Why I hate child support...

...and the calculations behind it. (Here, it's based solely on the father's income and applies only to the children of the divorce. Children from any future marriages are not factored in.)

... Because on the very night I'm trying to figure out how (and when) we can afford to buy some spring/summer clothes for Tootie, Hubs comes back from his ex-wife's house talking — no, let's make that "gushing" — about Stepson's new Wii system.

... Because for the first two years of our marriage, when the ex arrived every other weekend, she always had a list for Hubs of all the "extra" expenses, which usually totaled, on average, about $150 to $200. That's $300 to $400 a month ON TOP OF child support.

... Because she always left with a check.

... Because when I got pregnant, even though Hubs always paid several hundred dollars a month MORE than required by state law in child support — not just the "extras" but also one-half of day care and, later, after-school care — the ex sued him for additional money.

... Because while I worry each month about how we will afford new shoes or clothes or day care-related expenses or birthdays, holidays, etc... etc... for the kids, his ex is putting in an in-ground pool, ordering custom-made furniture or re-doing their house (for the millionth time) or installing a tikki bar out back.

... Because I never knew what debt was — or how scary it is — until I married a divorced father.

... Because a divorced mom knows for sure she'll get xxx number of dollars each month whereas a woman married to a divorced dad shuffles and repriortizes and puts off purchases because she has to work with what is left.

... Because most states don't recognize fathers as parents with the same rights as mothers.

... Because even though we can't afford to buy a new washing machine, even after the repairman told us our current one was an ancient piece of shit that can't be fixed and it frequently attacks the dryer like some rabid beast, the ex-wife and her hubs are tooling around in their travel trailer or on his fully loaded Honda motorcycle.

... Because my glasses are 6 years old, but I can't yet justify new ones, because Hubs needs new glasses and contacts, because I still owe the dentist a hunk of money, because Tootie still needs to go to the dentist, because there are so many things, big and little, and plumbing issues and on and on and on that we've put off buying for months, but to HER it's no big deal to just zip out and buy a fucking Wii. Or a shiny red, fully loaded Camaro convertible.

... Because I remember the look on Hubs face when she pulled up in that car. Shortly after suing him for more money.

... Because I've skipped birthday parties and other social functions when we didn't have the money for presents or food contributions. But god forbid that stepson doesn't get a car by the day he turns 16 (in June). Oh, and by the way, can we chip in for half of his insurance?

(Um... excuse me ex, but when you and Hubs sold your house, is it not correct that you walked away with $30,000 and he received $1,500 per your divorce decree? I know it is because I've read it. I also read the document Hubs' attorney made him sign saying she had advised him against such an unfair split. As always, however, he gave in to you. For the kids. So hey, why not consider your profit on that little number Hubs' insurance contribution? Sounds like a good idea to me.

...Because it's fucking unfair. Because child support laws make it near impossible for a man to remarry or have additional children. A woman, however, gets the child support, a new spouse and his salary, and whatever income she earns.

...Because in order for things to be truly equitable, I would have to divorce my husband. Because then Hubs' paycheck would be divided among ALL FOUR KIDS.

... Because my brother-in-law raised four kids without a dime of child support from his ex-wife. Because the only thing we ever hear about are "deadbeat dads" when really, the mothers are equal offenders. C'mon, are we still employing 1950s thinking here? Geez. If you're going to pursue the fathers, then -- HELLO?! -- go after the mothers too. Because a lot of them don't pay either.

... Because Hubs is a great dad who has given and given and given. And because of the guilt he feels when he can't provide the same things for the second set of kids.

Yeah, I'm in a bad mood. Yeah, I'm pissed. And yeah, the fucking Wii was the fucking last straw.

I hate the greediness, unfairness and resentment that the current system breeds. I hate the stupid, gender-specific child support laws. I hate that my kids will always get the leftovers. If there are any leftovers. And yeah, it makes me resentful and yeah, I'm probably a horrible stepmother for feeling so resentful. I hate feeling like such a bitch because my stepkids are great, and I don't want to see them deprived of anything, but goddammit it pains me to see my own kids go without necessities while the other household gets a Wii the minute they hit the market.

But tra-la-fucking-la, life goes fucking on, and I'll just have to re-budget — again — this month, and try not to turn into a raging maniac as stepson's birthday approaches and the ex starts calling about a car.

I posted this last night, after drinking much wine at a girlfriend's house and having yet another freakout session over finances. Then I reconsidered and took it down. But hey, what the hell. I'm re-posting and people can think I'm horrible. Cuz this is life as a stepmom, folks, and it isn't always easy. And there's a helluva a lot of room for resentment.

Camping — with my mini-me

Given my own predisposition for inflicting stupid, embarrassing injuries upon myself, I don't know why I'm so surprised.

But really, after this weekend's string of E-man-related disasters, I'm wondering how I will get through the boy's toddlerhood without

A.) Breaking out into chronic, stress-induced hives

B.) Collapsing from a stress-related coronary

C.) Calling 911 on a regular basis, just to make sure I get a prompt answer from a competent operator

We camped here for 2 1/2 days.

In that time, the E-man:

Fell down the steps of my parents' travel trailer onto a concrete pad

Fell down the rock stairs leading to our tent

Fell, backward, into the fire pit — thankfully at a time when no flames were present

Bonked his wee head on a piece of playground equipment

Choked on a piece of lemon rind at the lodge's restaurant, prompting his mother to leap from her chair, shrieking, "He's choking! Do something!" while turning small son upside-down and administering the requisite shoulder-blade whacks as the other diners looked on in horror/disdain/bewilderment.

Clearly, he's following my path, one that has led (repeatedly) to numerous, ridiculous trips to the ER or doctor's office.

I can only hope he encounters no stepping stones along the way. (The offending stones have, BTW, been removed.)

Hubs' influence...

...is evident in this photo.



Look closely, and you'll understand my dismay.

Observe the exposed belly, the blank stare directed toward the television, the way in which, even though he is eating a sandwich, the E-man is reluctant to put down his beer -- I mean, binky.

It's only a matter of time before Hubs hauls him out to the woods to kill his first deer.

Most of the McHubs hunt. And so do their offspring.

How big a deal is it? Well, I seem to recall one deer season spent in strife because Hubs engaged in a battle with my stepson's stepfather (got that?) over who would be present when my stepson made his first kill. Weekend after weekend, they argued over who would drive Stepson down to the southern part of the state, each man determined to be The One.

In case you were curious -- Hubs won.

Camo is the height of fashion for Hubs and his clan. Except for his youngest brother, who was so traumatized by his first kill that he never ventured into the woods again.

Oh, what happened? Well -- let's call him B. -- when B. was just a young sprout, he caved into pressure from his brothers, went into the woods, shot a deer and when he discovered it wasn't yet dead, he pulled a box cutter from his pocket (always handy because of his job at a Piggly Wiggly grocery) straddled the deer and tried to finish the job manually.

Apparently, the end result was so gruesome, B. vowed to never hunt again.

So how do I counter the Hubs effect? A daily recounting of Uncle B.'s Day of Great Shame? (narrated by Uncle B for optimal effect)

Or maybe nightly readings from the works of David Sedaris?

Or I suppose I could add Bambi to the children's list of approved movies. That did it for me.

Better than garlic

So aside from the dog, the other long-standing point of contention in our home is:



The Onion.

Hubs has been known to study packages of food (what, you thought I morphed into a homemaking dervish each night in the kitchen? that my hands prepare only food still in its natural shape or form? ha.) just to ensure that a fiendish Paul Newman didn't slip a bit of onion powder into the spaghetti sauce.


Our biggest argument ever -- and I mean I was ready to pack the man off to a hotel after holding him down and blowing my onion breath into each of his nostrils -- was over chicken spaghetti and whether "his side" of the casserole dish contained onions.

It's frustrating enough to listen to your preschooler whine about how one food item is touching another. When your husband chimes in, well, that's when you start fantasizing about spiking casseroles on a regular basis.

I have discovered one advantage in his loathing, however.

If I'm not in the mood, I just gnaw on some scallions and when we retire for the night, he rolls over with nary a hand on my thigh. (I'd say the effect is comparable to what happens when you start assembling your breast pump just as a pesky editor approaches your desk. Wanna see a man run like hell? Just haul out the plastic cones, baby.)

So with Hubs, I don't plead a headache. I just whip out the cutting board, brandish a knife and let the onion fumes do the repelling.

It's a beautiful arrangement, really. I'm not rejecting him. No, he's rejecting me.

Brilliant!

Still, the man loves me. How do I know?

When we went to Washington, D.C. a few years back, he agreed to try a restaurant recommended by our editor.

Its name?

Vidalia.

Yeah, I know.

It's pink.

Really effing pink.

I was bored...

... and enveloped in a warm, fuzzy Benedryl (equally pink) haze...

... and it was either this or a change in hair color.

In keeping with my shallow tendencies...

... even as my fellow mama bloggers out there are posting nicely written tributes to Kurt Vonnegut, I'm prepared to blather on about Mika — the reincarnation of at least one (or two, or hell, maybe three -- well, shit, OK, four) college boyfriends.




He exhibits all the traits I found so desirable at that time:

1. Musical talent
2. Sexual ambiguity (unavailability is such a turn-on)
3. A mop of to-die-for curls
4. Creativity (Examples: His website, the whole cartoon approach and oh, yeah — his video (see below), which I made Hubs watch while I carried on in an appropriately smitten manner.
5. The drown-in-me eyes, the mouth ... oh the mouth .. and the dancing, the vocal range, the faux grimace, made possible by those flexible lips ...

Ahem. Sorry. Hubs is removing the computer (with its bookmarked Mika video) from the room while I compose myself.

Enjoy.

Hubs. vs The Dog

Perhaps it was their first encounter that set the tone.

We had just started dating, and Hubs was intent on getting some action. Unfortunately, so was Molly, who, at some point, leaped onto the bed. Being a bit preoccupied at the time, I didn't notice.

Only weeks later -- at a PARTY, in front of all our friends -- did Hubs finally mention that my dog had tried to molest him.

Still, he was a good sport. (OK, he wasn't THAT accomodating, people. Poor phrasing on my part.) I'm just saying -- he was willing to overlook the incident, labeling it a lone instance of aberrant behavior.

Until I moved in with him and Molly started humping his bed pillows.

Hubs freaked. The dog's private parts, after all, had touched the place on which he laid his head.

Once he stopped hyperventilating, however, Hubs experienced a flash of man-genius. He would build a bed! One too high for Molly to leap upon! Yes!

So he used his Mighty Man Powers to construct a VERY BIG BED -- a bed that I spent the next month toppling out of every time I got up to pee in the middle of the night.

Hubs was so proud, so pleased, I just didn't have the heart to tell him that Molly had learned how to scramble up onto the bed. Or that she was still doing the wild thing with his bedding.

One morning, however, he caught her in mid-hump. From then on, he stashed his pillows on a closet shelf before leaving for work each morning.

Over the years, similar battles ensued, one involving a chair favored by both Hubs and the dog; another involving Hubs' prized deer antlers, which, apparently, the dog rather fancied. As a snack.

Alpha Hubs vs the Alpha Dog.

And hmmm... who to root for?

We have, here, the Hubs, a rather attractive guy, I must admit.




(And just look at what cute children his genes have helped produce! Sorry. Bragging rights. I'm done.)

But now look below, at the adorable, furry creature with whom I've had the longest relationship. E-V-E-R. Such a patient loyal dog, especially given some of the boyfriends she had to tolerate before Hubs and his irresistible manhood came along.



In recent years, we've learned to compromise, the Hubs and I. There are now limits as to which furniture may be occupied by the dog, although arthritis in one hip has left her unable to climb the bed these days.

I think.

A few weeks ago, I found a suspiciously scrunched-up pillow on Hubs' side of the bed.

But I'm not telling.

I call her Perfect Linda.

She's my brother-in-law's wife.

Tall. Thin. Tan. Perfectly blonde, shiny, highlighted hair. Perfectly pedicured feet, right down to the last, glossy toenail, even in the dead of winter. Perfectly dressed. Impeccably accessorized.

If I didn't want to be her, I would hate her.

But let me continue --

She is perfection in the kitchen. On Easter weekend, she hosted a gathering at her home. The homemade macaroni alone was enough to make me weep many tears of both gratitude and envy, but let's add to that the cheesy scalloped potatoes and THREE desserts, including some sort of mocha fluffy thing that made me want to lay on the kitchen floor, drooling and completely helpless, at her shimmering, red-toe-nailed feet.

Did I mention that she works full-time as a nurse in the L&D ward? Did I mention that in the three years since she married my brother-in-law, she has transformed his former bachelor digs into a comfy, inviting home? Did I mention that she has three kids and he has four?

No?

Well, then let's move on to the Easter baskets, which were designed and put together specially for each child at this weekend's gathering. The eggs, which she dyed -- "just for fun," according to my besotted brother-in-law. The sparkling bubbles she blew from perfectly glossed lips as three small children cavorted at her feet -- (did I tell you how perfectly polished her toes are, how there's nary a callous or corn on her feet?) -- during a slavering display of adoration.

Really, I should hate her, am obligated to do so, on behalf of all of us who paint only the smidgeon of toenail exposed by our sandals, even during the peak of sandel season.

But then I think back to the family gathering at which I caught her secretively adding a splash of bourbon to her Sonic cup. I remember how, at the climatic moment of the reprent-or-be-damned sermon at my mother-in-law's church, Linda was spotted doodling silly little cartoon-man figures (the preacher, maybe?) on her church bulletin.

And I think maybe I could wrestle my brother-in-law for her hand and get myself what my fellow Musing Mama Liz says all worn-out mamas need: A WIFE.

If only they could bottle it

A few weeks ago, my friend C. walked into the newsroom and told me she'd just been at the day care, visiting her daughter, and had spotted the E-man running across the playground — arms spread, face aglow, laughing.

"He just looked so ... joyful," she said.

Pause.

"I looked at him and wondered, 'Have I EVER felt that happy?'"

Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou

I think the same thing every day.

Not that I begrudge my little boy his ever-present euphoria. But God, I want me some of that.

Where the hell did he get the happy gene? It didn't come from me (on meds) or his dad (should be) (kidding, kidding, Hubs is the ((relatively)) normal one in our marriage, aside from his sponge and old-things obssessions.

But just look at the E-man in this pic from his first Halloween. Have you ever seen a kid this damn happy when he's got a freaking pumpkin stem sprouting from his head?

The Sponge

No, not that one.

I refer to the kitchen variety -- that which I contend harbors a billion bits of bacteria, just waiting for my sponge-happy husband to spread them all over our dishes and counters.

Hubs loves sponges. He buys them, three at a time, and then hoards the ones not in use more lovingly (read: rabidly) than Elaine.

Problem is, when deciding what is truly sponge-worthy, Hubs is somewhat less ... discerning ... ?

Everything, he believes, warrants a sponge. I beg to differ.

I hate the sponge, so much so that I can't bear to watch him do the dishes.

Oh my God, he just swiped the bowl in which the raw chicken was marinating and now he's using THE SAME SPONGE to clean our table. The table on which we eat. Salmonella will ravage our household.

Which is why I throw away any sponge I encounter.

"Hey, where's my sponge?" Hubs will inquire indignantly.

I point to the trash can.

"Why?" he asks plaintively. "Why?"

Because I can't stand the texture -- slimey, squishy. Because I can't stand the way they collect food particles and then turn green. Because EVERBODY knows that sponges harbor more bacteria and icky, horrible plague-worthy particles than anything else in the kitchen. Why don't you just grab that piece of raw chicken and rub it all over our utensils while you're at it?

But I just stick with, "It was gross. So I pitched it."

And then I buy cannister after cannister of those glorious anti-bacterial wipes, hoping that one day, he will be wooed away from the sponge. I love the wipes. You scrub the counter and then you throw the grimy things away.

But he continues to stock up on sponges.

And I continue to wonder, how can he not see the disgustingness of the sponge? Because in my mind, you might as well just start re-using toilet paper. Same damn, icky thing.

Why I'm certain...

...my stepson will not be getting any action at our house, even when he and his girlfriend are cuddled up on a mattress in the E-man's darkened room.

Exhibit A: The stepmother, who trots in and out with several stacks of folded clothes, unaware until the third trip -- due to the dimness -- that two teenagers are not only present, but in the midst of gazing adoringly into one another's hormone-misted eyes.

Exhibt B: E-man, who is leaping up and down on the mattress, mere inches from the entwined teenage feet, yelling delightedly, "Zhump! Zhump!"

Exhibit C: Tootie, who runs in and out of the room with a half-slip and a plastic tiara on her head, announcing, "I'm a princess ghost. Look, T. Boo!"

Nope, no worries about S-E-X in our house.

Well, except for Hubs, who's always worrying that he -- Hubs, that is -- won't get any.

Like, ever.

(Insert evil cackle of weary mama/failure-of-a-sexpot wife here.)

Tagged...

... by Colleen via Musing Mama to describe a "Real Mom."

Kristin started this, and I highly recommend not only a visit to her site, but also Mominatrix, which I started reading after Angela emailed this column to me.

So here goes —

Real Moms:

Have been reading the same damn book — 30 minutes at a time — for the past two months.

Subscribe to parenting magazines but either never find the time to read them, or, if they do, prefer to make fun of the stupid Pollyanna people featured in all the stories and ads rather than follow any of the insipid advice offered by these podlings.

Wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because they can't remember whether they remembered to buy a card and present for Teacher Appreciation Day.

Never run out of creative excuses to avoid sex, not because they find their husbands unattractive, but because they're simply too tired. (And still trying to finish that book.)

Never finish the laundry.

Take a walk through our newsroom

Listen to the reporters' conversations. You'll understand why I'll never be fit to work in any other environment:

"... and so for the next 24 hours, you have to pee in this bucket ..."

"... caught trying to steal a sheep from the zoo ... said he thought it was his mother..."

"OH NO!" [Thud, thud, thud] "I just wrote this email about how I was worried I might be pregnant and that I forgot to take my anti-depressant this morning and then accidentally sent it to one of my sources..."

" ... he used Dippity-Do for WHAT?!"

"... So should I send another email apologizing for that first email about the anti-depressants?"

" ... used a garbage can to steal that sheep from the petting zoo ... no, the sheep wasn't injured ..."

" ... guy said the strippers beat him too hard during a birthday spanking ..."

[Religion editor walks by, pauses at a reporter's computer screen and notices a man wearing a thong.]

"What website are you on?"

"Go Fug Yourself."

[Editor looks hurt.]

"... Um ... OK."

Normally, this time of year...

...we'd be planning our annual trip to Big Bend.

We got married there April 29, 2001, and try to make it back for each anniversary.

This year, however, we'll be celebrating here, with plans to head down to Big Bend in September.

Already, I'm anticipating the trip, in spite of last year's series of truck-related disasters.

I mean look at this --



That was taken from the Lost Mine Trail, one of my favorite hikes at the park.

Most nights, we camp. Always, however, we begin and end each trip with a stay at the Gage Hotel. Here's a shot from our last night there, taken in the bar.



You would assume, looking at the photos from most of our trips, that I'm vacationing alone, as Hubs rarely appears in any pictures. I would offer one that reveals his ever-so-pale legs, but since mine (equally white, and also stubbly after three nights of camping), are also visible, I'm keeping it to myself.

In the old days...

...I would have been holding someone's hair out of the way as she puked into a toilet only a third of the way into the party.

Now, I'm wiping a 4-year-old's butt only a third of the way into the party after she did something very scary in the hostess' sole bathroom.

In the old days, I would have been climbing a fence and leaping into the swimming pool at an apartment complex at, say, 2 a.m. (Said apartment complex would not have been home to any of my friends, just one that happened to boast a pool.)

Now, at the same party that has an unusable, smelly bathroom, I'm watching the bottoms of my son's feet vanish through the doggie door as he climbs, in and out, in and out, never pausing until he comes face-to-face with the beagle who has a legitimate need for the doggie door.

In the old days, I would have awakened at 7:30 a.m. and called Girlfriend A in the midst of hangover paranoia to ask whether I really did what Girlfriend B, who called in the midst of her own hangover paranoia, says I did.

Now, I'm thinking I should apologize to a girlfriend for the fact that one of her beagles ate sidewalk chalk during her party because my children left the chalk laying on the patio -- or, sigh ... did they deliberately FEED it to the dog?

The sisters

Look at C. and Tootie sitting in the daffodils of Wye Mountain.

Would you think, even for a second, that they have different mothers? No, you wouldn't, not even if you met them in person -- because in both cases, the Hubs' genetic imprint is readily apparent, right down to the freckles on each of their little noses. Not so with the maternal contributions. (The only thing that marks Tootie as mine are the middle two toes on each foot, which, like mine, are slightly webbed.)

Now the boys -- they're a whole different story. T. looks like his mom. And you can certainly see me when you look at the E-man.

Some days, however, I have to recheck Tootie's toes, just to make sure I didn't imagine that whole nine months and birthing scene.

A torn ... what ...???

Apparently I have a tear in my ... labrum? ... (which is so not what I thought the doctor said at first) and some fluid and some sort of something-or-other wrong with a bicep tendon ... or something.

I have a tendency to not hear what a doctor is saying because a.) I'm trying not to be too grossed out by his graphic explanation of whatever I've managed to do to myself and b.) I'm already thinking of my next question, which likely stems from something I Googled.

When Molly was just a few years old, she ripped a toenail lengthwise. The vet gave her something to sedate her, but it didn't take effect immediately. So he muzzled her and started cutting. I felt a little woozy during the process, but it wasn't until I was writing the check that I thought I might pass out. Naturally, that's when the sedative finally kicked in and Molly oozed to the floor. I wanted to ask for whatever they gave her, but figured a woman seeking drugs from her dog's vet might appear ... well, desperate. So I lugged my 50-pound dog out to the car and sat there with my head between my knees.

Yesterday, I actually considered -- in the midst of a fully loaded panic attack -- asking the doctor if he could just not talk about the injury itself and maybe use very general terms to describe what needed to be done, like, "exercises" or "minor surgery." No descriptions of torn cartilage, please.

Thankfully, he thinks the shoulder will heal on its own.

I have vowed to keep wearing the flip-flops. But those stepping stones? I've asked Hubs to remove them.

Evolution (de-?) of a klutz

Life as a clumsy person is difficult, especially when you're forced to explain to the doctor how, as you were dashing from your car to the house, your flip-flop caught on the edge of a stepping stone, catapulting you into the air before you landed on your belly, arms extended.

I have injured a shoulder before (due to a poorly executed foward roll in a college self-defense class), but really, I don't remember the kind of holy-hell pain I experienced yesterday afternoon, this time in the opposite shoulder.

I bawled and cussed as I hobbled into the house. A glimpse out of the dining room window revealed that E-man, contentedly eating a Happy Meal cheeseburger in the car, had totally missed the spectacle of his airborne mother.

These things always happen to me -- never a normal or understandable sort of accident.

(Ever bonk yourself in the middle of the forehead with a pair of pliers while trying to zip up a pair of skin-tight jeans in high school? Yeah, me neither.)

As for that shoulder injury in college...

We had been instructed to disable our "attackers" and then roll away from them. (Someone, please tell me why, after knocking a gun out of the bad guy's hand, you would somersault across the pavement? Wouldn't you just run like hell?)

That time, after causing a bit of a scene in my class, I ended up in a sling on the very first day of my internship at the Dallas Business Journal.

That time, when I discovered I couldn't put on a bra, I just didn't wear one. Oh, 21-year-old breasts, how I miss you... This time, I've had to ask Rick to deal with the bra (and soooo not in the context or setting he would prefer), or I've had to awkwardly fasten it myself in the front before sliding it around, one-handed, into the proper, hoisting position.)

Am awaiting the verdict as to what I've done to myself this time. Last time, it was a partially separated shoulder.

My final exam for the self-defense course involved warding off three "attackers' in a dimly lit gym. These guys, then, would be the ones to determine my grade.

The instructor told them to go easy on me. I, however, was caught up in the moment, eager to prove that I'm not a one-woman disaster. But as I whirled around to administer a fake kick, I accidently nailed one of the guys in a particularly vulnerable area.

Gasping, he fell to floor.

He beckoned the instructor over, then motioned limply toward me.

"Give her an A," he wheezed. "Just give her an A."

In her new starring role:

Molly, aka Princess Rarity of My Little Pony's Ponyville. (Or was Princess Rarity a unicorn...? Hmmm... regardless ... )

Does the dog look resigned? Pitiful?

Does Tootie care, so long as Molly doesn't trample over Ponyville?

Baby got no back...

...and it's becoming a problem, finding pants that won't drop to his ankles by 9 a.m.

We're talking no booty whatsoever, nothing to hold his jeans in place.

I don't understand. Even when I was a mere wisp of a high school student (sigh...oh, for the days of size 6), I had a butt. Rick has a butt. Amanda -- butt accounted for.

My poor E-man, however -- well, the only thing that hugs his waist are the pants sized for 12-month-olds. He's 2. And tall. So we're talking about some serious high-water ramifications here.

Today, I put him in 18-month-old pants.

"He can't wear those anymore," Hubs informed me this evening.

Apparently, when Hubs arrived at the day care to pick up E-man, my poor boy was waddling down the hall, clutching at his jeans, pleading, "'Elp! 'Elp!'"

I offer as evidence this Christmas photo. My butt is clearly in evidence. E-man, however, is in danger of losing his pants.



And so I wonder, even though it's only mid-March, would it be inappropriate to make shorts the staple of his wardrobe?

A glimpse into my paranoid brain

This morning, I found an email from a childhood friend:

Subject: Dog poisoning -- never feed grapes to your dog!

My patient was a 56-pound, 5 yr old male neutered lab mix who ate half a canister of raisins sometime between 7:30 AM and 4:30 PM on Tuesday. He started with vomiting, diarrhea and shaking about 1 AM on Wednesday but the owner didn't call my emergency service until 7AM. I had heard somewhere about raisins AND grapes causing acute Renal failure but hadn't seen any formal paper on the subject.

The skeptical-journalist Cathy thought: Silly urban legend.

But then the easily freaked-out hypochondriac Cathy countered: Better Google this.

And I'll be damned if I didn't find a jillion articles on this subject, including this, from the one website I can count on to discredit scary emails:

Comments: Dog owners should heed this alert, which echoes a similar warning issued by the ASPCA Animal Poison Control Center in 2002. Veterinarians are not sure why, but grapes and raisins have indeed proven poisonous to dogs in a significant number of cases reported over the past 15 years. Symptoms, which include vomiting, diarrhea, anorexia and lethargy, can last for days or weeks. Without prompt treatment, severe kidney damage and death may result.

And right as I was commending myself for never having fed my 13-year-old dog grapes, memories of the previous evening skidded through my mind:

Tootie and the E-man, on the deck with boxes of raisins, quite possibly hurling them over the railing to a hopeful Molly.

Immediately, I called Hubs.

Cathy: Hey, last night, when you were outside with the kids, did they give Molly any raisins?

Hubs: Ummm...

(After nearly six years of marriage, Hubs is well aware that such questions lead him into the danger zone. So he is always cautious in his reply.)

Hubs: No ... I don't remember seeing them trying to feed the dog.

Cathy, to herself: He is just pacifying me. For all I know, she ate a whole box and even now is on the brink of kidney failure.

Hubs: Why are you worried about the dog eating raisins?

Oh silly, silly man.

I am the woman who Cloroxed her yard after adopting a puppy from the Humane Society that arrived at my house with Parvo. (I was worried that any future dogs might catch the virus, which, according to my meticulous research, can live on surfaces, such as grass, for a YEAR.

I am the woman who called a vet one night after discovering that Molly had eaten -- gasp! -- CHOCOLATE.

I am the woman, who, in 1996, wrote a story for the Odessa American about how you should never feed your pets scraps from your table during the holidays. The article was stripped across the top of the front page on Thanksgiving Day. (Happy turkey-eating, dear readers. But first, let me tell you all about yakking dogs.)

How did I not ever hear about the deadliness of raisins?

I've spent the hours before and after work observing Molly for signs of renal failure.

Meanwhile, she's eaten a bowl of dog food and treated me with the canine disdain that a paranoid freak of an owner deserves.

That crazy woman...

...you saw the other day, the one who honked at you when you came racing out of a parking garage in downtown Little Rock?

That was me, the proud owner of a nearly-paid-for Cavalier.

I've got just a few months to go, and then I'll lose that car payment. This has evoked both great euphoria and paranoia, as I'm now convinced that A.) Something expensive is going to break/fail/fall apart or B.) Some idiot like you, gabby-cell-phone-woman, will came flying out of a garage and hit me. (Put down the damn phone, lady. Clearly, you cannot multi-task.)

Hubs doesn't understand my joy/fear. Because, you see, in the seven years we've been together, the man has owned and driven a:

Jeep Wrangler
Chevy Silverado
Yukon
Dodge pickup
Ford Escape (not his choice, but he had to humor me in order to get something new)

I, on the other hand, have bought only two vehicles -- ever:

An Isuzu pickup, purchased my senior in college and driven for 10 years.
The Cavalier, going on five.

(If any of my old college friends are reading this, well, right now they're shaking their heads, murmuring to one another,"Oh my God. Remember that truck, the one with the stick shift and no power steering? She drove that for 10 YEARS?!")

My devotion to the Isuzu and Cavalier has alternately fascinated and horrified Hubs, who has been known to run out on his lunch hour and buy a new truck.

We started dating in September 2000, married in April 2001. So it took him awhile to figure out that the Isuzu's air conditioning hadn't worked for two years.

July in Arkansas proved revealing.

And so my poor little Isuzu, which had withstood a decade of travels -- from the backroads of West Texas to the logging roads of the Piney Woods -- and even a rather gory encounter with a flock of stray sheep (eight dead, after the Red-Rover-style collsion), lasted only a few months into our marriage.

Oh, how I loved that beat-up Isuzu.

And oh, how I loved the five years of no car payments.

Now, nearly six years later, I'm excitedly counting down the days 'til I mail off the last check for the Cavalier, even as I fret over all the what-ifs. My paranoia is well-founded.

You see, the sheep incident occurred just before I was due to pay off the Isuzu. Luckily, the insurance adjuster forgot to add in an $85 part, thereby sparing my truck. I even got a new paint job out of the deal because the Isuzu's original color no longer existed. The body shop guys laughed their asses off every time I talked to them, just because they couldn't believe they were actually fixing and repainting this thing.

(In case you're wondering -- that thing with the sheep happened right after a tornado. I was on assignment with a photographer (HE was driving) when we came upon a flock of sheep crossing a two-lane highway. Take a moment to imagine not one, but eight -- EIGHT! -- fluffy sheep bouncing off your hood. Oh, the carnage. Awful, I tell you, especially if you happened, as a child, to raise pet sheep: Holly, Dolly, Ellie and Sherman. But I digress...)

I drove that truck for another two years with an oil leak that required me to keep a permanent stash of Pennzoil on board -- until the day my Isuzu finally went dry and burned up the engine in downtown Houston.

No problem. I had the engine rebuilt just in time to drive the Isuzu to a new job in Arkansas.

And then I drove it for another two years before I started dating the man who made it his mission to get rid of the truck.

I am my father's daughter. He also clings to vehicles, a trait that has long infuriated my mother.

I still remember watching the blurred asphalt through several holes in the floorboard of his old Chevette.(Those holes first appeared when I was ... maybe a sixth-grader? And guess what? When I turned 15, I learned to drive a stick on that same Chevette.)

I also recall the day Dad finally got rid of our Mobile Traveler. I can still see him pacing the driveway, looking mournfully at the spot it once claimed. I'm quite certain that at the very same time, my mother was in the house turning cartwheels down the hallway.

My dad and I, however, both strongly believe that if it still works, you drive it, regardless of a lack of -- aesthetics...?

Hubs has talked for months of getting rid of the Cavalier, just so he will have a new truck for deer season. Won't happen. He did away with my Isuzu. He's not touching this one.

I will feel no pity, not even when I picture him cramming a dead buck into the back of a Ford Escape.

While my wee ones sleep...

...I study their sweet faces and see the babies they once were.



When they begin to stir, hungry and eager to be cuddled, I hold them close, breathing in their sleepy scent, treasuring this fleeting, precious glimpse back into their infancy. Then their eyes flutter open and the moment is gone.

Behold -- the Mollydog...

...in all her reclining, furry gloriousness.

Don't be fooled by her stately bearing. This is, after all, the dog who allowed herself to be draped in Mardi Gras beads by a little girl determined to turn poor Molly into a dancing circus elephant.

There is no photographic evidence of that indignity, however, because I didn't yet have a camera.

No, it doesn't bother me...

...that Tootie walked out the door in an adorable winter skirt, thick ribbed tights ... and her grubby, worn-out, too-small Elmo sandals from last summer.

Nope, doesn't bother me at all.

Because, you see, someone else in her class wore sandals yesterday. And because it's almost spring, right? I mean, it only dropped into the 30s last night.

It's good for a child her age to develop her own fashion sense, to assume some independence when she enters her closet.

So, no, really, doesn't bother me at all that those icky, clunky Velcro disasters are encasing her cute little stockinged feet.

Really.

How small is my state?

You go to the bustling race track and, within an hour, bump into:

A woman about whom you wrote extensively for several stories two months ago.

The boyfriend of another woman about whom you wrote extensively for several stories.

Two people who work at the coffe shop you frequent each day.

Your realtor, the poor, patient man who spent all that time showing you houses with lots of natural light so that your serotonin levels wouldn't plummet after moving in. Only you don't recognize him because your 4-year-old is throwing a fit, something about how she wants a red drink like that lady over there -- at the bar -- has. Oh, the realtor also is Rick's softball coach. Trust me, I should have recognized him immediately.

Hubs' cousin Karen and her husband Derwood.

Some TV guy Hubs knows from various assignments.

Preface to today's most embarrassing moment: I've been to the track once, several years ago, pre-children.

Today's most embarrassing moment: As I carried a tired and whiny Tootie outside, hoping to distract her with hosres, she shrieked, "No, Mommy! No more races! I don't want to go to anymore races! Please don't make me watch more races!"

From the way people were staring it's clear they thought I was some gambling addict who hauls her poor children to the track every Saturday so that I can make them watch as I piss away their college education funds.

So not fair. If I were going to misspend the college money, I would put it toward a quiet room with lush white towels and a masseuse possessed with a sympathetic ear and strong hands.

Traits that I hope...

...to see my kids inherit from Hubs.

1.) Straight teeth (I had — in this order — most of my baby teeth pulled by the dentist; all of my canines surgically removed for lack of space; braces; and headgear. Wisdom teeth — also gone. Is is any wonder I would prefer to be dragged into a dentist's office already unconscious?)

2.) Normal feet. (Bunionectomy in 2001. Had both feet done at the same time, which required Hubs to fetch and carry and generally loathe coming home at night to find me parked on the couch demanding pedicures and toe rings for my birthday so that I could show off my new, much prettier feet.)

3.) Evenly matched legs. (My right leg is considerably shorter than my left one. What, you thought that hip-sway was deliberate?)

4.) The ability to eat a bloody steak without Googling the symptoms of E. coli.

5.) The thick, wavy hair he had waaaay back when he wore overalls and flannel and resembled one or more of the guys from the band Alabama.

So at a recent birthday party...

...this would be the one that involved a fire truck blaring its horn at a crowd of 2-year-olds until half of them were shrieking and inconsolable.

As the truck pulled away for a ride around the block, the last image, one that lingers still in the party-numbed recesses of my brain, is that of a small screaming tot who was forced onto the back of the vehicle with his determined, clench-jawed father. (Uh, dude? Your kid soooo doesn't want to be on that freaking truck. How 'bout shaking off some of the excess testosterone and we'll head over to the non-alcoholic beverage table, chug some apple juice and commiserate over our wussy sons, eh, pardner?)

Geez.

I wandered over to where the other mothers were standing. They were discussing how their 2-year-olds all see a speech therapist, who, apparently makes rounds at E-man's day care.

"Why?" I asked.

"My little girl says "nack" instead of "snack," one mom explained.

"Um. So does E-man."

"Mine says "berry" instead of "very."

"Um. So does Tootie, my 4-year-old."

Call me a bad parent, but I love my children's mispronunciations. They're the last vestiges of babyhood and on the day Tootie quits asking to go play in the "backlard," well, I'll weep over those pesky Y-words.

My favorite -- now vanquished by proper pronunciation, dammit -- was how "TR" became an F-sound.

"Mommy, there's a firef***!"

"Oh, how cute," I cooed to Hubs when it started. "Her first baby cuss words."

But back to speech therapy. For 2-year-olds.

Women. Sisters. Fellow mamas. What have we come to? Can we really not just enjoy the first couple of years when these little slip-ups are the norm? Can we not find humor in them? Must we run out to procure professionals who will deprive us of our kids'cutest verbal fumbles?

What happened to finding a little humor in child-rearing? Personally, I would have throttled anyone who tried to correct Tootie when she said "dumb f***" instead of "dump truck."

I love the way E-man says "Nack." Or "tink yew" for "thank you." Or the way he calls himself "D-man."

My little D-man doesn't need speech therapy. And he can utter all the tinks his little heart desires.

I've seen kids overcorrected so frequently that they have trouble verbalizing their thoughts. Because they know the focus isn't on WHAT they say, but HOW they say it. Sad. So sad.

Lest you think I consider myself above the fray, let me assure you -- I can hang with the party crowd.

Exhibit A:

I present E-man, forced to don a fire hat, just so we could document his shame.



And laugh over it later.

Kneeling before the porcelain god

This morning, the plumber came to fix the kids' bathtub, which, for several days, has refused to drain. (Tootie claims that E-man allowed the lid to his Aveeno body wash to go down the drain, but who knows what really happened. "E-man did it" is the most oft-uttered refrain in our home.)

Our house was built in 1955. The bathroom totally represents that year, boasting a pink octagonally tiled floor, salmon and maroon wall tiles, etc...

And, apparently, the original toilet, which promptly sent the plumber into raptures.

"Wow," he said on entering the Pink Bathroom. "Look at that toilet."

He dropped, almost reverently, to his knees and inspected it more closely.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing at the tank cover.

"Oh, sure," I said.

"A Standard," the plumber murmured as he peered into the tank.

He turned to me. "Do you know what year this is from?"

"Umm... no," I said.

"1951," he told me. "This is your home's original toilet."

Now if Hubs had been present, he would have offered the plumber coffee and they would have sat cross-legged together on the bathroom floor, rhapsodizing about the beauty of old things.

But this poor guy was stuck with me, the woman who, according to her packrat husband, really has it in for "old stuff."

(In my defense, I like old things that are functional. And attractive. It's just that most of Hubs' old things don't happen to fit either description.)

As far as the toilet goes, well, it's never done me wrong. And I've always thought it was kind of cute, in a retro sort of way. I mean, it certainly fits the theme of the bathroom.

But this guy was really ooohing and ahhhing over our potty. He looked at the base of the toilet and I swear, his eyes misted over when he saw the knobby little caps that cover four screws. "Wow, you still have these," he said longingly. "I used to collect these, but my wife made me get rid of them."

He also was impressed by some thingy in the tank, which also happens to be an original — and now, rare — part.

... And all I'm thinking is, "Well, hell, how much is it going to cost us if this 'original' thingy breaks?" (Answer: At least $200-$300)

I won't bore you with the carrying-on that followed when he started examining the sink, but apparently it's pretty old too.

Hubs called shortly thereafter, and I informed him that not only is our bathtub fixed, we also are the proud owners of a really cool toilet.

And I told him how the plumber used to collect the little knobby caps located at the bottom of the potty, and there was a long pause ...

... which kind of makes me wonder if there's another collection in our shed that I don't know about.

One of the more difficult...

....elements of motherhood, for me, has been the necessity of becoming a quasi-functioning morning person.

I lost the ability to sleep in long ago. And I don't really miss that, although every so often, I would love to stay in bed until 10 or so, reading the paper, drinking coffee.

What's difficult is having to rise quickly, having to throw myself immediately into the morning chaos that constitutes "getting ready" at our house, having to maintain enough of my wits to outsmart the two little people who know their mama isn't always on top of things first thing in the morning.

("Mommy, can we have fruit snacks for breakfast?"
"Oh sure, sweetie," says the woman groping her way to the coffee pot. "No, wait, Tootie, no fruit snacks. How about some yogurt?")

As you can imagine, such inconsistency doesn't sit well with a 4-year-old.

In an ideal world, I would have one cup of coffee and 30 minutes to find at least a shred of the consciousness needed to persuade Tootie that last year's Halloween costume really isn't an appropriate choice for school.

But when you have two small children, one of whom is an early riser -- a happy one, thankfully, but still early -- there's not enough time for these vital preparations.

E-man pops up the minute the first sunbeam passes through his window. I've tried to make it up before him -- but I usually fall into my deepest sleep around 4 to 5ish, so unless I use an alarm -- and we don't in our house, because Hubs also bounds from the bed at dawn -- I can't rouse myself until I hear a chirping "Mommy!" echoing down the hallway.

So I stumble to his room, pick him up and lay back down for a dozing sort of snuggle, usually interrupted after about 10 minutes by E-man's demand for breakfast.

I figure I've got several more years of foggy mornings. And then, perhaps, I can teach my little early bird to get up and rummage for his own breakfast. (And maybe to bring me that first cup of coffee.)

Grocery shopping: Exercise in humiliation

So you decide to do the weekly shopping after the gym, and you figure both kids are in a good mood -- so why not take them with you?

And only after you've been caught talking to yourself -- because the grocery store recently started playing Easy Listening Music and today's current selection is the theme to The Young and the Restless -- ("Don't worry, guys, this'll be a quick trip because this hideous music is going to drive Mama crazy.) -- by a young guy who snickers --

-- and after your son develops a neon-green ring around his mouth from the fruit rollup, fruit snacks and Yogos you've plied him with just to keep the peace --

-- and after you crash into a battery display because the children insisted that they had to ride in one of the car-carts -- "The RED car, Mommy!" -- and the damn things are so much longer and difficult to maneuver --

-- and after your daughter narrates the collision -- "Mommy, why did you run into that? What were those? Did you break them? What are those on the floor?" --

-- and after all the customers in the checkout line jump and turn to see what led to the mighty crash and see a frazzled-looking woman with wet hair and wild eyes --

-- and after you look down and notice that your son is holding an open box of frozen fish fillets and also that he is GNAWING on one, and all you can think about is how you just posted on your blog a month or so ago about a guy who was letting his baby chew on a bloody steak package and, oh, what a hypocrite you are --

-- only after all of this, as you pry rock-solid fish from your 2-year-old's fingers, laughing maniacally out of embarrassment, does your 4-year-old daughter say, "Mommy, baby brothers are silly. I want you to have a baby girl."

And you laugh even harder and flush a deep red, because by now everyone in line has watched you wrest away a fillet from your youngest, and from their expressions they think it's pretty clear that you can't handle the two you have, so you say, "Oh, sweetie, I don't think Mommy's about to produce another baby just yet" -- and the cashier is doubled over, holding her stomach because she's laughing so hard, as your green-faced toddler son beams beatifically and your ever-talkative daughter opens a discussion on how women with big bellies always have babies inside them...and you get the impression she's referring to your belly by the way others are staring...

Next time I will shop at midnight -- alone and hooded.

At a different store.

In another freaking city...

...where they don't play soap opera themes.

Brushing dino's teeth

Tea party

On bimulous nights when the sky is like lace...

When Tootie was born, a woman in our newsroom gave me a copy of this book, telling me how much she loved it as a little girl and she hoped Amanda would too.

I'm the one who fell in love with it -- OK, well, Tootie likes it a lot too, but I can tell she's humoring me when I ask to read it every single night -- not only because it's magical and fanciful, but because it reminds me of the many books written by L.M. Montgomery.

I loved and still love Lucy.

As a child, hell, even in my teens, I read and re-read her books until they were torn and tattered. In my mid- to late 20s, while living in Odessa, Texas, I re-entered my L.M. Montgomery phase and bought still more of her books. (The Blue Castle and A Tangled Web)

Those Japanese schoolgirls longing to get married on Prince Edward Island. I so get that.

I mean, it's PEI, where Anne lived.

So I guess what I'm saying is that if I ever have a third child, and it's a girl, and her name is something like "Valancy Rose" -- well, you'll understand why.

Fantasy daycare addendum;

Daycare also would house -- along with coffee shop and salon -- a mini-market, thereby making emergency stops at the grocery store (w/ hungry, cranky children in tow) unnecessary.

Daycare daydreams...

My friend C. and I often draw up plans for the perfect daycare, which would:

1.) Collect your children directly from the vehicle each morning while handing you a to-go cup of coffee.

2.) Offer salon services for children whose bangs desperately need to be trimmed.

3.) Offer salon services to mothers who cringe at the prospect of hauling the kids along to a Saturday highlights appointment.

4.) Operate a sick room for kids who would normally be kicked out because of a 99.9-degree fever. (Note to daycares: By the time you call me to collect my sniffling, runny-nosed child, he/she has already exposed everyone else to the current illness of the week. And really, I don't have enough sick days to cover every episode of inexplicable low-grade fever.)

5.) Bring children out to the car at pickup time while handing you a bottle of wine and the week's dry cleaning.

The perfect birthday celebration:

1. Seven of your fun, fabulous girlfriends
2. Mojitos
3. Several bottles of wine
4. An array of cheese slabs, one of which arrives blazing with candles

I've lost 5 pounds since writing my most recent Musing Mama essay.

But it's my birthday (well, later this week, anyway) and the Girl Scout cookies in my kitchen are positively screaming for my attention.

Gossip, cheese and now Thin Mints.

Really, can an evening get any better than this...?

Other people's stuff

I fear my in-laws' shed. More so than our attic (never been up there), more so than the crawlspace under our house (whoever thought a damp, earthy hole underneath a building was a good idea?) and more so than our own shed, which is filled with hundreds of relics from Hubss past — everything from every press pass he's ever worn to antique tools that will never work again.

I can handle clutter, which, by my definition, is that which can be sorted, put away or trashed. What I cannot handle is .. stuff -- things that stack up in closets or attics or sheds. Things to which people -- such as my husband -- have attached some strange sort of emotional claim.

Back issues of Life magazine, for example. Or ancient Rolling Stones. Why hold onto these? Why? Why? Has anyone ever sat down re-read all those back issues? Is it really that important to know how much a washer and dryer cost the year that you were born?

I've never been inside my father-in-law's shed. But it houses my worst nightmare. Stuff. Lots of stuff, stuff that will eventually take over my house and my life.

In the nearly six years we've been married, Hubs and I have never left his parents' house empty-handed. And I can't tell you how many times they've arrived at our house with a truckload of ... stuff.

Old furniture from recently departed family members? Check.

Dozens upon dozens of old, musty-smelling Life magazines from each year of little Hubs' childhood? Check.

Old, rusted tools from the basement of Grandma Liz's house? Check.

Random coins stored in old hair tonic cans by Hubs' grandpa? Check.

My in-laws are good people with good intentions. But oh my God, we cannot continue to accumulate the things they cannot bear to throw away.

Each time we prepare to leave their home, as I buckle squirming children into their carseats, I hear the dreaded order:

"Let's go out to shed before y'all leave."

And then I start squirming. (Breathe deeply, count, breathe deeply, count, try not to watch as father-in-law and husband emerge from the shed carrying something that resembles a coffin.)

The in-laws can't bear to throw away anything that came from another family member. Nor, however, can they possibly find enough space for all these hand-me-downs. The only acceptable solution (to them) is to pass it on to other relatives who also possess the collector-clutter gene.

My husband is one of those relatives.

Round and round the collected items go, from one person's basement to someone else's shed or attic. (Until an unfortunate item finally falls into my evil hands and I dispose of it.)

I knew when I first moved into Hubs' house there might be a problem. The tarnished, broken, disattached doorknob sitting on the living room bookshelves was the primary indicator.

"What's that for?" I finally asked.

It seemed so ... out-of-place ... perched up there with our books and pictures.

"Oh, I found it on an abandoned house on my grandparents' property," he replied.

Oh, yes, of course. I, too, pick up old doorknobs. All the time. Because my doors don't already have perfectly good doorknobs. Gah!

"Yes, but why is it there, on the bookshelves, instead of on a door?"

"Well, I figure I'll use it one day," hubby said. "I just haven't found the right door yet."

This reasoning applies to numerous other stashed items I've found over the years — such as the train set, never opened, from the 1980s, given to Hubs by an old girlfriend who was overcome with pity after hearing his woeful tale of the Christmas Day his new train set flew out of his parents' car trunk.

And the linens. Oh, mercy, mercy me — the linens. My husband has never (willingly) gotten rid of a single sheet or bedspread, including the plaid horror from his bachelor days. (The era of the train-set girlfriend.)

Just like his folks, Hubs can't bear to pass on his things to a stranger.

Usually, his intended victim is Stepson, who, thankfully possesses enough discernment to thwart his father's generosity.

"Oh, sure, I'll take it," Stepson always says diplomatically. Then he flees to his mom's house and leaves the item in question at ours.

Which is why, last weekend, a few hours after Stepson's departure, I walked into our bedroom to find six — SIX! — large boxes filled with Hubs' old record albums sitting on the floor.

I immediately had a nervous breakdown, which is why the albums have been moved to the shed. (I seem to recall shrieking something about how I got rid of my Crystal Gayle 8-tracks years ago, but I can't be sure. Hysteria tends to wipe my memory clean.)

Lest you think I'm cruel and overreacting, how would you feel if you came home one Sunday night from a business trip and discovered that your then-3-year-old daughter's bedroom — with its lavendar walls, white folding shutters and butterfly/flower theme — had been completely redone to accomodate Grandpa Winstead's hulking bedroom suite?

Would you be more sypmathetic if I told you that each piece of furniture boasted a small carving of a log cabin?

I began hyperventilating as soon as I saw it.

It's not that I don't appreciate the in-laws' desire to pass valued objects down — I love Grandpa Winstead's grandfather clock, which moved to our house last year. I just don't understand holding onto things that no one really wants. It strikes me as some sort of misplaced sense of obligation.

Perhaps my stuff-phobia is the residual effect of watching my parents' house fill with the many boxes shipped to them by my grandmother, who, while small in stature, also was a mighty collector. Just one of those boxes on our doorstep could send my mother into a panic attack.

One day, if we ever move from our 1955 three-bedroom home into something more spacious, maybe I'll be more tolerant. But right now, we don't have room for this degree of sentimentalism.

I love my husband. I just don't love his vinyl.

Which is why my biggest fantasy at the moment involves a garage sale and a trip to the Salvation Army.

Dancing ... I want to go dancing...

Hubs is fantastic on the dance floor. He two-steps and waltzes. And he spins me in such a way that I feel dainty and featherlike. (Ha.)

In fact, we first hooked up at a local dance hall. A honky-tonk, if you will.

It happened in the spring of 2000, when Hubs joined several of us for an evening out. My friends and I had been inviting him to a lot of our gatherings, mainly because I'd developed a huge crush and thought maybe I could get him drunk and cornered.

On the night of the hookup, we danced all night. By evening's end, he had me cornered in his pickup and all was blissful until I accidently leaned on the horn, thereby alerting an entire apartment complex — inhabited by lots of newsroom people — to our makeout session.

The next morning, I got a call from my friend Amy.

"So, is he a good kisser? And don't tell me you don't know because we looked out the window when we heard the horn."

And so it began, a romance that involved lots of dancing and one more semi-public snog, this time in Amy's closet, on the night she hosted a poker game. (I don't recommend closets for such encounters, however, due to the danger of accidental piercings by stray stilettos. In this instance, one fell on Hubs' head. Thankfully, he was not rendered unconsicious. Those who heard the tumbling shoes, however, were highly amused.)

I miss that impulsiveness. I miss dancing.

Day care dilemmas...

...finally are resolved, but oh, the hand-wringing and anxiety attacks involved...ugh.

Warning: This is a rant.

Both of my children were enrolled at the same day care. They were happy. We were happy. All was well.

Then came the notice, during re-enrollment.

It was highlighted in pink. It read: "Attention: Parents of children who will be attending pre-k -- Due to pre-k space being very limited, re-enrollment will be on a first-come first-serve basis."

On the actual re-enrollment form was another warning, also highlighted in pink: "Attention: Fall 07 Pre-K parents -- Please ask the receptionist to date your form upon return. Due to limited space, Pre-K enrollment will be on a first-come, first-serve basis."

OK, yeah, I got it. You don't have enough space for all those 3-year-olds who are due to be promoted. Even worse, this isn't because of some sudden surge in the 3-year-old population at the day care.

You see, the same notices came out last year. I thought it was a one-time issue. Apparently, I was wrong.

It's called overbooking.

Just last month, the day care enrolled two new 3-year-olds, knowing they already didn't have room to accomodate the kids already there.

Overbooking.

The end result is that parents are pitted against one another, racing to snatch up the prized, limited spaces -- no matter how long their kids have already been enrolled.

Hubs was pissed. No, make that absolutely livid. I, on the other hand, was panicked.

We had few options.

Tootie's not eligible for the public schools here because the PreK classes are for low-income families only. As for private schools or other day cares -- well, you'd have to have gotten on a waiting list at least a year or two ago to stand even the whisper of a most ardent prayer of getting your kid in.

At the last minute, after dozens of calls, we found a spot at a place my stepkids once attended, back when they used to go to summer day camp. In order to get it, however, we had to go ahead and transfer Amanda now.

We really like this new place. And Tootie seems to be adapting well, much better than I expected. Best of all, they don't kick out kids for lack of room.

Still, I'm bitter.

I knew, back when I got pregnant with Tootie, I would have to worry about getting her into a day care. I didn't realize, however, that I also would have to worry about KEEPING her there.

All right, end of vent. Just had to release some of the stress I've been suffering since those blasted notices came out.

To the judgemental woman...

...who actually stopped in her tracks and grimaced -- no, let's call it a moue -- when she encountered my daughter in the midst of a sobbing fit in the hallway at day care.

Lady, before you condemn my child's behavior or my parenting skills, please know this:

My little girl just finished her first week at a new school. She's done well adjusting, but I've known for days this was coming. Tootie holds it in and then lets it go all at once. Kind of like her mom. I'm not advocating this, mind you, but I understand.

Secondly, another child had taken home the picture Amanda worked so hard on today. She was crushed. That picture can't be replaced. And neither her mommy nor her teacher could get it back for her, a fact she simply could not accept.

Lastly, you were picking up an older girl who looked to be your granddaughter. That means you have children. Were they perfect? Were you? Are you?

I had just come from an interview with a man who lost his daughter last week in a freak car accident. So even as I cringed in embarrassment at my daughter's tantrum, I was so grateful to be holding that little hand.

So how dare you? How dare you look at my child that way, with such disgust? You can think whatever you want, but given that none of us -- not even you, lady -- holds the record for perfect parenting, please keep your unpleasant facial expressions to yourself.

Columnist's assignment: Nurse your kid in public

So I was skimming my usual journalism websites when I found this little item.

In short, it's about a Chicago columnist whose editor thought it would be nifty if she were to wander around breastfeeding in public so that she could write about it.

Here's a little excerpt:

Debra Pickett resigned from the Sun-Times Monday afternoon, minutes after being asked to do a story she thought was preposterous.

“I laughed,” says Pickett, recalling her response when features editor Christine Ledbetter called with the assignment to breast-feed her infant son in public places and write about it.

... The idea for the breast-feeding story came from editor-in-chief Michael Cooke, who says it was simply an idea -- a paper could no more assign such a story than it could assign a reporter to pose nude for an art class.

Oh. My. God.

Now, I have put the girls on (very discreet) display DURING assignments.

(Example: During a weeklong trip to New Orleans, I crouched in the backseat of our rental car two or three times a day, pumping milk, as a male photographer drove and my fellow reporter, Amy, watched for truck drivers and construction workers, who, from their vantage point, might be able to see into our vehicle. I nursed outside a wedding chapel when I took my eldest along for an interview. Parking lots? Been there. Mall benches? Done that.)

Never, however, have I been asked to bare my breasts FOR an assignment.

When, may I ask, has a male journalist ever been asked to haul out his boy parts for a column on ... say ... vasectomies? Or perhaps erectile dysfunction?

Can you feel the collective shudder in the newsroom budget meeting? I can.

Hey, I know! Let's ask our reporter-mamas to try a man-on-the-street approach: "Excuse me, sir? Will it bother you if I whip out my BREAST -- like this! -- so that I can gauge your immediate response to public nursing?"

Again: Oh. My. God.

And to think — I've spent years complaining about assignments involving the weather.

Ode to fun ... and Tanya ...

Fellow Musing Mama Nicole Foy just wrote an essay that really resonated with me.

In it, she describes Fun Nicole vs. Mom Nicole, and how she's trying to bring the former out of hiding more often.

It made me think of Fun Cathy vs. Mom Cathy. Here, for your amusement, are a few examples:

1. ) In 2000, Fun Cathy was photographed in shiny, skin-tight silver pants, dancing wildly at a Christmas party while managing not to dribble even a drop of her Colorado Bulldog.

In 2005, Mom Cathy was photographed dry-heaving into her daughter's plastic Halloween trick-or-treating jack-'o-lantern while in en route to the hospital to deliver baby No. 2.

2.) Fun Cathy got a little tipsy 12 years ago at a friend's wedding reception and decorated four -- count 'em -- FOUR! -- cars in a hotel parking lot before she finally stumbled across the one that actually belonged to the happy couple.

Mom Cathy spent last night decorating Hello Kitty valentines.

3.) Seven or eight years ago, Fun Cathy went to Karaoke Night at a local Holiday Inn with two of her girlfriends. The trio sang a terribly moving rendition of Delta Dawn. Fun Cathy knew all the words and didn't have to use the cheat screen even once.

Mom Cathy has twice forgotten her birthday in recent years. Her depleted memory bank, once used to store such useful bits of mental flotsam -- ancient Tanya Tucker lyrics, for example -- now retains only the most necessary information, such as the names and traits of every Richard Scarry character ever created.

It occurs to me, re-reading this, that perhaps I shouldn't try to lure Fun Cathy out too often. She might, in the throes of nostalgia, try to squeeze herself into those silver pants, an act (and outfit) which would most certainly frighten the children.

Birthday girl...

Celebrating with cupcakes at school. These, obviously, are the before photos, as the after shots involve icing goatees. There is, after all, only one way to eat a cupcake: top first.

Winter blahs...

Saturday, I went to see Because I Said So with three friends. We picked it based on which movie had gotten the worst reviews as we didn't want to see anything thought-provoking, socially illuminating or Oscar-worthy.

Yeah, we are escapism purists. Whatever.

One of these friends has just moved in with her boyfriend. Another is planning her wedding. The third has a baby who just turned 1. Then there's me, mother of a 2- and 4-year-old.

We're all at different stages in our lives, yet we are at the same point:

We are desperate for this freaking, godawful gray winter to end.

I hate -- hate, hate, HATE -- February, even though it's the month of my birth and my kids' births.

It's the peak of winter, the peak of flu season, and, for me, the peak of my annual winter-driven depression.

(Yes, I experience the regular variety as well, but truly, I find it easier to handle than that which is prompted by drab weather.)

I remember my maternity leave after Tootie was born -- a series of days filled with rain, sleet, ice and grubby, slushy snow. Is it any wonder I spent hours sobbing my way through countless rolls of toilet paper?

This February promises to be just as tough. I want the extended light provided by daylight-savings time. I want to dress my little girl in sundresses and my little boy in shorts. I want to dash outside barefoot without freezing my toes off. I want sunshine and warmth.

Mostly, I want to wear sandals.

Really, is there any other form of comfortable footwear? I think not.

Snowfall...

...means it's time to bring out the dump trucks.

(Photos of mama building a snowman in her PJs and long, woolen coat not included due to unfortunate morning hair.)

Just not a party sort of girl...

...when it comes to birthdays, I mean.

For toddlers. Or preschoolers.

Think about it -- when you were 2, 3 or 4, did your mom and dad attend birthday parties with you? Did they sit around making forced conversation with a bunch of equally uncomfortable parents? Did they participate in all the games and festivities?

Mine didn't. BECAUSE BACK THEN WE DIDN'T HAVE BASHES FOR TOTS INVOLVING FREAKING GYMBOREE OR JUMP ZONES OR FIRE TRUCKS OR OTHER EQUALLY HIDEOUS FORMS OF ENTERTAINMENT THAT MAKE ONE THINK OF JABBING STRAIGHT PINS UNDER ONE'S FINGERNAILS.

Back then, the parties started around kindergarten or first grade and your mom dropped you off at someone's house -- or maybe the roller rink -- and then picked you up a couple hours later. (Or maybe the next morning, after you sat up giggling all night with your girlfriends.)

If your mom did stick around, it was because the birthday girl was the daughter of her best friend and they mixed up a couple of gin and tonics and smoked their ciggies nonchalantly while their offspring, armed with sharp implements, lurched toward a poster of a donkey.

God, please spare me any further celebrations for little people who can't even tell you how freaking old they are.

Please spare me the expectation that parents also must attend these blasted, overblown events.

In the blessed days of old, a birthday party meant a free afternoon while the host/hostess assumed responsibility for the party-goers.

So --

If you can afford to rent out a football stadium for your 3-year-old, then you can damn well afford to hire a couple of extra nannies to manage the little darlings, thereby exempting the parents from the torture of sticking around and making awkward conversation with one another as they try to ignore the screams of the toddlers terrified by the fire truck's obnoxious blaring horn.

Hey, when your kid turns 5, call me. I'll drop mine off at your place and go browse through a bookstore during the festivities.

But please, I beg you, do not ask me to dig out yet another pair of non-holey socks so that I can romp through an inflatable wonderland with the birthday boy and a dozen or so other toddlers who are accompanied their own shoeless parents.

Universal sign among women that it's going to be a bad day:

Your desk boasts a four-pack of cranberry juice and a box of Azo.

Can I go home yet?

You know you're a southern wife/mom when...

... on getting married, you move into your husband's house and discover it won't be easy convincing him that the tangled cluster of deer antlers on the fireplace mantel isn't what you had in mind for home decor.

... you spend an evening at your husband's ex-wife's house so that you, he, she and her spouse can ceremoniously present your stepson with his first hunting gun & gear.

... on learning that you're pregnant, your husband excitedly plans a nursery theme based on "little woodland creatures" with complementary camo bedding. You aren't yet sure whether you're having a boy or girl.

Don't believe me? Take a gander at Arkansas Reunion on YouTube.

(Had trouble getting the direct link to the video to work. But it's easy to find.)

Tagged...

...by Colleen to disclose six weird things about myself:

1.) I hate antiques. Too big, dark and ... brooding. Because of this loathing, I fantasize about getting rid of my husband's hall tree. I hate it. He knows it.

2.) I hate knick-knacks. Dust-collectors, all of them. Yuck.

3.) I'm addicted to People magazine. And US. And I read Go Fug Yourself every day over coffee.

4.) I find pork chops revolting.

5.) I have to read exactly 30 minutes before I can go to sleep.

6.) I still love Erasure. And Depeche Mode. And now Gabriel & Dresden.

Bonus: 7.) Despite the above-mentioned music preferences, my radio is always set to the classic country station. Always.

Longing for spring...

...and this is why:

I called the neighbor...

...and explained that we have this...thing...about sleep. i.e. we get really testy and crazy when deprived of it.

(In other words, if I had known your dog were in agony, and wasn't just being annoying, I wouldn't have leapt from my bed, tripping over my own dog, to yank open a window and scream into a rainstorm.)

It's just our son sleeps so lightly that I could stand in the backyard and yawn and his little eyelids would flutter open. I know every inch of the floors in our house -- which ones creak, which don't, and just how to hop-scotch safely to our bedroom without waking the wee one.

But I digress.

Did I mention that the neighbor woman is a widow? That the dog is 14? That it's her daughter's dog? And that she likely will have to put it to sleep tomorrow?

I am cursed. I will be known as the woman who shrieks at poor sick animals wracked with pain.

Just watched Little Miss Sunshine, however, which boosted my mood considerably (was in hysterics during the dance scene) -- despite all this blasted rain.

Great movie.

As for the weather, if I don't see some sun soon, I may very well wander into a veterinary practice and yell at all the ailing animals there too. Because by then -- I WILL HAVE LOST MY SANITY! This weather is awful. Started raining Thursday night and hasn't quit since.

I'm good for one day of wet, gray weather and that's about my max. So yeah, we're way past what I can handle given my pitifully low seratonin reserves.

Today I went to the gym just for the bright lights, music and noise. (OK, yeah, and the whirlpool.)

How to feel like an ass...

So your neighbor's dog has been barking incessantly the past several days. It's a little white yip-yappy thing, and you -- well, you're partial to big dogs. REAL DOGS.

So this little disattached mop-thing next door won't shut up, and even worse, he's awakened your 2-year-old four or five times in the past couple of days.

Last night, he woke up your kid twice. And you got so mad you screamed, "HUSH!" out your bedroom window. Granted, that's actually pretty polite for you, given your fondness for cussing.

The second time the dog yaps your child from slumber, hubby goes out onto the front porch and yells, "SHUT UP!"

And then the next day, you get this note from your neighbor -- a really nice, articulate, apologetic note -- about how her dog has some horrible infection and it can't go to the bathroom without yapping in pain and how the vet keeps encouraging her to put it down.

And you feel like an utter bitch for having shrieked like a raving madwoman from your bedroom window to a DYING DOG that is in some sort of bathroom purgatory.

ARGH.

Who's that big guy...

...lumbering through my house?

Seriously, it's strange, after a fall of absences, to have Hubs here on the weekends again. Not that I'm complaining -- we're thrilled to have him back on a regular basis.

It's just that you don't realize how you fall into these little routines, and then suddenly there's this extra person who doesn't get that library time comes after naptime which follows lunchtime which follows morning playtime/cleaning time.

(Or that naptime falls conveniently around the Saturday repeat of What Not To Wear and that the TV is MINE during this blessed hour.)

He's catching on though. And tonight, he's whipping up a pot of venison chili -- yay! I have missed that man's chili.

OK, back to What Not to Wear. Christina is learning to buy clothes that don't give the girls too much freedom...

More blahness...

...rain and more rain. And when it isn't raining, it's gray. I HATE gray.

I have an insatiable need for sunlight, a craving that often drives Hubs batty.

Oh, and as for the realtors who've had the misfortune to take me on -- well, let's just say their relief at depositing me on the doorstep of an appropriately sunny home has been damn near tangible.

When Hubs and I moved to San Antonio in the fall of 2004, it took two weekends of house-hunting before I finally deemed one particular place to be light enough to consider.

And mind you, we were only looking to rent at the time.

"Nope," I declared several times. "This is a cave. I can't live in a cave."

Hubs, on the other hand, loves a dimly lit room. He couldn't understand my lack of interest in houses that boasted only a sliver of sunshine.

"But look at all this storage space. This is perfect."

"No way. If you make live here, the Tootie-post-partum experience will seem like a freaking Pollyanna picnic compared to my maternity leave this go-round. I cannot deal with gray. I cannot sit in the dark house, hormonally challenged, nursing a newborn, weeping over weather forecasts. Give me sun. Give me light. Give me a house that has decently sized windows and more than one per room, for God's sake."

By the time we moved back here, he had learned.

"No," he kept telling our realtor, "she won't like that. Too dark."

One house we didn't even enter, due to a lack of windows.

Besides, even before we made the rounds here, I'd already settled on the perfect place, based solely on some photos sent by friends of ours.

Big picture window, flanked by two large rectangular ones, in the living room. Bay windows in the kitchen. French doors and two additional windows in the master bedroom.

Light. Lots of it.

Sold.

We've never yet covered the living room window, which the means our neighbors are treated each night to the Crazy Family Show.

I don't care. I hate drapes or curtains or whatever you choose to call them. Blinds? Marginally acceptable. At least you can yank them up and leave them there. So let the neighbors gaze upon Hubs' ripped, stretched-out boxers in nightly horror. Because when I walk into my living room each morning, I find a space already filled with sunshine.

Except for the last several days.

Am at the end of my patience. And February looms. Ugh.