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: