How to traumatize your toddler:

1. Decide it's time to take down the artificial Christmas tree.

2. Remove ornaments and light. Ignore nervous looks from your almost-2-year-old son.

3. Remove top quarter of the tree. Ignore how son sidles to the front door.

4. As tree leans precariously, grapple with second piece to be removed. Jump as toddler screams in horror.

5. Lay decapitated tree across coffee table and try to console son, who only screams louder at the sight of his desecrated, topless, horizontal Christmas tree.

6. Try again to pull apart remaining halves. Ignore screams. The sooner the tree is gone, the sooner he'll forget all about this.

7. While using your more tame array of cuss words (crap, hell, dammit), lug tree through the living room door, down the hallway as toddler's screams grow even louder.

8. Pull vainly on tree as it becomes stuck in bedroom doorway.

9. Hurtle across the bedroom with second piece of tree that has suddenly given way.

10. Hurriedly unwedge remainder of sad, pitiful tree and stash in corner of the bedroom.

11. Return to living room to find toddler happily engrossed in an episode of Blue's Clues.

Which of these things is not like the other?

And here we have, to the left, the non-morning people. And to the right, those who wake up perky and ready to go...

To all those assembling toys...

... the type requiring a set of deluxe tools and massive amounts of patience...





Merry Christmas!

Pretty pic

Hubs shot this the other morning...

Oops.

In keeping with my tradition of committing at least one faux pas per visit to the in-laws:

We arrived late Thursday night, and I headed straight for the guest bathroom. My MIL is the type who stocks the restroom with everything a guest might need (shampoo, toothbrushes, lotions, shower gels, razors, etc...)

So when I saw the handy, beaded neck-massage device on the counter, I helped myself. Long week at work, long drive, ahh...heaven...

...until the damn thing snapped in two, beads flew everywhere and I realized, belatedly, I had just used one of my MIL's favorite necklaces to rub my neck.

I restrung the necklace and tied off the twine. Am hoping she doesn't notice that it's now a little shorter than it used to be.

The wee ones...

...wish you a very Merry Christmas, despite their reservations about that Santa dude:

Imagine:

Hubs, 6 foot 2, silver-haired, with a snazzy goatee...

...wearing a pair of fuzzy kitten ears, sprawled on the living room floor, feet protruding from the pink Disney Princess tent he is currently forced to occupy most evenings.

Oh, I simply cannot wait to get my camera... and oh, the power I will wield...

Definition of cute:

My daughter, the diva, with a lavender blanket fastened around her neck with a chip-bag clip:

"Goodbye! I may never see you again..."

And E-man, my sweet boy, looking at her with the most perplexed, what-the-hell expression on his face...

And this --

Tootie, on her way to a birthday party...

Fashion plate? Moi? ha. Ha! HA-HA-HA-HA!!!

Got home yesterday and, as I changed clothes for a Christmas-shopping expedition, I noticed I had worn my skirt inside-out all day at work. And to interviews. And meetings with editors. Hmmm...shrug...oh well...

Braved the crowds with Hubs. Ate dinner at a busy restaurant. Got home. Asked spouse to rub my shoulders. He says, with barely contained glee, "Did you know your shirt is on inside-out?"

Sigh...

Sanity? Wherefore art thou...?

Hubs has been gone, and, stupidly, I decided that I absolutely had to go to the gym tonight. I felt fat. I was stressed. At the time, it seemed like a great idea.

So I picked up the wee ones, plied them with cereal bars, and off we went. Checked them into the playroom, no problem.

But then -- the departure. Oh ye gods.

At the front desk, as I turned in my locker key, Tootie said, "Mama, I need a drink," prompting E-man to chant, "Cup! Cup!"

So I bought bottled water, E-man took a swig, and then shrieked as though I had poured battery acid down his throat.

He screamed all the way out into the parking lot. He screamed as I buckled him into his seat belt. And I'm thinking, "OK, he's tired. This was just too much. I should have just gone straight home."

And then, just to dot the exlamation point, my sweet baby boy hurled his binky into the front seat.

Waaah! Waaah!

Mama, why is Etan crying?

Waah! Waah!

Mama, he's being loud.

Waah! Waah!

We pulled into the driveway and I swear, upon a dozen binkeys, no matter how fat I feel, I will never, ever attempt this again.

(How many days until Friday?)

Oh, ick...

...While at the grocery store yesterday morning, I encountered a father shopping with his son. The child, an adorable tow-headed tot, looked to be a little over a year old.

And he was gnawing on a bloody styrofoam-and-Saran-wrapped package of steaks.

It took every ounce of self-restraint I possess to not whack his father -- who clearly was allowing this potential E. coli exposure in an effort to preserve the peace -- upside the the head with said meat.

Doesn't he know to head straight for the fruit snacks, then proceed to the juice-box aisle and then present the cashier with a couple of bananna peels, telling her to charge whatver, you don't care, their contentment was so worth a few extra dollars...?

And that child's mother...if she had any idea...

Used to love real Christmas trees...

...until the year I spent two weeks trapped in the house with a Scotch pine — or was it a Douglas fir? — after having had foot surgery.

I sneezed and hacked, and by the time I returned to work, I had fought off countless impulses to torch the freaking tree.

I fantasized about its demise, eagerly counting needles as they dropped to the floor.

Two more weeks 'til Christmas, and surely by then it will be dead. Die, you damn tree, just die.


(For an alternative viewpoint on this topic, check out what my fellow Musing Mama has to say...)

So for the past four years, we've had a fake tree. Yeah, I miss the real ones. But it's so nice to not have to consume Benedryl by the handful, you know?

Anyway, tonight Hubs put it up in the living room -- making his usual nostalgic noises regarding real trees -- while the kids ran around with enough hook-adorned ornaments to put out a dozen eyes.

Here it is. Enjoy. Now excuse me while I rejoice in its non-smelliness and my allergen-free Christmas.

It would have been perfect if...

From a mama friend:

"Yeah, he drew the bath, lit the candles and then gave me a massage. If we hadn't had to have had sex afterward, it would have been perfect."

Please, let me whine...

...about my little whiner.

My sweet Tootie -- what happened?

Once upon a time, we were so in synch. Now, I WANT TO PUT A NAIL GUN TO MY HEAD when I hear a sentence prefaced with: "Ma-MAAAA!"

It's the tone. It's driving me mad. I find myself complaining to the dog, who really could care less, so long as you leave enough crumbs scattered about for her to follow and consume until she pukes. (God forbid we have a vomit-free household anytime in the near future.)

You'll wear only pink. You hate pink. Your dinner isn't edible, the toilet is too high, the bath water is too hot, you can't find your spotted kitty, the movie has too many previews, the five-minute commute from school to home is too long, the radio is too loud, it's not loud enough... "MA-MAAAAAA...!!!"

The morning survey of your clearly inadequate wardrobe is enough to make me want to bang my head against a concrete wall and plead to be committed.

I hate my clothes too, but do you hear me grousing about it each morning? (OK, well I do, but only to myself.)

The experts say I should walk away from clothing battles. That you are learning to make decisions and are reveling in some new form of independence.

Independence be damned. Do you have any idea what kind of self-restraint I practice when I allow you to leave the house in a yellow gingham SUN DRESS when it is 20 FREAKING DEGREES outside?

One day you will. And I pray that your daughter (for you are destined to have one) will insist on pairing said outfit with hot pink cowboy boots and turquoise kneesocks, just so you, too, can spend the morning shuddering over your coffee, picturing and repicturing today's hideous attire and wondering which parents at the day care are talking behind your back...

Petit Jean State Park...

We went last weekend to the Bear Caves trail.

Took us forever to convince Tootie that there weren't any bears...

Yeah, I know I look like I've knocked back two bourbans and inhaled...something...but that's the way -- unfortunately -- I always look in photos.

Also, here's Hubs w/ the kids... I took the photo, valiantly ignoring all of his instructions. Sometimes it sucks to be a photographer's wife. But again, I'm getting my own camera for Christmas...

Panicking as I...

...wrap up a project at work, but really must take a few minutes to not think about it — never mind actually writing the damn thing.

Brief reflection, prompted by listening to an oldies station this morning:

It used to be I woke up at 10 a.m. wondering why Sheena's "My Baby takes the Morning Train" was running through my head. (Answer: I had, the night before, drunkly hopped on top of a brightly lit column at a bar in NYC and danced — alone to it — according the the ex-boyfriend I was visiting. I chose not to believe him at the time.)

These days I awake wondering whether I remembered to put Tootie's jacket in the dryer or whether we're out of the current fave cereal or whether I have any clean undies.

OK, well, the latter has always been a pressing concern, but you get the ides...

I'm so damn ancient and staid. Will address this in the future as I'm on a new quest to triumph over frumpiness.

All right — back to project. Editor looming...

Bad mom, bad mom...

A couple of my friends here are going to talk to the day care director tomorrow about the choice of snacks served to the kids.

"Do you want to join us?" one inquired.

Ummm... no ... I mean, given that I'm just as much of an offender — Goldfish? Check; Fruit Snacks? Check; Cereal bars? Check; Popsicles? Check; Chocolate pudding? Check — wouldn't it be just a tad hypocritical to complain about the day care's Super Donuts and sugar cookes?

Probably.

So I won't be there.

Oh yeah, am also guilty of harboring fruit juice in the fridge. The kind with — eek! gasp! horror! — straws.

But hey, I don't let them have sodas. I do have one redeeming maternal quality.

I had all sorts of good intentions when I was pregnant with Tootie. I was going to make her baby food, serve only organic fruits and veggies and deprive her of even a granule of sugar.

Now, with a full-time job, a husband who's often out of town, an independent-minded preschooler and a toddler who climbs anything the slightest bit vertical — well, I think of those early vows and I laugh myself into a stupor.

Or maybe that's due to the cookie I filched from Tootie's classroom.

The exorcist vomiting scene...part II...

The other night, as poor little E-man puked and wailed, Tootie gave him a long, speculative stare, then, in a voice filled with horror and revulsion, asked, "Mama, what is he DOING? What's coming out of his mouth?"

In betweeen screams and more barfing, I tried, with little success, to explain the process of vomiting to my skeptical preschooler.

Tootie didn't seem to understand — until last night, when the evil stomach bug struck yet again, about an hour after she went to bed.

My laundry tally:
One quilt
Bedsheets
Two pillowcases
Three stuffed animals
One stuffed, musical rainbow
One pair of child's pajamas
One pair of adult pajamas

Followed by another seizure-inducing round of Lysol...

Got a call...

...yesterday from my friend Amy, the one who hosted the Thanksgiving dinner we so, so enjoyed. I knew I shouldn't have written that all-too-gleeful post. (jinx,jinx, jinx -- I'm such an effing idiot.)

Her mom and stepdad, Amy told me, had been up all night -- vomiting.

(And here I was worried about Amy's dogs suffering from my kids' attentions.)

I immediately wondered if anything I brought was to blame, but apparently several of her mom's co-workers have succumbed in the last few days to a nasty stomach bug.

Within hours of the phone call, E-man had yakked all over the living room floor, right in front of the television. (Yes, the Wiggles have that effect on me too, but it was a bit much, really.)

Then he threw up on the couch and all over me. I changed him again, for the second time, and tried not to imagine my husband frolicking gleefully along the sidelines at the Arkansas-LSU game. (OK, yeah, he was working, but still... Barfing toddler or watching a fieldful of sweaty, hulking, and eventually, pissed-off, men...? Hmmm... not much difference, I guess. Lots of whining regardless.)

Thankfully, E-man was fine this morning. And so far, no one else has fallen ill. Couch cushions, having been scrubbed vigorously, are now on the deck drying & airing out.

I think I may love Lysol more than anything else at this precise moment.

The photographer's wife is getting a camera...

...for Christmas, which means I'll soon be able to post all sorts of fun photos here -- the kind I can't seem to persuade Hubs to shoot.

We see things differently, Hubs and me. He sees angles and lighting and such... I see only adorable children who look just perfect in any light and from any angle.

So now you see the point of contention.

I remember Hubs' horror when he realized how I was spending my days as a new mother, armed with one of his discarded cameras.

8 a.m. Tootie sleeping. Take a photo.

9 a.m. Still sleeping, but the corner of her mouth is sweetly curved a bit more now. Take a photo.

9:30 a.m. Still sleeping, but has moved left arm a quarter-inch to the left. Simply adorable! More photos...

10 a.m. Still sleeping, but now have spread new lavendar blanket around her in such a pretty way. Must take another photo.

Hubs looked at these early efforts -- 36, yes, count 'em, THIRTY-SIX pictures of a sleeping baby, all taken within a few hours' time -- and sighed.

Problem is, when he's the one shooting, I think he misses too many moments of supreme cuteness, simply because he's got all that professional-photographer-lighting-angle crap loitering about in his head.

Now, however, after years of using Hubs' old gear, I'm getting a new camera for Christmas. So is my stepdaughter. We will be an unstoppable force, united against those who insist that each picture be a work of art. HA!

Which means I'll also be able to delight the masses with zillions of sleeping-baby pictures. Or pooping-baby pictures. Or baby-at-the-trough pictures. Oh, the fun we'll have...

I simply can't wait to inflict them on you!

Actually, my babies aren't really babies any longer, so you'll be subjected instead to toddler and preschooler madness. Or mine, if Rick's away hunting. Two glasses of wine followed by a series of self-portraits ... hmmm... or maybe just some artsy shots of the ravioli now plastered to the dining room wall.

Warm & Fuzzy Thought of the Day: My recipe for the perfect Thanksgiving proved successful, albeit tiring.

Kids were fed. I was fed. All were full. No kitchen to clean.

Bitch of the Day: By 3 p.m., I desperately needed a nap, just as the little darlings got their second wind.