going to break it to my budding artists that no one was going to pay money for this stuff?

Shame on Mommy. Letting cynicism get the better of me like that.

Luckily, I decided to hold my tongue when the jewelry sale idea came up. Held it again when my little entrpreneurs priced their creations at up to $1 -- EACH!

Together, and without my help, they lugged two little tables and two chairs out to the front yard, carefully laid out their wares, advertised prices, and set up our play cash register. Then, they sat. Noon on a Tuesday. This was not going to go well. I had visions of helping them lug everything back inside in a matter of 20 minutes, and began crafting a "these will make great Christmas presents" consolation speech.

But Lo! A customer! Dawn, a friend and neighbor on her way home in her minivan, pulled over, God bless her, and bought a necklace or two. What a sweetie. The girls were beside themselves. Then, someone else stopped. Later, they ran inside to grab snacks and to make keychains for their prospective male customers (and a delivery truck driver did go for that). I brought out some lemonade to make the picture complete, and before we knew it, the time was 2 PM and students were walking home from the nearby high school.

I have to say, seeing the teen set in their low-rider jeans and their Abercrombie tees stop to chat with the girls and to remark at how "cute" they were boosted my hope and faith in humanity. The track team ran by and lamented that they had no cash on them, so the girls made a sign: "Lemonade FREE for runners." Positive community relations. Good longterm business strategy.

Some adult walkers said they'd stop by on their return trip. My little one said they could do credit if they wanted, since the red plastic cash register had a slot for cards. Gotta love that kid. She later hand-picked a necklace for our neighbor, Dan, to give to his wife, Diane. He got away with that necklace and 2 cups of lemonade for a mere $2. Diane later called to let the girls know how much she liked her necklace. That woman has two small boys and is about to have another one, and she took time out to call. So did Dawn. The truck driver who bought the keychain claimed he didn't have the right change and insisted the girls take $3. Meanwhile, our dog ran away and they boy across the street helped us catch him. When I gave the boy (our babysitter's brother) $5 for his trouble, he promptly spent it at the girls' sale.

And this is what lemonade stands teach all of us, isn't it: kids can do anything they set their hearts to, and there will always be good people around to cheer them on. I have always had a complete inability to pass a lemonade stand by -- now, I know why. It wasn't the lemonade; it was all the sweetness that came with it.

On Tomboys and DELURKING

2006-03-01T14:41:00.000-08:00

Is there another word for "tomboy?" I've got one of them there tomboys, and the term is supremely irritating to me (because it grants implicit weight to the notion that there are certain activities, likes, and sensibilities that are "normally" reserved for boys, and certain ones that are for the girls). What a load of pink plastic ka-ka that doubles as Positively Peach lip gloss! Toys R Us even has it all separated out by aisle. McYuk's gives out "girl toys" and "boy toys" (though not the GOOD kind of "boy toy.") And just take note of this for the next 3 or 4 visits to the golden arches: the "girl toys" are nearly ALWAYS passive, and the boy toys nearly always DO stuff. What the hell is up with that? Makes me want to confiscate the toys the minute they enter the car, take them back OUT of the car, and place them squarely under the front tires. I know, if I were a better feminist/ pissed off consumer, I wouldn't even go to Micky D's, and yes, I read Fast Food Nation and yes, I saw Supersize Me. And, in truth, I take my kids maybe 5 times a year. It's because the Happy Meal really does make them happy, damn it! And a chocolate shake is quite a nice pick-me-up for Mommy.

My girl likes space, and climbing trees, and knights, and swords, and bugs, and snakes, and danger, and spies, and forts, and exploring, and rock collections, and jokes about farts, and pants, and snowball fights, and performing magic, and superheroes. How awesome is that? But she kind of...umm...stuck out a bit at school, where most of her female peers were being raised on Lizzy McGuire, Cinderella, and MAKE-UP (for crying out loud), and felt they knew what a girl should be...and it wasn't snakes and snails. When we moved our girls to a Waldorf school -- where kids aren't supposed to watch TV or videos, or play on the computer -- my little "tomboy" suddenly looked and acted a lot like the other girls in her class -- girls who were getting mud on the knees of the corduroys and just being seven year old KIDS.

Pardon my French, but what the (insert French expletive) are we DOING to our fabulous, strong girls??? I know...I also have a girl that was born to love dolls and twirly velvet dresses. And she wasn't socialized to be the soft, frilly way she is. God just picked that for her. But God ain't gonna make her no PRINCESS when she hits puberty, and he ain't gonna give her an 18" waist or perpetually shiny hair, or impossibly perfect skin, or enough money so she can SIT ON HER ROYAL ASS for a living. And really, what else do these Disney princesses have going for them? I mean, with the possible (yet flimsy) exception of Mulan, what have any of these sparkly bitches done for us lately? And Barbie, too. Barbie can kiss my fuming ass. When girls are "playing Barbies," does anybody save anybody? Teach anybody anything? Discover anything? Solve anything? Earn anything? Does Barbie do anything? No. How can she, with those molded high-heeled feet?!? We want our girls to be her?? Really??? I'd sooner have my girls learn about gravity and aerodynamics with her by pitching her and her capris off a ten story building. And on the flip side, the boy "action figures" (at least they have "action" built in...) save lots of people, but they usually do it by blowing things up. Go figure. Where would the boys get the idea to destroy things? Could it be the various weapons that come with the dolls?

Okay, I can't decide if I feel better now, or more upset.

And speaking of upset, if you people don't start commenting (delurking) so that I know anyone is reading this I swear I'm gonna hit the Ben and Jerry's, and that is not a good thing. I mean, if just, oh, six or seven people were reading my thoughts on vomit and bear shit, I would feel so validated. This is SOLID STUFF, people. My husband, who wants to get laid, even said so. And I fixed the comment moderator thingy so anyone can comment at any time. And I'm not bluffing about the ice cream. I have fatty foods, and I'm not afraid to use 'em.

So, go ahead, stick up for Barbie and Belle...or slam 'em! And let's come up with an alternative to "tomboy." It'll be fun.

Bad Bear! Bad, BAD BEAR!

2006-02-26T06:28:00.000-08:00

Friends #27 and #28 (Kathy and John) came last week for a sleepover -- brought their kids, their dog, a big bottle of red, and Kathy's prize-winning apple chocolate cake. Oh my, oh my, that cake was good. But even better than the cake was the following story:

Kathy and John met in Mexico while trying to save the world. They fell in love, got married, and went on a posh and pampered honeymoon in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. Yeah, nothing says young love like the buzz of a mosquito in your ear and a complete and utter lack of SHOWER facilities.

Actually, I think the honeymoon in the wildreness thing is a pretty cool testament to the strength of their relationship. Steve and I would have ended up with an annulment. Did I ever tell you about our second anniversary when we went canoeing in the New Jersey Pine Barrons? Yeah. Portaged most of the way due to drought. Bumped into 83 Boy Scouts in 25 canoes -- and never shook 'em. Sprayed gallons of bug spray in an effort to rid ourselves of pine flies -- only to find out that the little f---ers LOVE bug spray. And somehow -- I don't know how -- it was all Steve's fault. Oh, how I LOATHED that man! (Loathed him for a good 5 to 10 minutes when the only way to discourage the flies was to build a fire, and we discovered that the Scouts, like a plague, had stripped the land of every stick, log, dry leaf or shred of bark which could have been used to feed a fire. I wanted to burn the boys themselves, but Steve wouldn't let me and oh, how I loathed him for it.)

But I digress. So, there are Kathy and John, canoeing and camping in Minnesota, bathed in the warm glow of newlywed bliss. The waters are sparkling, the birds are singing...the bears are watching. Yes, BEARS. Gotta love the bears on the honeymoon. Apparently, bears are certifiable PESTS in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wildreness. On their way in, Kathy and John were advised by Mr. Safe-In-My-Little-Green-Hut Park Ranger to treat the bears like pests. Shoo them, yell at them, scare them, make them go away.

Am I the only one who thinks "shooing bears" is a super bad idea? I mean, do they just hand out the Park Ranger credentials to anyone willing to wear the funny hats and the knee socks with the elastic holder-uppers? Shoo the bears. They're not squirrels; they're BEARS. And "scare the bears." Please. Let me see...bears = big, carnivorous dudes with many teeth and property rights. Kathy and John = THE OTHER WHITE MEAT. Yeah, I can just imagine all the bears shaking in their big, black, furry, spectacularly clawed boots.

But I digress. So, guess what happened? Yep. Kathy and John smooched and paddled and smooched and paddled until it was time to find a spot to camp for the night. A cursory inspection showed no signs of bears in their chosen little love nook. One is supposed to look for claw marks on the tree trunks and bear scat on the ground, says Mr. Oh-So-Helpful-In-The-Funny-Hat. If this story were about me? The statement, "If you don't see claw marks on the trees, you're probably okay," would lead me straight to the Marriott, please pass the key to the minibar.

But our intrepid explorers, Kathy and John, are snuggled in for the night in their nylon (i.e. NOT bear proof) tent, when SHOCKINGLY, they hear noises outside. They take a peek and WONDER of WONDERS! It's a BEAR! Now, it's that special time in the honeymoon when we "shoo the bear" and "make the bear go away." So they yelled at the bear from inside their tent. But the bear, being... oh, A BEAR... was not dissuaded by the little talking drumsticks in the little tent. That bear went right on helping himself to Kathy and John's pack, which was hoisted up in a tree for better bear access. That's when Kathy saw the bear going after the Snickers bar stash, and something inside her snapped. My friend Kathy then RUSHED THE BEAR, "Bad Bear, Bad Bear!," and GRABBED THE FOOD FROM THE BEAR, "Bad, bad bear!," and then HIT THE BEAR. At this point the poor bear, appropriately chastized, took off...

...only to return later, prompting a very naked, very white John to CHASE THE BEAR through the woods with his spikey red hair and his skinny, glow-in-the-dark butt.

The next morning, a slightly more thorough inspection of the campsite revealed trees with more claw marks than actual bark, and enough bear poop to sink a ship. They had camped in the heart of Bear Central and had lived to tell the tale, Snickers intact.

If you didn't LOVE this story, drink a liter of red wine and read it again.

Postcard from the Barfbucket

2006-02-25T06:20:00.000-08:00

Sorry to be so long between posts; was busy barfing my way through our florida vacation. YES!

Now, believe it or not, I have quite a few thoughts on the subject of barfy vacations. Where to begin...

First of all, there's my new earthshattering theory of human behavior: we have an irrational need to know. When your five year old -- all dressed in her new Target bathing suit and smothered in sunscreen -- blows all over the white diningroom carpet of your parents' rental condo, what's the first thing you do? Comfort the child? Grab the carpet spray? Curse the vacation Karma gods who just keep stickin' it to ya'? NO! You take a rather longish gander at the vomit, of all things. In the blink of an eye, you are running a mental list of what you have fed the child, and are actually attempting to identify the contents of the substance by size, shape and color. Others have gathered around and are also rubber necking the hazmat spill. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, they begin to offer theories on the concoction:

"I think that's the ham. Was the ham old?"

"No, that's not ham...it's too thick. That's just bread. And bananas."

"Bananas are not that color."

"Yeah, but things change color in your stomach; you can't go by color."

"She didn't eat any bananas. Did you eat bananas, Dear? She didn't eat any bananas."

And later, on the occasion of the child's second Jackson Pollack treatment of the carpet, the scientific commentary continues:

"Now THAT'S not ham, either."

"That's just fluid."

"What did she drink that's pink?"

"Well, that's probably watered-down red. What did she drink that was red? Did you drink something red, Dear?"

Maybe this is all born of some nurturing instinct -- we are trying to assess the situation so as to better treat and cure the child. Except, really, is there such a broad range of approaches to the treatment of a barfing child? It's pretty much Get a bucket and then Don't feed the child anything or Don't feed the child anything and then Get a bucket. No matter what the color of the vomit, the overall goal is going to be NOT to produce any more of it. Oh, yeah, and clean the carpet.

In the end, I don't think it has anything to do with the care or feeding of the beast. We look because we can't help it. Picture this: you're in a crowd, and someone farts. You know someone has farted because others are now protesting said fartage, frantically fanning the air with their hands, pointing and laughing, etc... But miraculously, you don't smell the offending emission right away. AND NOW, time stands still. You cannot move, converse, or otherwise participate in the gathering until you have smelled the fart. You must. Smell. The Fart. You actually send your nose into overdrive -- sniffing and snuffing in hopes of catching a passing whiff. And when it comes -- as it invariably does -- Holy Gasmasks, Batman! It's disgusting! Your eyes water, and you want to die. How could any self-respecting adult have befouled the air thus? But you just had to smell it, didn't you?

We have an innate need to view the vomit and smell the farts. Don't say you don't, because you do. I'm just puttin' it out there, no extra charge.

Also, a question for the philosophers among you: When a child begins erupting like Vesuvius all over your family vacation, and you're the mommy, is it better just to catch the damn bug or dodge the bullet? Not that one can control such things, but I think I'm gonna have to vote for going the sick-as-a-dog route.

Yes, it's Florida and the condo is ON THE BEACH and the temperature is 83 degrees and you bought a new tankini, but let's think about this rationally. A HEALTHY mommy really needs to get on her hands and knees and at least make a show of helping to clean the white carpets. But Barfy Mommy gets to go lie down. Healthy Mommy skips the beach to stay with the sick child because of the FOUR adults on the scene, Mommy is the only one deemed acceptable by Clingy, Whiny, Barfy Child. Barfy Mommy skips the beach, too, but is too feverish to care for CWBC, so an ADDITIONAL ADULT is assigned the task. I mean, how beautiful is THAT?!? Healthy Mommy's vacation mornings are...just like all the other mornings. She has to get her vacationing ASS up with the kids, pour the juice, dole out the vitamins, oversee the toothbrushing, beg people to eat things, apply two gallons of sunscreen, find the goggles and the flip-flops, etc... Barfy Mommy stays in bed on her vacation mornings because she's...you know...BARFY.

And then there's the obvious: Barfy Mommy is still white as a sheet at the end of her vacation, but she IS inarguably skinnier. What more can I ask?

All in all, it was a very nice trip. Next year, I'm hoping for something nasty that comes with laryngitis so that in addition to lying in bed all week, I can avoid actually speaking to anyone.

My Waldorf School Kids Are Just So WEIRD

2006-02-11T07:16:00.000-08:00

Heard from the peanut gallery in the backseat of the minivan:

Taylor (7): Okay...pick a game. You have to pick a game first. Space Galaxy Battle or Finding Fishies?

Carly (5): Space Battle.

Taylor: Space GALAXY Battle.

Carly: Yeah.

Taylor: Click here for Space Galaxy Battle.

Carly: Okay.

Taylor: Okay, Go!!

Carly: Aaaargh! Bam! Bam! Ahhhhh!

Taylor: Okay. Pause it. Pause it! You have to use the mouse to move left and right, okay? Ready, go! No, faster! Get that guy! Get him! Get him! Use the super fuel button!

Both: Yeah!!! Whooo-peee!

Taylor: Now, it's my turn.

Carly: Okay, just let me close this down. Click! There.

Taylor: Okay.

What happened here? Did Mommy give in on the electronics and media thing? Did alfalfa-chompin'-TV-bannin'-progress-shunnin'-ME relent and purchase the dreaded GAME BOY??

Hell, no. But years of deprivation have obviously and irretrievably twisted my children. They now play hand-held computer games in the backseat of the car using...a plastic green baby wipes box. God, they're weird. And God, I'm proud.

Ladies and Gents, here's my battle cry: toss the TV. Cut the computer. Defy the Disney tide. And you, too, can have wonderfully weird kids, like mine.

Musical Meme

2006-02-08T14:25:00.000-08:00

Well, "She Who Must Be Obeyed," (Betsy, who writes My Whim Is Law ) has tagged me to do my very first meme. Isn't that cute? Mama's taking off the training wheels (or the gloves, or the skirt or something).

Brief aside for those who, like me, are just clawing out from under a rock: a "meme" seems to be a prescribed writing challenge which involves listing aspects of one's life/personality, etc... Memes are used in a tag-like game; a person completes the assignment, and then passes it on to others.

The challenge: List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

1. Aerosmith, Pink. I just like tough rocker Steven Tyler growling the words "pink" and "flamingo." No, it's not my favorite color, but the tune makes me happy, and happy mama = ain't nobody gonna die tonight. And my kids like it because they think they understand it (which they totally do NOT).

2. Eminem, Mosh. Rap is great for running to if you've been on a diet, like, your whole damn life, and you're never gonna ever ever EVER have thin thighs, and you want to send out a big "fuck you" to diets and the fact that you care about thin thighs so much in the first place. Mosh has the added bonus of taking me back to when the video came out, like a week before the election, and Bush must have been having fits all over the Oval office. I smile every time I think about it -- honest!

3. Capella Gregoriana, Gregorian Chants. My 5-year-old has gotten into the habit of having these playing in her room when she falls asleep. I like hearing them when I go in to snuggle her good-night. The music makes the moment feel so sacred -- which, of course, it is.

4. The Diane Rehm Show theme song on NPR. It's 10 AM, I've just driven my kids to everlovin' mars to attend the Baltimore Waldorf School (so it was really Baltimore we went to, not Mars...same difference). Now I'm looking at several hours to myself -- all strung together, and Diane is a' talkin'. God, I love Diane Rehm. I might marry her one day. It doesn't even matter what she's talking about; it's what she's not talking about. See, Diane is a grown-up and she's talking to ME about stuff OTHER THAN not wanting any more salami sandwiches in her lunch, needing additional Pokemon cards (especially Shining Charizard), and wanting to watch TV (can she, please? huh? can she? can she? WHY NOT?) I could just pull the car over and do a jig when I hear Diane's theme song.

5. Anything Johnny Cash because, yep, I thought he was just some old -fashioned country dude until I saw the movie. Never consciously listened to single tune. Ashamed to admit it, but there it is. And Joaquin was amazing, but Johnny was the Real Deal in every way, for sure.

6. Pete Seeger's version, Des Colores. Gosh, because we just saw Pete in a die-and-go-to-heaven concert with Tom Chapin, Tom Paxton, John McCutcheon, Sweet Honey, and all these gods and goddesses. Pete is a man who exudes integrity, soul, and love. He's just one of those. Knows what he's here for and has never shied away from living BIG. Years ago, I was lucky enough to sing Des Colores with him on stage (along with 40 other women in the Anna Crusis Women's Choir), so that song has a special place in my Pete-lovin' heart. And that's him in the photo up there, but I can't figue out how to do captions.

7. Willy Mason, Oxygen. Because he describes the real State of the Union, and actually believes we can improve it. Willy says:

I wanna be better than oxygen
So you can breathe when you're drowning and weak in the knees
I wanna speak louder than Ritalin
For all the children who think that they've got a disease
I wanna be cooler than t.v.
For all the kids that are wondering what they are going to be
We can be stronger than bombs
If you're singing along and you know that you really believe
We can be richer than industry
As long as we know that there's things that we don't really need
We can speak louder than ignorance
Cause we speak in silence every time our eyes meet.

That's it for me, and now, I am tagging Shelley, Chelle and Trista...and the first four delurking today will also be tagged.

Howard County Summer Camp Mania

2006-02-04T05:39:00.000-08:00

Oh yeah. I got sucked in. But good.

Howard County summer camp registration was February 2. That means I needed to be on the web typing furiously at 12:01 AM, or all the good spots would go to the ubermommies, and their kids would be better than mine. And what would happen if my girls didn't get into some sort of structured summer activity? Listen, if you need to ask that question, then I don't even know where to begin with you. I mean, hello? Life Enriching Experiences? If our kids don't get those amidst the deafening din of a commandeered high school cafeteria in the middle of July while wearing special-issue t-shirts and My Name Is... stickers, applying gloppy paint to papier mache bunnies under the direction of a perky pimple-faced counselor named Britany, then WHERE DO WE EXPECT THE SUMMER ENRICHMENT TO HAPPEN?

My friend, Katherine, tried to save me. After I scoured the camp description booklet (39 pages of fun, fun, fun) for the sessions which would really turn my kids' lives around, I called to give her a head's up on what I considered to be the best offerings for 2006. This was a true gift: best camps, bar none, offered to Katherine and her boys just in time for registration -- on a plate with fries on the side. But was Katherine grateful? No. She called my Chesapeake Bay selection contrived. Contrived!

"But, listen to this," I said, "'Kids will go tonging, feed algae to an oyster, dress like a waterman, and catch and weigh a rockfish.'"

"Where?" she replied dryly in that I'm-a-mother-with-integrity-and-I-don't-need-camp kind of a way.

"At Town Center Middle School," I reported, "Says here, 'science lab.'" So there! Science lab. Science. Science in the summer. Hey, if Katherine doesn't recognize a life enriching experience when someone hands it to her ON A PLATE, then that's on her. My kids'll be curing cancer someday with all their extracurricular science background. Hers will be...well...NOT doing that.

"Why don't we just pack a cooler and some fishing rods, and take them to the Bay one day? Catch some oysters. Meet some watermen," she offered.

Okay forget Katherine. I don't even really like her. She's too good for summer camp, wants authentic experiences for her kids, lah-dee-dah.

Hey, at least my motivation is good! I'm just trying to find some cool stuff for my kids to do. Most of the ubermommies worked themselves into a total tizzy weeks before registration, whining to each other about what were they gonna do with the kids all summer? Yeah. A lot of these people are just looking for ways to get their children OUT OF THE HOUSE. Not me! I want to educate mine (okay, I guess there's a small part of me that wants to avoid ripping them limb from limb by Labor Day, but I'm not, like, in a panic about it or anything).

So there I was, CALMLY staring at the registration website, fingers nimble, camp selection marked in red in my dogeared booklet, waiting for that digital clock to tick over to 12:01. God, I'm good.

By 12:09, the system was all clogged up. As I stared at the little "page loading" hourglass, I couldn't help but imagine all the other women who had waited up until midnight ON A TUESDAY, IN FEBRUARY to do this. Women by the hundreds, crazed by a. the need to raise uberkids or b. the need to have a kid-free summer. Was I one of them? Exhibit a: me and my computer, 12:09 AM, slogging through an interminably slow registration process just to get the "Craft It!" camp from 9 to noon August 7 through 11. Damn. If that ain't the dark side, I don't know what is.

Got to bed at 1:22 AM, feeling like an uberidiot. Woke Steve up to let him know which camps I had gotten. He likes to be kept informed. He was very appreciative and impressed that I stayed up until 1:22 ensuring a rich and varied summer for our two girls. He was so glad I wasn't like those slackers who decided to deal with it later and went to bed. He didn't say this stuff, but he was thinking it.

The next morning at approximately 10:17 AM, the entire Howard County Parks and Rec website CRASHED due to the morning wave of crazy people like yours truly. And then the trouble really began. The moms got ugly, like in the 80's when you told Santa you had to have a Cabbage Patch doll with red hair, green eyes, and one dimple, and there was resulting yuletide bloodshed at Toys R Us. Back in Howard County, the poor woman at the parks and rec office had to endure the entitled rants of streams of women who probably should have stayed with their legal careers or started on meds -- one or the other.

That afternoon, I was talking to my semi-sane friend, Denise, about the whole camp thing. Feeling cheap and sheepish, I announced, "Next year, I'm not even doing this camp rat race. We'll just do things on our own. Maybe we'll go to the Bay one day and, you know, bring a cooler and stuff. Taylor's almost ready for sleep-away camp, anyway, which I do think is a good experience. Maybe we'll just do an occasional Girl Scout Camp from here on out."

"Good luck," Denise said, "People have to camp out the night before to get slots in the Girl Scout camps around here."

I kid you not.

We May Have to Amputate

2006-02-03T14:13:00.000-08:00

Oh, my Baby! The blood! All the blood everywhere! (Not really...it was just a scraped knee.)

Carly was wearing these shoes which she dug out of one of the sixty places where I stash hand-me-downs. (That kid digs stuff out of everywhere -- the fact that she still believes in Santa just astounds me.) When she put the shoes on and claimed they fit, I was too busy, like, picking my nose to check. Well, sportsfans, those shoes did NOT fit. No, no, oh no.

I wasn't there when it happened (nor was I there when the same child tried to "walk" our poor dog across the electric fence and ended up losing the battle -- badly). Child runs on the driveway with ill-fitting-mommy-didn't-check-because-she's-a-bad-mommy shoes. Child meets driveway with hands and knees.

She comes screaming for me. I try to channel my husband (mr. cool in the face of blood) and check for major gashes while trying to act like I haven't a care in the world.

No major gashes. One bumped knee. One scraped knee. Two red hands.

Okay, don't even TRY to tell this kid she's gonna be fine because she's not having it. Don't try the ol' "let's go pick a Band-Aid out" trick; she hates you and your Band-Aids because you failed to save her from the driveway. She's BLEEDING, you understand. BLEEDING. Oh, the HUMANITY!

I love that I remember what my mom did in such situations. She put me up on the countertop and gave me a cool, wet cloth to hold on the injury. It was just right -- always made me feel better. I have such clear memories of it.

So, I put her up on the countertop. I show her on the antiseptic bottle where it says, "hurt-free." (She doesn't read, so it could say "burns like hell and you'll wish you were dead," and she wouldn't know. But she believes me. She believes me, but can I believe the bottle? There's always that moment of truth, isn't there? God, please let it not hurt, please let it not hurt. Johnson and Johnson, I will find you myself and make you BOTH pay...)

It doesn't hurt, and we're both so relieved that we giggle. I wipe her tears and find a really BIG Band-Aid. She's good to go.

Fast forward two hours. Child is DYING. Child cannot go on. Needs to be carried. Is in PAIN. Needs a popsicle. Not a red one! Child with grave knee injury does not LIKE red ones! Oh, the PAIN. Cannot straighten leg. Cannot bend leg. Needs crutches. And new band-Aid. Old one is old. Needs popsicle of correct color! Ow! Owowowowowowowo!!

It is now that I go through the seven universally recognized stages of mother-of-a-minor-scraped-knee-hood:

1. Nurture: draw her to my bosom and hold her, rocking gently, and comforting her in her pain, no matter how minor, remembering how little she is.

2. Reasoning: tell her in soothing, loving voice that she's alright now, she can stop crying, she's okay. It'll be okay. She can stop crying.

3. Bargaining: "Honey, listen to Mommy. You're okay. If you can stop crying now and be a little bit more brave, we'll pick out a brand new box of Band Aids at the store tomorrow. Yes, even Barbie, but you have to stop crying."

4. Senseless Repeating: You have to stop crying. Honey, stop crying. Okay, stop crying now. Ready? 1-2-3 stop crying.

5. Going: That is enough now, Sugar.

6. Going: Okay. No new Band-Aids for you. You lost that priviledge. No, you needed to be brave and were you brave? No.

7. Gone: Oh, COME ON!!! IT DOES NOT HURT THAT MUCH!!! LOOK AT IT! IT IS A TEENSY WEENSY SCRAPED KNEE!! This is ridiculous! And I'll tell you something else: you're gonna have a whole lot MORE scraped knees in your life so you'd better get used to it. Mommy has had HUNDREDS of scraped knees, one back labor, and two c-sections. DON'T TELL ME ABOUT PAIN!! Now knock it off. I don't want to hear it anymore. I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT!!

7.a. Repentance: Oh, oh, oh... okay. I know it hurts. You're right. Mommy didn't mean it. Mommy will kiss it. Oh, bad boo-boo! Look! It's only 7:00! Mommy has time to carry my bwave wittle soldier upstairs to bed before sticking my head in the oven... Okay? Would that be nice?

7.b. Recognition: Gaze upon exhausted, sleeping child. Gigantic Band-Aid already flopping off tiny knee. Marvel at how little child is. Notice how baby face shows up when she sleeps. Remember perfect firstborn skin and thank God for healing. Think of inevitable boo-boos that cool cloths and Band-Aids can't fix. Thank God for watching over her. Ask God to keep doing that. Ask God to keep doing that. Ask God...

Pre-School Sex Ed: Where Babies DON'T Come From

2006-02-01T08:02:00.000-08:00

I want to go on record right now with the following: when it comes to the well-rounded education of our daughters, my husband is elected to handle the birds and...the other birds and their little tiny bird penises and how they make all those baby birdies.

Carly (5 years old) likes me to sing a Fred Small song to her at bedtime. It's called Everything Possible (great song), and states the following (among other things): Some women love women, and some men love men; some raise children, and some never do...

Carly loves this ritual of ours, but for the life of her, she cannot get her little I-own-62-girl-dolls-and-49-boy-dolls-and-I-need-more brain around the "some never do" part. "What do you mean, 'some never do,' Mommy?" she finally asked last night.

"Well, some people don't have kids. They choose not to have kids. Or they just don't have 'em." (Flustered already; what about those who want to, but can't? Well, certainly, that's too complicated for a 5-year-old. Yeah. Keep it simple.)

"How do they not have them?"

Red Alert! Red Alert! Stuff about "how!" Change the subject!

"They just don't have them. Want a glass of water?"

"How, though?"

Oh, this is somebody's idea of a joke and I'm on Candid Camera, right? I can't just your garden variety, "Where do babies come from?" Noooo! I have to deal with, "Where do no babies come from?" Or, "Where don't babies come from?" Or, "Where do babies come from, not?" And that, my friends, is what I get for exposing my children to this damn mind-opening pinko PC communist folksy strap-on-the-birkenstocks-and-pass-the-pot music. Think, Tracy, think, THINK!

"People decide not to have them, and you could decide that too, if you wanted, and then you wouldn't have them. Let's sing another one. How about "Old MacDonald?" No, no, no! Where did all those farm animals come from? Different song, DIFFERENT SONG!!!

"Or, how about This Little Light of Mine, I'm Gonna Let It Shine?" (as long as I use protection...) "Ummm...or, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" ...how I wonder if you come from sperm, like babies... "You know what? Mommy is soooo tired. No more songs. Time for sleep."

"Everybody does have them, Mommy, but they let them be adopted, right?"

"No, Angel, not everybody has them. Don't you ever sleep? STEEEEEVE! Carly wants to say good night!

On the positive side, maybe the Fred Small song will "turn them into lesbians," as I'm sure some people might think. In that case, I can tell them babies come from turkey basters (except in Indiana, but that's a post for a bitchy day) and be done with it.

10 Excuses for the Dental Hygenist

2006-01-27T05:25:00.000-08:00

Steve has a dental appointment this AM. (He's such an ADULT, taking care of his health and all. We've been married nearly 13 years, and the man is still a mystery to me.)

Now, my Steve doesn't floss daily. I don't floss daily. You don't floss daily. Let's be honest: NO ONE flosses daily (except my perfect sister, and this flossing thing is just one of the reasons I really can't stand her) (see her thoroughly flossed chops, below). Some of us -- I'm not naming names -- don't floss EVER, except the day of the appointment, and then we floss like
mad people sawing wood. This, of course, causes the telltale GUM BLEEDING (okay, more like hemorrhaging) that we just KNOW all the hygenists are gabbing about after we leave -- as they gnaw on raw celery and other useless sugar-free crap: "I had another last-minute flosser today. Don't they know they're not fooling anybody? Gross."

Now, Steve doesn't care what the hygenist thinks (it's all part of that ADULT thing). But I care passionately. I want Pat the hygenist to like me. What's more, I want her to approve of me. Maybe even to be inspired by my dental prowess. Does this motivate me to floss? Well, no. So then, there I am, like a six-year-old:

Do you floss?

Yes. (Nice delivery. Direct. Confident. Chipper. Likeable.)

How often?

Ummmm... (should I lie? Should I lie? No. I can't! She'll know. They always KNOW. Damn them! Damn them all to hell!) ...Well, not very often, to be honest. Pat.

Why not-ot-ot-ot-ot...

(I need not rack my brain for an answer because I have composed the following list of perfectly acceptable Floss Failure excuses. One need only choose among them.)

1. Dog ate floss. Now poops links.

2. Shrink advised against flossing. Brings back childhood mouth-propped-open-interminably-by-pool-ball-stuck-inside memories. (Excuse delivery strengthened considerably by sobbing uncontrollably at this juncture.)

3. No time to floss; am neurosurgeon during week and rocket scientist on weekends. Am saving world, one... space neuro-thingy at a time.

4. "I don't think that's any of your business, Pat. Flossing is a private matter. How often do you have sex? Hmmmm?"

5. Hands injured in freak 2002 Winter Olympics curling accident. Can't grasp floss. Don't want to talk about it.

6. Actually, I floss every day. Religiously. With my perfect sister. We floss together. And if my teeth don't look like I floss every day to you then that's your problem, isn't it?

7. Flossing is against my religion. Disturbs the soul--which resides in its physical form between the first and second bicuspids. And 6 billion beautiful people, including Tom Cruise, can't be wrong.

8. Let's take this outside, Pat.

9. I don't want to hurt you, Pat.

10. Last time I flossed, the floss was wound tightly, like you showed me, and it cut off ciculation to my fingertip, which is scheduled for amputation next Tuesday. Thanks a lot, Pat. You'll be hearing from my lawyer. Now just clean the teeth, would ya'?

Shhhh... Don't Tell My Best Friend

2006-01-26T06:09:00.000-08:00

I hope every new at-home mom has a friend like Treacy (same name, I know...we did it on purpose). We were mere acquantances when we started jogging together to lose baby fat. Our firstborns were about 18 months old at the time, coveting each other's cheerios and sippies from the buckets of their repsective super-sporty jogging strollers.

Treacy was funny. It was nice to laugh -- and to talk to a grown-up. The kids -- her Luke and my Taylor -- hit it off immediately. "Jogging" quickly became "jogging with a playdate afterwards." That became "why don't you just stay for lunch?" Which grew into "leave your kid here, and go get some time to yourself." Then, it was, "I gotta paint the powder room; wanna help?" Or "If I don't wash this ketchup-smeared (insert ridiculously expensive Gymboree clothing item) now it'll stain. Can I use your washer, and do you have other stuff I can wash for you while I'm at it?" Then, "I'm re-doing your fridge. This top shelf is too crowded, the drawers are all wrong, and something is growing on your ham."

We had gone completely tribal. We didn't have two homes anymore; we had one home with two locations. We didn't each have a daily existence; we were in nearly every day together. And best of all, Taylor and Luke each had a spare mommy. (Later, when Carly was about 5 months old and did a face-plant while leaning forward in her "bouncy seat," she reached for Treacy through her tears! I felt so good about that (even though Treacy chose to calm my baby by explaining to her all about how it was her mommy's fault that she fell...))

The spare mommy thing was especially natural for us because Treacy and I had similar parenting styles. After all, hadn't we forged them together from nothing? I mean, when we started together, we actually believed we could lose that baby fat! Clearly, we knew NOTHING about motherhood. So, we figured it all out together and ended up a matched set. No matter where they turned, the children got the same answer. Even the dads were on the same page; it was "no popsicles before breakfast" all the way around. Poor kids.

Not so poor, come to think of it. Treacy and I brought out the very best in each other on the motherhood score. We believed in noise, adventures, squabbles, and messes. God, I loved that woman the day she babysat Taylor and let her wallow in mud to the magnificent extent that we subsequently had to hose the children down and throw the clothes out. The best meal we ever prepared for the kids was chocolate fondue. Nothing else, just the chocolate, the stuff to dip in it, and an afternoon when giggles reigned and time stood still. Luke often wore pink fuzzy slippers and dresses, and Taylor was naked much of the time. We taught them archery and finger-knitting. Together, we learned to let the children BE and to let them BECOME. And we loved the stuffing out of them. It was great, this tribal stuff -- the only way to do the at-home-parent thing, in my opinion. She was there for me in my darkest new-mommy hours, like:

Me: Taylor just threw a truck at my face and ran upstairs. Quick, what do I do?

Treacy: That depends; are we still not beating them? Seriously, you need a break. Bring her over and I'll take them to feed the ducks.

Gotta love being tribal.

When Taylor and Luke were three, Steve said he wanted to move for a job opportunity. I thought about leaving him and marrying Treacy, but decided, in the end, to stick with my guy. But those were some thoroughly yucky times. I hated telling Treacy, and when I broke the news to little Taylor, she cried and cried. Yuck-o-rama.

Treacy and I are still tribal on select weekends when someone packs up the minivan and declares a road-trip. Luke and Taylor are still best friends, and now Carly and Rylee (Treacy's little girl) are an uncommonly close tutu-clad and sticky-faced duo. They certainly add a whole new spice to the tribe.

And we are WAY tribal on the phone, still expecting the best of each other, still accepting the worst, and still not beating anyone.

Now that the kids are in school, I don't know if I need a local tribe. At-home-mommying is not nearly as relentless now. The urge to drink at noon has dissipated significantly. Still, something along the tribal lines would be nice, and (don't tell Treacy...) I have had a recent glimpse of it with friends Kathy and John. They offered me a carpool deal (like a recording contract or a publisher's advance, only much, MUCH better...) a while back, so now, they drive mine in, and I drive theirs out -- mostly. These folks pack lunches for my girls when I leave our lunchboxes sitting on the kitchen counter (where I'm quite sure they do nothing good for anybody all day long). They hand over breakfast bars when my child, who couldn't eat another bite 10 minutes ago is now on the verge of utter starvation. They take Carly for playdates so I can go on loving her like I do. Here's the kicker: how to put this?... ummm, well, to state it plainly, SH%T HAPPENED on their carpet once (my child was sick, she was SICK and don't you be judgin'), and Kathy and I scrubbed that carpet like it was no big deal, like it was... well, like it was not my child's SH%T on their white carpet. (Same child blithely and consciously peed on Treacy's couch once when she was definitely NOT sick, but that's another story involving another beating that might have happened but didn't because we tribal mommies really have it on the ball.)

Last weekend, since Steve was away, Kathy invited us for a drink-without-having-to-drive sleepover and boy, did that invitation feel tribal. And the other night, the girls and I invited ourselves for dinner, picked out a recipe for their vegetarian household, and then prepared and brought the dinner with us. That was tribal, too. But there was no chocolate, and we didn't cut each other's hair, so even if you slip and tell Treacy, I think she'll be okay with it.

Shirking and Shrieking

2006-01-26T05:42:00.000-08:00

Bless me, Internet, for I have shirked. It has been nearly a week since my last post. This is merely due to my foolish decision to go to bed at a reasonable hour while Steve was away on business. I had high hopes this practice would keep Mommy-I-Don't-Want-To-Be at bay. Hmmm...well...sleep helped. But MIDWTB still showed up every now and then just to urge the children to GET. DRESSSSSSSSED! and to PUT. THAT. STUFF. AWAAAAAAY! and to please, for the love of Betsy (or similar) STOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPIT! Note to self: frantically scanning parenting books following insane shrieking episodes does not undo freakish childhood children have already suffered and in fact serves only to inspire guilt and deep self-loathing. In future, must read said books before said shrieking. Therefore, must set aside time at 5 AM to read "being a good mommy" books before daily insatiable urge to shriek commences. Suggested topic for tomorrow morning's study... Your 5-Year-Old's Wardrobe: Loving and Healthy Alternatives to the Straightjacket.

Disney's Missing Mommies

2006-01-20T11:53:00.000-08:00

Well, Taylor (7) got over her chickenpox and we were all healthy again.

For about five minutes.

And then, someone upstairs got the news that Steve was headed out for a business trip. This put into effect the now-familiar cosmic law which states: one of my children or the other must be reduced to a whining puddle of boogies and phlegm just as soon as Mr. I'll-Be-There-Thru-Thick-And-Thin has fastened his seatbelt and returned his tray table to its full, upright and locked position. Happens every time. Once, before Carly was born, Steve was away, and Taylor was so sick and miserable that I finally gave up and just brought her to bed with me. As we cuddled there, I hummed a lullabye and gently stroked her forehead. Then she announced that she was going to throw up. O-KAY! My heartfelt thanks for the heads up, and let me introduce you to your father's side of the bed. I know, it's not his fault he has to travel on occasion, and it's very hard on him, too, and blah, blah, blah. But STILL. We're talking boogies and phlegm. Usually fever. Sometimes dia-you-know-what-a.

So this time, it's Carly (5). I swear, that child was hale and hearty when I tucked her in. But Steve leaves town and BOOM. 2:30 AM, she's at my bedside, coughing, stuffed up and...puddle-like. Poor little thing.

After a very long night, I looked forward to a day of TV for the sick girl today so I could lie down and die for maybe just a minute. She and Steve had finished reading Bambi together last week, so I thought the Disney version on DVD was a good idea. She had never seen it before. We had avoided it because Bambi's mom gets, you know, s-h-o-t. But now that she's "read" the book, I figured she was somewhat prepared. Still, she wanted me to hold her hand when the hunting scene came, and BLAM! It hate it when Bambi's mom dies. Always did. "Why?" I always wondered, "Why did Bambi's mom have to die?"

And come to think of it...why indeed? Why can't Bambi keep his mom? And why can't Jasmine in Aladdin have a mom? Why can't the Little Mermaid have a mom? Why can't Belle have a mom? Gee...was it something we said?

Obviously, Disney didn't kill Bambi's mom, or Ariel's, or Belle's. These stories were around long before Disney. But Disney PICKED 'em.

...And Cinderalla, where both parents die, but the mom dies FIRST. And Pinocchio, where puppet boy just gets Guiseppe. Heck, Peter Pan is a vertiable Ode to Momlessness. I've only seen bits and pieces of The Sword and the Stone, but I didn't see a mom anywhere, did you? The Great Mouse Detective: Papa Mouse gets kidnapped, leaving daughter mouse...completely alone. Snow White had unsurpassed beauty, but no mom. Glenn Close steps in and adopts the ape boy in Tarzan, but Jane just has...Daddy. Perhaps Pocohontas was delivered to her father, the chief, by an Eagle, because in that movie there's no mom in sight. There's a brother in Brother Bear, but the mom is killed by hunters. Finding Nemo opens with the mom as shark bait (my friend, Pete, says Nemo wasn't Disney, but who asked him? I'm on a roll here). Chicken Little: new movie, old approach -- NO MOM. Was Ice Age Disney? Whatever. The mom drowns in the first 10 minutes. Guess what happens at the beginning of Hunchback of Notre Dame? Yep. Dead mommy.

And there may be more. Did I forget any?

So Disney celebrates the non-traditional family. Who knew? In a way, I can dig that. But how about a film (or twenty) where the mom is not only NOT DEAD, but is raising the kid by herself (which is like, FOUR TIMES more likely than a solo dad in this country, anyway...)? Or, if that's too much to ask, could the mom just please survive the experience once in a while? I mean, moms do some handy things around the home. They're useful for...oh, I don't know...EVERYTHING. And I've got another great idea. If one dad in a Disney flick is so darn good, how about TWO? (-:

As for Carly, I'm sure she'll be all better soon; Steve's due back later this week. Until then, HER MOMMY IS HERE.

DWI: Dieting While Intoxicated

2006-01-15T06:50:00.000-08:00

Invited Kate and Jeff (and kids) over for chili and football (and, apparently, 6 bottles of wine) last night. (Here are some fun things to say to a football fan during the game: 1. Can we just switch over to ABC real quick? Michelle Kwon is about to take the ice. 2. I vote we turn this off and play Pictionary. Anyone with me? 3. I'm putting in a movie for the kids -- but we'll TAPE the game, and you can take it home with you!)

Anyway, those guys came over. Knowing I would want to join in the food and libations at least to some extent, I saved up for the event all day. 8:30 AM: Had a small bowl of dirt (low-carb, high fiber cereal) for breakfast with barely enough milk to dampen the dirt, thus concocting yummy early morning MUD. 11 AM: Had a tiny "taster" of new Stouffer's Lean Cuisine cheesesteak sandwich at the grocery store -- but that was only because the taster pusher (lady in white coat and hair net with nametag reading "Dorothy") was so cute and forlorn-looking. (Note to self: discuss grocery store taster table episode with Life Coach...may be a key to several pesky neuroses.) 1 PM: Stopped everything and made a salad for lunch.

Steps in making salad:
1. wash and tear lettuce
2. chop carrots and celery
3. wash raspberries
4. sprinkle sunflower seeds with spectacular restraint
5. sprinkle 2% milk shredded cheddar that tastes like nothing with even MORE restraint
6. Measure out 1.5 tablespoons of vinagrette (how does one spell that?) while fantasizing about chugging full balance of dressing straight from bottle
7. Sit down
8. Chew thoroghly

Steps in eating 3 or 4 slices of cold, leftover pizza over the sink:
1. CHOW DOWN!!

Now aren't you just SO proud of me for eating that salad? Yeah. So was I. Too bad about what happened next.

Well, it started out okay. I opted for fresh fruit as the hors d'oeuvres, knowing that I always eat every hors freaking d'oeuvre within a 50 mile radius when at social gatherings. When Kate and Jeff brought chicken wings, I had to have ONE so as not to appear rude. Then, I had to have TWO MORE so as not to rip my face off and run screaming from the house.

I had consciously decided to allow myself a glass of wine. The dirt and salad would make up for it.

As far as I can remember, here's what I consumed after that:

another glass of wine
all of the fruit and also most of the goldfish (which were the KIDS' hor d'oeuvres)
some water (good for me, good for me!)
just one more wing -- it's protein
small portion of rice and chili with just a smidge of tasteless cheese on top -- wasn't really hungry anymore
another glass of wine
one homemade, gobs-of-butter cookie (which I had previously EXPRESSLY forbidden myself but by then I had consumed approximately 4,000 calories already, so there was a little change of plans)
someone filled my wineglass -- was that my fault?
four more cookies
dug out the bag of goldfish from the cupboard and polished it off
two more cookies -- in small bites, though!
another wing -- now cold and chewy, but it CALLED to me
went to cupboard for goldfish, vaguely remembered having eaten them already, ate half a bag of stale marshmellows instead
uh...more wine, I think
polished off the cookies
JOY! There was some shredded tasteless cheese leftover! Tipped the bag right into my mouth. God, it was like HEAVEN.
(By now, guests had long-since left, so I could pick at the cold and clumpy pasta remnants of the kids' plates with impunity.)

So now, the next morning, is it any wonder that I feel the way I do? (Fat and shitty.) (AND the Redskins lost AND I didn't get to see Michelle Kwon skate AND there are no cookies for the kids -- after they did all the dumping and stirring (bad, bad, fat Mommy.)) But we had a great time with Kate and Jeff and kids. Next time they come, I'm drinking lemonade.

Pox R Us

2006-01-11T07:58:00.000-08:00

Chicken Pox, Baby! We got 'em. Come and get 'em. My 7-year-old, Taylor, told me her ear itched. Well, lots of people's ears itch from time to time, don't they? I mean, is it written in the Good Mommy handbook that you have to drop everything every time one of your kids has an ITCH? Lord, when I THINK of all the things that have itched around here...

So, her ear itched. I didn't think much of it. Next day, it still itched. I looked at it. It was red. I slathered stuff on it. Next day, the other ear itched. "What we have here," I announced, "Is an allergic reaction to some new shampoo, soap, or hat." Taylor gently reminded me that we didn't have new shampoo, new soap, or a new hat. But since the alternative theory was that my ear-scratchin' daughter had fleas, some part of me chose the allergy theory; it had a nice, clean ring to it. Slathered stuff on the offending ears -- with love. And, ummm... sent her to school. (Oh, stuff it -- like YOU never made a mistake in YOUR life!)

I did actually plan to pick her up early from school and take her in to the doctor that afternoon, but the doctor's office put me on hold, and I couldn't go into Target without losing the connection, so... I hung up on the doctor and chose Target. Hey! I was on hold for a long time, Sister! I was on hold so long that by the time I got the appointment, I bet school would have been over anyway. I mean, rashes come and rashes go, but those end-of-season sales are a get-'em-while-supplies-last kind of a thing. Wrapping paper, 99 cents. See my position?

Next day, ears itching, neck and face itching, doctor can see us at 11:45.

Here's the problem with doctors today: they make so much money, you can't even BRIBE them anymore. I mean, I offered that doctor $50 NOT to tell me it was chicken pox and she LAUGHED at me! Very funny. And what about your nice VACCINE, Doc...HMMMM? What the heck happened? And by the way, I'm no expert, but those don't even LOOK like Chicken Pox to me. Don't you think it could be some sort of allergic reaction...maybe to a...hat?

The problem with doctors today is they think they're some sort of EXPERT.

It's never a good sign when they fumigate the exam room after you leave and tape that yellow CAUTION stuff over the door.

So, it turns out that everyone on the PLANET but me knows that innoculated kids can still get the Pox. A watered-down version, though. Remember when WE had it? You know what the average number of lesions was? 300 to 400. Holy avian itchies! I can still smell the Calamine. Taylor only has 20 or so. She's still very uncomfortable and I still feel bad for her, but I have to fight like hell not to say, "You call that the CHICKEN POX?! Hah! That's nothing. I SPIT on your chicken pox! When I had it, I was so itchy, Nana wrapped my hands with duct tape and chained me to the bed to keep me from scratching! And we didn't have your Cherry Flavored Benedryl, either. No! We didn't need no stinkin' Benedryl. It was hell. I still have the scars. Wanna see them?"

So, here we are. Kid feels fine except for the itchin', yet she's contageous as all hell and I guess as a responsible adult, I'm supposed to make that MY problem and keep her home from school all week. That's what the doctor said (despite a SECOND generous offer of cold hard cash). If you ask me, this is why the vaccine was developed in the first place: to save us from having to stay home with our infected kids. And here's the rub (or the scratch) -- we are really just stuck with each other, she and I. No playdates. No restaurants. No errands. No Blockbuster. No trips to the liquor store to get mommy some good stiff stuff. No, little miss Typhoid Taylor is quarrantined and therefore, pass the Ben and Jerry's, so am I.

Actually, this shouldn't be a problem! Super Pox Girl has a crunchy, lefty, Waldorf school and natural fibers mommy who almost never lets her watch TV (I tell her it rots her brain while I count the hours until I can plop my widening ass and fully rotted brain in front of this week's Project Runway.) Anyway, she is MAJORLY tv-deprived, so all I have to do is declare open season, and that Partridge Family lunchbox on ebay could be MINE before I hear from her again.

EXCEPT... by Tuesday, she was TV cranky, and by Wednesday, she was done...D-O-N-E... with tv, computer, playing in the street, etc. Now, this kid is wonderful. She's a joy. She listens and behaves and all that other stuff which will no doubt contribute to her body-piercing, pot smoking REBELLION later on. So, I like having her around. The problem is she doesn't really like having ME around. Well, that's not quite right. She likes me. I'm her Mommy. I smear stuff on her Pox and make her grilled cheese -- AGAIN. But she's, like, REALLY SMART (not enough TV), and keeping her occupied means having to be able to...you know... THINK and stuff. Who wants to do THAT day in and day out?

I tried. I really did. I got her some new...what do you call those things?...BOOKS. I broke out a new LEGO set I had been saving for that someone-has-an-oozing-communicable-virus kind of a day. These new LEGOs, by the way! SO COOL! There are all sorts of tiny two-way hinges and ORANGE pieces and eyes and WINGS. Love 'em. We played with those until we hated them. We looked up ATOMS and MOLECULES on the internet because she wanted to know if atoms were really moving around in our Silestone counter top. And really...WHO THE HELL KNOWS? I mean, I GUESS so. Atoms are the building blocks of life -- or the circle of life (no, that's Disney)...or the building blocks of matter...or of manmade kitchen surfaces, I suppose. It broke my heart to see her give up on her mommy's lame-ass explanation and resort to staring at the countertop, hoping to catch an atom moving. We made Jell-o. We took the dog for a walk and squinted against the sun as we felt it warming our now-pasty skin. But eventually, I just ran out of steam. I didn't know what to do, and she didn't know what to do, and we pretty much hit bottom when my poxed petunia sat crumpled on the family room floor wailing: "Oh WHY CAN'T I CRY?? I WANT TO CRY!! BUT I CAN'T!"

That's it. Big gun time. Yesterday, I announced, "Taylor, we are going to decorate the treehouse." We got out of our jammies and put on those CLOTHES thingies. Loaded up the wagon with whatever seemed cool-treehouse-ish. I got out the power tools (and let me tell you -- it takes A LOT for me to do that). Hooked up three extension cords and headed out to the world's greatest treehouse (built mainly by my dad and surely visible from space).

Here's Taylor's cool "ancient" treasure map showing treehouse and treasure.

God, we had fun. We put peacock feathers in a flower pot. Hung a big orange-framed print on the wall. Suspended those plastic dudes with the tangled parachutes from the ceiling. Made pegs from twigs and hung canteens on 'em. Installed a xylophone and a bell shaped like a pegasus. Fashioned a perch for a stuffed parrot I had bought at a yardsale (HAD to have it). Screwed this little gumball machine thingy to the treehouse table (otherwise, it'll find its way to the woods and anthropologists will find it in the year 2278 and think its some sort of incubator or primitive transporter or something). My girl was BEAMING. She was giddy. She learned how to change the bits on a power drill. She told me she could imagine staying in the treehouse forever.

The child could stay in the treehouse forever.

This is all just to say that the laundry sat soggy and molding in the washer, the dishes didn't get done, and we had leftovers and frozen veggies for dinner. And I had a GREAT day at work.

Why the Shower Should Have Rubber Walls

2006-01-10T10:34:00.001-08:00

Here's what went on last Saturday...

Me: In shower, shampooing for a nice change of pace, noticing new fat as usual, deciding not to shave (it's winter!) Taking my time since Steve is home and can...oh, I don't know...enforce no-playing-with-flaming-torches rule while I shower in PEACE.

5-year-old (heard faintly): MOMMMMMY! Uh yahn hair iyoncho glob glob ANT EYE glob.

Me (yelling, so as to be heard the first time): Sweetie, Mommy's in the shower! I can't hear you!

Child (heard faintly, more slowly): Uh-yahn-haaaair-eye-elpo-glob-glob-ANT-glob-glob!!

Me (in my head): Note to self...children must be chained to post in yard
when I am showering. And where is Steve? Perhaps injured in freak coffee-maker accident which rendered him tragically EARLESS.

Me (yelling, again, shampoo sloshing into mouth): I CAN NOT HEAR YOU!!! I AM IN THE (don't say fucking, don't say fucking) SHOWER!!

Child (at the top of her little lungs): UH YAHN HAIR EYE ON GLOW GLOBBITY GLOB ANT EYE GLOB GLOB MURPLE MURPLE, MOMMY!!

Me (eyeing razor and thinking about ending it all) (opening shower door so as to improve communication, freezing ASS off while shrieking like lunatic): STOP YELLLLLLLLING!!! I CANNOT HEAR YOU!!! COME IN HERE AND TALK TO MEEEEEEEEE!!!

Child appears. Naked except for Little House on the Prairie hat. Chastizes me for NOT HELPING and for being ALWAYS IN THE SHOWER and for YELLING at her.

Breathe, breathe, breathe. Channel Carol Brady. Scratch that. Stop everything in order to focus on expunging image of naked showering Florence Henderson from mind.

Me: I could not HEAR you. It's NOISY in here. All I heard was "murple, murple." Couldn't Daddy help you? What did you say?

Child (simply): I want to wear my poncho but I can't find it.

Oh. No poncho. Now that IS big. Why didn't she SAY it was a wardrobe emergency? Why didn't anyone call 911? Oh. Let me just hop out of here right now and find that hideous fuzzy pink thing! Don't want you to wait another MINUTE! Maybe we can find one for Mommy, too, and I can wrap it around my NECK a few hundred times and PULL! (Note to self: always close shower door when banging head against tiles so as not to alarm naked little bonnet-wearin' cutie-pie.)