The Feral Woodland Monkey Child of Awesome

See this kid?



She’s awesome.

She’s almost always filthy, half naked, with her hair in her face, climbing something incredibly dangerous and sticking sharp things toward her face on purpose. While wearing a cowboy hat.

Like I said, she’s awesome.

I don’t know where she came from - probably from that whacked-out, crazy part of my family, which if I’m being honest is most of them so the odds were good I’d get at least one child who was just this side of cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs - but she’s mine and despite her penchant for scaling walls and laying on top of the wood stove while watching SpongeBob and eating stolen carbohydrates, I love her madly.

Because she’s made of awesome it makes up for all the sleepless nights/gray hairs/added trips to my therapist. Mostly.


Look at her. If you didn't know her you’d think from her diminutive size she’d be the quiet, retiring type. You’d think because she’s a female child she wouldn’t have the ability to make the other little boys her age run away in terror, crying real tears to their mothers. You’d think from the dresses and sparkly necklaces she wears she’d be a feminine, girly girl. But you’d be wrong. She's just herself - which is awesome.

She plays in the toilet, destroys books, sits on top of upright pianos, dumps the contents of full cereal boxes onto the floor and then sits next to the 90 pound dog to share the reward, uses both hands to eat her food even though she can, oh yes she can, use a fork and spoon. She’s not going to preschool for another year but her future teachers have been warned she’s coming. They are ready because they have seen her and I do believe they understand the awesome headed their way.

You have to love her, because she is awesome.

She’s not afraid to stand up for herself, hold her ground and protect what she believes to be hers. She will tell you about her day in great detail and you’d be lucky to understand five words - because frankly, they’d be awesome words - but she doesn’t care because darnit, she’s got something to say. She will hold your face to hers to make sure you’re listening intently. And you will, because her stories are... You know.

But at the end of the day when she’s exhausted from being awesome she’ll curl up on my chest like she did when she was even tinier and demand I sing Itsy Bitsy Spider while tickling the actions on her back.

And she sighs.

And she snuggles.

And I’ll do it some more.

Not because she asked but because being with her like that, quiet and still with that perfect little creature, even after she tried to ride the dog like a horse and dumped a bottle of soap all over the bathroom floor and drew in red crayon up the stairs and after a day when even her grandparents couldn’t take her and her antics for another minute... that time with my baby girl is awesome.

Because for a moment OMG SHE'S NOT MOVING. AWESOME!

A wish is a dream your heart makes when it's busy thinking about cake

Oh, hey there, internet. What's happening?

What's happening with me? That's so nice of you to ask.

Let's see.... My kids both had birthdays in the last couple of months, but did I blog about it? Noooo. So let's make up for lost time, shall we?
Chicky turned five, FIVE, had a pirate-themed party at home where I made the cake...

Idea for the cake courtesy of Fairly Odd Mother
Made with my own two hands.

and we invited 16 of her closest friends, thereby cementing my desire to never have an at-home birthday with that many children ever again. Not that the children were not lovely and well behaved, because they were, but because my poor, weak heart can't take that kind of pressure again. And as we all know, it's all about me and my poor, weak heart. Wishes of adorable preschoolers be damned!


And speaking of preschoolers, Chicky no longer fits into that category. She, as she loves to tell everyone who will listen, graduated and is on her way to kindergarten in the fall. Or next week. She has a questionable grasp of time.

CC, on the other hand, has one more year before she can start preschool as she only just turned two, TWO, last week.

I am happy to note that after her most recent well visit she is now on the growth charts and is nice, healthy and average sized... for an 18 month old child. S'alright though, because what she doesn't have in size, she makes up for in sheer will and attitude.

She is a blur, constant motion, and I am unable to take a decent picture of her because even those super powerful, state of the art cameras that wildlife photographers use aren't fast enough to catch this child. She runs, she jumps, she climbs like a monkey. She has no fear, except of loud noises, and I can't get anything accomplished because I always have to have one eye on her, lest she find a new and interesting way to cause bodily harm to herself.

She is, in a word, awesome.

They're both awesome. And they both deserve their own post. I should get on that.

But until then, I will go remove the tiny Playmobil toy from CC's mouth. Again.

Some might call it luck, I call it threats of dismemberment.

Only seven more days until Christmas, and you know what that means...

Um, no. I mean, yes. But no, I'm talking about something else. Try again.

Well yeah, that too. But that's still not what I'm referring to. One more guess.

You've got a point. But no... Let me help you out. What's 4x6, comes in your mailbox and causes me great fits of angina every year?

Right! Holiday cards! You're so smart.

Every year I have a slight (read: HUGE. MASSIVE. EPIC.) hissy fit trying to get the perfect photo for our holiday cards. I don't know why, it's just what I do.

Except this year it was remarkably pain free. On a beautiful warm day in November, Mr. C and I dressed the girls up in matching clothes, brushed and washed them until they sparkled and then propped them up on a rock in our yard in the hope we would get one picture where they weren't pulling each others hair and no one was missing an eyeball. I positioned them, threatened them with bodily harm if they moved and then stood back, screaming "TAKE THE FREAKING PICTURE!!" at my husband while the kids planned their first trips to the therapist in their heads.

And wouldn't you know, the first picture we took was a keeper. Not just a keeper, but suitable for framing. It was the first damn picture we took! We were so ahead of the game, it was spooky.

I know. Where's the drama? Where's the goofy faces? Where's the screaming??

Well, there was screaming but that was coming from me. Come to find out, scaring your kids silly will result in a good holiday card picture.

*jots that down in my "Things to always remember" book*

So without further ado, I give you our family's 2009 Holiday Card.

The bottom is cut off because I wanted to gray out our names but my computer hates me and Photoshop especially hates me today so I just did a hack job on it and... Let's move on before I throw this piece of hardware against the wall.

I know, you're just as disappointed as I am. They actually look happy! They're smiling. No one is trying to kill the other. How am I supposed to be expected to work under these conditions??

It's bad enough that I've become one of those people who dress their kids up in matching outfits, but now I have a decent photo card. Next year I'm sticking them with pins.

I'm sorry Chicklets, if you want holiday drama with a side of conniption fits I suggest you go here first to read our history of the holiday photo session, then try this post, this one, finally ending with this one. I reread them because all of this happy happy made my left eye twitch.

God bless us, everyone. Now where's the nog?

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In other news, I'm writing with more regularity. But it's not here. It's there. I'd love to know how you feel about perpetrating the Santa lie myth with your kids because I'm having a little bit of a hard time with that one.

Well Rope, it seems we've reached the end.

My daughter and I are at war. All out, nuclear missile, weapons of mass destruction, war. W-A-R, WAR. What is it good for? That's right, absolutely nuthin'.

My heart hurts, my head is pounding and my throat is sore from yelling. And I'm pretty sure my neighbors are wondering who that crazy bitch is who moved in last year, the one who screeches at her kid. I've reached the end of my rope on more than one occasion over the past year and nothing I do seems to make any bit of difference. Not that screaming helps. Nope. That's just to release the frustration so things don't actually get broken. It doesn't work either.

Maybe it's the age? Her personality? My personality? It doesn't start out bad - I'm positive. I'm zen-mother-goddess. I praise, I reward, I praise, I reward, it devolves, I warn, I punish, I punish, I punish, I lose control, I scream. I do everything the experts tell me to do until it becomes clear it's not working and then it turns into a horrible shouting match. Doors are slammed, things are thrown. Everything, and I do mean everything, is a fight.

Hey Chicky, it's daytime!

No! It's not and you can't tell me it is. Hmmph.

But, but, the sun is shining. It's day. Really! Look! It's daytime.

NO!!! *screaming, crying, tantrum, slamming door, The End*

She's four, for Christ's sake. What's going to happen to us in the coming years if we can't get this sorted out now?

We don't have good days and bad days anymore. We have a good ten or twenty minute span followed by a few hours of hell. Or maybe we go a whole hour or two without arguing and I get comfortable and cocky and then she sets me off with her repeated insolence and rude, defiant behavior.

I want to wrap this up nicely with a pretty pink bow but there is nothing pretty or nice about ending the day with the both of us in tears. There are no learning moments, no future seen in soft-focus, only pain and frustration and fear. I fear that I'm failing her and by virtue of that, her sister who witnesses it all. These are essential years and I can't seem to get it right. It doesn't really bode well for the rest of their childhoods, you know?

I'm so tired. I was hoping by writing this I'd get some of this pressure off my chest and I'd feel better. Turns out, no. There's a list of child development specialists on my fridge that I can call, that I should call, so why does it feel like admitting defeat? Like I can't properly parent my child.

I sound like a broken record at this point. Feel free to move on. No humor, no cute stories. Nothing to see here. Move along.

And please ignore the screaming.

Parenting without a net

Do you ever feeling like, as a parent, you're making things up as you go along? I do, you betcha.

The other morning I left the girls alone in the living room for two minutes, tops, while I ran upstairs. I needed to retrieve a sweatshirt for Chicky before I brought her to preschool. Both girls were dressed - okay, almost dressed. Chicky was completely attired, from her smock-type dress she received as a Christmas present to her cheap Target snow boots (she had left her other shoes at school the week before and I was too lazy to drop by and pick them up). The baby was in her pajamas. Why go to the effort?

I had sweatshirt in hand and was at the top of the stairs when I heard the most horrific screech come from CC. It was the type of scream that you hear just the first bit of but then it reaches levels that are only audible to dogs. I knew when I got to the living room someone was going to be in trouble. When I got there, Chicky was sitting on the couch with her hands over her ears and CC was wailing and crawling away from her sister as fast as her little chunky monkey legs would move her.

CC's cries are easy to interpret - she has one for sleepiness, one for hunger, one for Dear God, I've lost my pacifier and I can't find it OH THE HUMANITY, and one for pain. That last one is the most horrible cry; as painful to hear as it is for the poor baby to experience. This cry was the granddaddy of all Pain Cries. Oh yeah, this was going to be bad.

"What happened?" I demanded of Chicky as I scooped up CC and started checking her from head to toe.

"She did it herself," she replied with her hands still over her ears.

"Really?" I was dubious. There was nothing close to CC that could cause her that pain and I didn't hear any thumps that would have indicated another trademark CC bump to the floor. That baby of mine is cute but graceful she is not. Then again, she's seven months so there's hope.

"No," Chicky admitted. "I kicked her in the head. With my boots." She sat on the couch lazily kicking her feet up and down as if to prove her point.

"You what?" Now I was shrieking. Once it was out of my mouth, though, I just stared at her with my mouth open. I didn't know what else to say. She was grinning and it wasn't a sheepish, oh-shit-I-got-caught grin. It was a heh-got-ya grin.

Is she acting out? Oh maybe just a little.

What does a parent do in that situation?

No TV for a week, young lady! (Whoops, just screwed myself with that one. Let's be truthful, that's more of a punishment for me. For the rest of the week it will be nothing but whining and crying for television and I won't have that go-to tool for keeping her quiet for a half an hour while I put the baby to bed. Or for when I wanted to take a shower. Or when I need a minute to scratch my butt in peace. Damn.)

Do you need a spanking?? (Uh, no. Kinda counter intuitive.)

You just wait until we tell your father about this. (That's my favorite. I mean, really... Ooh, scary. And I've just admitted that Daddy is scarier than Mommy. That hurts my fragile ego.)

I'll tell you what I did - I made her sit in time-out until the millisecond before we were ready to walk out the door. When we were about to leave - and when I was calm and had assessed the situation with CC and determined that she was not, in fact, hurt in any permanent way (that I could see anyway. We'll see what happens when we're waiting for those college acceptance letters) - I got down on my knees in front of her and we talked about how unhappy she had made me, how disappointed I was in her. We talked about how much she could have hurt her sister in terms she could understand, with lots of boo boo talk and threats of going to the doctor's for shots. There were tears and promises to never do it again.

And after the discussion and after the threats I was at a loss.

I'm sure there are answers in a book somewhere, probably lots of books actually, but who has the time when they're too busy making sure they're three year old doesn't cause lasting harm to her baby sister.

I don't know how to keep Chicky from harming CC each and every time I leave the room. I don't know how to impress upon her how dangerous it is to grab her sister around the neck when she tries to drag the baby away from the toys. I suppose I could dress the baby in bubble wrap, leaving only the important parts exposed, and hope for the best.

I keep telling myself that this too shall pass. Does that make me feel better when I'm wringing my hands over thoughts of telling the television reporters that No, my daughter really was a lovely child... Before she drowned her 7 month old sister in the dogs' water dish? Not really.

Parenting is about thinking on the fly and being fast on your feet but if this keeps up I think I'll need a better pair of running shoes.

Kill her with KINDNESS, my child. I'm begging you.

I think the fish may be on to something

If you've been blogging for any length of time and are experiencing a bit of writer's fatigue, I highly recommend taking an unscheduled vacation from your blog. Sure, it may have lasted longer than I had told myself it would, like, oh, a week longer, but it was fantastic. Even slightly restful.

I'd be lying if I said that it was just blog burnout, however. The ice storm sorta screwed me up. Then there was Christmas and all that entailed (please don't get me started, let's just hold hands and praise Jesus that the holidays are over). And during the month of December C.C., in all her squishable glory, thought that fucking with my mind would be the perfect gift for the mom who has everything so she sprouted two teeth and chewed the pink right off my nipples. And she sits unassisted. And she pulls herself up into a standing position. Then, the coup de grace - two days before Christmas she decided that rolling under couches was just not extreme enough so she learned how to crawl. Then she learned to crawl fast. I think my head just exploded. Sorry about the mess.

Also, we're fish-sitting. You know what a pain in the ass fish can be. Demanding food, drinking all the booze, swimming in their own waste.

That's not water he's swimming in. That's gin. He already ate the olive.

Oh, and Chicky turned into Satan. That's been fun.

But let's not look back with resentment and disgust through the bottom of an empty wine glass. It's almost a new year! Let's look back on the happy times, such as they were, with this really contrived "2008 in Review" post.

Oh yes, let's.

- We kicked off 2008 looking for a new house. We even put a down payment on a piece of land and then promptly decided that new construction sucks donkey balls. We finally settled on one. Now we just need to work on our timing.

- There were some good parts to my recent pregnancy. Then the ninth month came along. I still can't find where my husband hid the knives.

- The pregnancy hormones didn't just me homicidal, they also made me reflective and a little weepy. But I had some really good reasons. Some really, really good reasons.

- You helped name my baby. That was pretty cool.

- Finally, C.C. made her grand entrance and all was right with the world.

- Okay, not really.

- Wow, it got bad there for awhile. Really bad.

- 2008 was the year some bitch well-intentioned lady made me consider Botox. I still hate her.

- This was the year I opened up about my secret blogging to my friends. I'm still trying to decide if I'm comfortable with that decision.

- My dog got sick. That was scary, 'cause I loves my dog.

- Speaking of dogs, I got all Alpha Bitchy and self righteous on your ass about those of the canine persuasion. For good reason, of course.

- Chicky turned three. She learned to love the Ramones. She barely escaped death at the hands of her mother. Seriously. Barely. But then we have a tender moment and it's as if the clock has been reset. She should consider herself lucky.

- But most importantly, nobody died.

So there you have it - 2008, Chicky style. I'm hoping 2009 brings me my mind back (More on that tomorrow. Or maybe the next day because of the whole lost mind thing.) but I'm really hoping you and yours have a healthy and happy New Year.

Now go drink some champagne or something. I need to wrestle mine away from the damn fish.

The third annual "I can't believe we don't pay someone else to do this" holiday card extravaganza

It's Holiday card time here at Chicky Chicky Baby.

(Heavy emphasis on "Holiday" because I don't want my Jewish friends throwing their latkes at me. Unless my mouth is open. I loves me some latkes.)

That means the photo session from hell. Hurrah!

This year there was the extra added joy of trying to wrangle a constantly rolling baby and positioning her close enough to her sister to get them both in the picture but not so close so that one of them suffocated the other. And by that last bit, I meant keeping Chicky from physicall abusing C.C. We weren't 100% succesful but, hey! Everyone is still alive! It's a freaking Christmas miracle! God bless us everyone.



If you don't know the history of our holiday card tradition you can go here, here and here. The short story is, I'm cheap. Also, I hate having some mall photographer who is making 10 bucks an hour wave a feather duster at my kid's face while making noises similar to those of a choking cat all in the name of getting my child to smile at the camera. I can do that for free.

Besides, the pictures my husband and I take are way better.

I had envisioned taking a family portrait outside the new house but that didn't happen. It was cold and when it's cold my nose gets all red and by God if my nose is all red in a picture it had better be because I have some gin in me. So we decided to throw a white sheet down on the ground, lay the girls on it and have Mr. C take the pictures while I acted like a doofus behind him.

It seemed good in theory.

Chicky was so into it this year. Can't you tell? Or maybe it was the mickey I slipped her ten minutes before we started.

Here, Chicky impersonates that Christmas favorite - Big Mouth Billy Bass, singing "If I Pretend To Like My Sister Will You Buy Me a Pony?"

"Haaaaaah-lleh-luuuu-jaaaaah!"


Chicky: "If they think I'm asleep, maybe they'll just go away and take their camera with them."
C.C.: "What is that crazy broad doing back there? Dude, wake up. Our mom's finally lost it."

However, my husband, my wonderful, precious, darling husband whom I love more than all others except for our wonderful, precious, darling offspring is a total stressbag when it comes to taking his kids' picture. Or anything that involves both his kids, now that I think about it. About five minutes into our photo session he was stammering and sweating and frankly some words were starting to come out of his mouth that even I was impressed with, so to save some money on future therapy bills I took over. Thirty seconds later I had this year's card.


It's just this side of cheesy to me - I mean, we're in danger of putting Olan Mills out of business - but it's done.

Hallelujah and pass the gin.

On the bright side, my dry cleaner is thinking of making me part of the family

Warning: The following is a full blown MommyBlogger-type post. Proceed at your own risk.



C.C. has been a joy lately.

She's an extremely happy baby. When we take her out in public we can pass her from person to person and barely hear a peep out of her, even if she's missed her nap. Put her on the floor to practice her crawling...

(She's this close to crawling, which means I'll have to kiss the ass groove in my couch goodbye soon but since I've been told that hog-tying a baby is illegal in most states, what can I do?)

(Where was I?)

...and she'll play with her toys for long chunks of time. Sometimes I forget she's there. She's an efficient nurser (which is a good thing since she still refuses to take a damn bottle) and a lusty eater of solids. And her sleep... Well, we don't talk about sleep unless there's bitching involved and I think by my lack of bitching about sleep lately you can deduce how things are going.

Mmm, sleep.



Anyway, like I said - C.C. is a joy.

Except...

You knew there had to be an except.

Except for her crazy projectile vomiting.

The spitting up and the chunks and the smell of baby vomit that clings to the both of us constantly... It's enough to drive me to drink if I wasn't there already.

Her poor tummy is messed up. She wears a bib every single day and I change her into a new one at least three times a day because she's covered the things in nastiness as soon as I put a new one on. It doesn't matter if she ate five minutes before or two hours before, there is no rhyme or reason. Sometimes she gets sick if she gets excited, like Stan on South Park. Sometimes I find her in her crib after her nap happily playing with her spit up on her crib sheet. And the worst one - she pukes up on herself right after her bath. Nothing upsets me more than bathing her and then having her sweet, freshly washed baby smell obliterated by the smell of upchuck.

Except maybe getting covered with sick in the middle of Barnes and Noble. That really sucks. Too bad I couldn't aim her at certain parents and use her as a weapon.



Months ago, her pediatrician had given us a prescription for Prilosec. It helped a little but getting her to take it was a full blown battle of will and strength and that baby of mine? She is as willful as she is strong. I can understand not wanting to have some nasty goo squirted down my throat (Watch yourself, I'm talking about my baby daughter here so keep your nasty thoughts to yourself.) so I tried the medicine myself, just to see how gross it really was.

Sweet baby Jesus. That stuff was like drinking motor oil with a yak spit chaser. But worse.

So I stopped giving the medicine to her. At the time it didn't seem to make that much of a difference anyway.

I had just recently started giving her Mylicon drops (and no, we don't have the Mylicon Drops that were recalled) and that helped for a couple of days. But now? Not so much. Maybe I'm not giving her enough? I don't know. I get a little freaked out when I'm giving my baby medicine for an icky stomach and alternately giving her fairly large doses of teething tablets and liquid pain reliever for her teeth. It seems like a bit much for a child so small.

The sickness doesn't seem to bother her too much. She is a champion back-archer, but I don't think that necessarily happens because she's uncomfortable.

Who am I kidding? I have no idea if it's because of discomfort. I just have no idea.

*sigh*

I'm tired of smelling like vomit. I'm tired of spending a fortune on dry cleaning (she has great aim and an uncanny way of knowing if I'm wearing wool or a regular washable fabric). I'm tired of my delicious baby smelling like a frat house after a weekend kegger. But mostly I'm afraid she's in pain and I'm not seeing the signs.

Okay, and the smell. The smell is pretty bad.

*double sigh*

Free to... have bad taste in music? I don't think so.

You can sum up the difference between my husband's upbringing and mine with one simple truth: His parents bought him "Free to be You and Me" when he was a kid and mine didn't.

I didn't even know there was such a thing as that album until I was in my 20's. True story.

Where his parents fostered individuality and free thinking, mine were of the mindset that things were done their way and we, my sister and I, had to deal with it. So while my husband was learning that "It's Alright to Cry", as so many other kids in our generation were, I was learning the words to Frank Zappa songs. Slightly inappropriate? You betcha. But at least I knew to avoid the yellow snow.

Not that my parents didn't supply us with some proper kids music. I had the standard issue plastic Mickey Mouse record player, with Mickey's finger as the needle, and an album or two of Disney favorites and compilations of oldies but goodies like "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" and "On Top of Spaghetti". But I also had the album from "Grease" the movie. Because, apparently, my parents saw no problem in a 7 year old belting out such lyrics as,

"Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee
Lousy with VIRGINITY."

And my personal favorite,

"You know that ain't no shit,
We'll be getting lots of tit,
in Grease Lightning"

By the grace of some higher power, I grew up fairly well-adjusted and in need of only the most basic of psychiatric care.

(Electro-shock therapy counts as "basic", right?)

But even though my musical taste is far, FAR, better than my husband's, I still feel as if there was some important part missing from my childhood. Which is why I recently bought "Free to Be" for Chicky and C.C on iTunes.

Well that, and I downloaded "Hot Potato" the other day - a song Chicky had never heard the original of before, instead she knew our bastardized version that we made up years ago to get her into the bath tub that went something like,

"Naked baby, naked baby,
Naked tushy, naked tushy,
Naked baby, naked baby,
Has a naked,
A naked, naked, tushy."

- and she looked totally perplexed to hear these unfamiliar men singing about "Mashed Bah-nah-nah's" instead of naked baby booties.

Personally, I think it's important for kids to listen to age-appropriate music at least some of the time. There's crucial life lessons to be learned in those songs. Lessons I just don't have the energy to teach myself.

Yeah, yeah. Share with your friends. Hug a tree. Don't beat up your sister. Now run along while mommy watches "The Real Housewives of Atlanta".

However, if I can take away anything from my fucked up childhood, it is that children can learn to appreciate all sorts of music at a young age. I'm amazed, no, dumbfounded by all the parents I have spoken to who have told me they only listen to children's music in the car when their kids are with them.

"Little Johnny refuses to listen to anything but The Wiggles or Barney albums when we're out together. He doesn't let me listen to anything else."

Really? Does little Johnny have a pop gun held to your head? I have a little doughnut addict but I don't allow her to shove munchkins down her gullet every time we drive by a Dunkin Donuts. Personally, I'd rather drive myself and my rug rats off the nearest bridge than listen to Laurie Berkner on constant play. Be a parent, put your foot down. You don't know joy until you've heard a three year old sing, "Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah, I'm gonna start a fight!" from the backseat.

We went through a phase where Chicky wanted nothing more than to listen to Raffi morning, noon and night. It didn't take very long to break her of that habit. Now I allow one children's CD (one that doesn't make my ears bleed) in my car at any time and she gets to listen to it once all the way through. After that, we listen to music that I pick. On longer trips I will bring my iPod and I take requests from everyone in the car. I'll let her listen to any of the many children's songs I've downloaded as long as we can listen to some music every one will equally enjoy.

There's got to be a happy medium. I want my kids to be kids but I also want to teach them there is more to life than "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" before I lose them to their generation's version of the Jonas Brothers. Because then, not only will my ears bleed but I think my head might spontaneously explode too.

Now, lest you think I'm just concerned with being the "cool mom", you can put those thoughts to rest right now. Coolness has nothing to do with it. Music that makes my teeth itch. That has everything to do with it.

I'm working on another kid-friendly playlist that will include music specifically marketed to kids as well as popular music that kids will enjoy and I hope to post it before the holidays. If you want to help out leave your favorite music in the comments and I'll sift through them and add my own to come up with a new list. Those who dare add anything from Barney will be publicly ridiculed. Possibly tarred and feathered too.

Chef Boy-ar-You-Cute

The French Chef. All she needed was an empty wine bottle. Bon App*hic*etit.

And her sister, the Great Cheeky Pumpkin.

I'm proud of Chicky. She decided way back in August what she wanted to be this Halloween.

"Mommy, I want to be a *mumble mumble*-ooker.

"A what?"

"A *mumble*-ooker.

"A hooker??"

"No, a COOKER."

"Oh, a cooker. You mean, a chef."

"Yeah, a chef. Like the ones we see on the television. The ones who cook the food."

"Okay, you can be a chef this year." Whew, dodged a bullet there.

"What's a hooker?"

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There's still a little bit of time to enter Parent Bloggers Network's and Blurb.com's Blog Blast. Check out PBN's blog for more details.

I think they're starting to warm up to each other

Hi.
....

Um, Hi?
....

I said, HI. Hel-lo?
....


Um, whaddya doing there? Licking your feet? I like to put my feet in my mouth too. I can't do it right now since I seem to be stuck on my tummy, but see? We have that in common. We both love feet and we both like to lay on our tummies. Want to be friends?

....

Still licking those toes, huh? They must be really tasty. Can I have a taste?

....

Oh-kay. I can see you're not big into that whole sharing thing. I can respect that. To each his own, right?
....

Yeah.
Oh, I get it now. You're the strong, silent type. Actions instead of words, and all that. That's cool. I don't talk much either.

....

I like your collar. It's pretty. Red. I like red.
....

Wanna wrestle?? I think I could take you. I'm pretty strong.

Watch it, kid. I could knock you over with my tongue. Come and talk to me when you have bananas stuck to your cheeks. Until then, shut up and leave me alone.

Dude. That smelled like feet. Can I interest you in a breath mint?

*sigh*

Better this than the real thing

When I came home from Blogher Boston last Sunday Mr. C and Chicky were playing outside. It was a nice day out so why not, right? It's not like they had been stuck inside on a glorious fall weekend at some conference. No, I'm not bitter.

Chicky had requested that her dad draw her some pictures in sidewalk chalk on the driveway. Then she demanded he draw her family. I had barely gotten out of the car before she was excitedly showing me the picture her daddy had drawn of him, her mommy, Chicky, and her baby sister.

This is what she showed me:


My husband will never be mistaken for a great artist but I thought it was a good likeness given the medium.

Okay it kinda sucks, but I didn't marry the guy for his mad chalk skillz.

However, once I got past the crude, caveman-like feeling of the drawing and looked a bit closer I noticed something a little troubling. Or sort of funny. It all depends on how you look at it.

Can you see it? Look closer.



The picture of me is fine, even if my nose is humongous, but that thing in my arms? That's supposed to be C.C. Her face looks a little bit, um, mutilated, don't you think? Those scribbles were not there originally. They were added later by a certain three year old art critic.

Whenever people ask me how Chicky is adapting to the arrival of her little sister I always tell them as well as any kid would. She loves her, she hates her. She wants to squeeze her until her little baby head pops right off.

Apparently, she also wants to scribble out her face.

I think Chicky is adapting just fine.

The road to sleep is paved with good intentions

Oh, you noticed that I haven't been writing that much too? Well, this is what happens when I sit down to write.


A sleeping baby - it's a powerful sedative.

(Yes, we're both really sleeping in this picture.)

(Yes, my husband thought we looked so sweet, he had to take a picture.)

(Yes, I was a little creeped out when I woke up and there was a camera on a tripod pointing at me.)

(Yes, this was the first occasion where I awoke to find a camera on a tripod pointing at me. I can't speak for other times when I was incapacitated.)

(Yes, I was revisiting a sweet moment between me and my child and I went to someplace seedy.)

(No, I can't help myself.)

Rock on

I get so few moments, it seems, to spend quiet time with C.C. Her big sister is always there demanding my time; making up songs and singing them at ear splitting volumes to my audience of one, jumping off of furniture to catch my eye, pulling on the cat's tail because even negative attention is better than no attention at all.

For three years it was just Chicky and me during the day and sometimes at night too. Quiet hours spent rocking my little blue eyed baby to sleep were some of my happiest moments in the haze of those desperate days. I spent many an evening somewhere between sleep and awake as we rocked, me reclined in the chair with her sweaty body laid out across mine. Both of us so desperate for oblivion to come.

I don't remember exactly how old she was the last time she fell asleep on me in the rocking chair in her room, but I remember it was a hard fought battle that I eventually won. At that point she was sleeping quite well in her crib all by herself, but I needed that time with my girl because I knew soon enough I wouldn't be able to hold her as closely as I did at that moment. I remember feeling the bittersweet ache, knowing she wouldn't need me in the months that followed as much as she did that day.

So we rocked.

I tried to forget the amount of work I had to do, the laundry that needed to be folded or the dishes that needed washing, and in her dark room with the lull of the sound machine in our ears and the gentle motion of the rocking chair we were still.

Until yesterday, more than four months since she was born, I have not had the chance to experience the same peace with my second daughter. We're always rushing, always doing... something. There's always noise and activity. And quiet time with my baby has been almost nonexistent except for the dark hours of night when I'm too exhausted to enjoy it. But last night we moved C.C. to her own room, out of our bed and achingly far away from my arms.

And before bedtime, we rocked.

And last night when she woke starving and needy, we rocked.

And again this morning before her first nap of the day while her sister was at school and didn't need me to watch her twirl in circles or read her a story, we rocked again.

I forgot about the floors that needed vacuuming and the boxes that needed unpacking and in her dark room with the lull of the sound machine in our ears and the gentle motion of the rocking chair we were still.

And we rocked.

Until I pulled myself away from her sweaty body and put her in her crib to enjoy her hard won sleep. I pulled myself away to address the other tasks that needed to be done. But in my head I was still with her in her room, feeling the rise and fall of her chest as sleep came.

And in my heart we rocked on.

Crazy days and desperate nights

When a prisoner of war is forced to go without sleep for consecutive days at the hands of his captors it's called torture.

When a woman or a man is forced to go without sleep for consecutive months at the hands of their infant it's called parenthood.

I'm willing to bet the amount of sleep I'm working off of right now would seriously impair my judgment if I were to use heavy machinery or drive a car.

On top of it all, my body is so run down I've developed a nasty head cold which is making it impossible to sleep, even if C.C. decided to allow it. Which she won't. Last night I got two hours of sleep. I'm not exaggerating even a little.

I barely get a break. I just can't seem to keep up with her demands; her demand to nurse, her demand for comfort, her demand to be walked, rocked, bounced. Her demands are loud and urgent. Her cries are piercing and angry.

She kicks and punches her arms with such force she makes swaddling nearly impossible. And those Swaddle Me blankets? Please. I don't think a baby sized straight jacket with buckles could hold her. But she needs it, she needs to be held tightly or the constant movement will escalate to a frenzy and she'll become nearly inconsolable.

She's teething.

She's rolling.

She's growing.

She's not quite four months old.

She needs.

She demands.

She's exhausted me. She's exhausted my husband. She's exhausted herself.

I love her. I go to her whenever she needs me. But at two a.m., after trying to comfort her back to sleep for over two hours, knowing I'll be doing it all over again in another two, there is rage and fury and tears. So many tears.

I love her. I resent her. It's visceral. I plead and beg and yell and coo. I tell her I love her. I demand her to tell me what's wrong with her. I punch the mattress and press my head into pillows to stifle my screams of frustration. I hold her tight to my body trying to will my love into her.

I leave the room and let her cry. If he's home, I hand her off to Mr. C. and lay with the pillows over my head trying to block out her cries. But still she demands me.

I hate myself.

I feel like I'm failing her.

I'm doing all that I can for her.

I love her.

I'm exhausted.

Maybe we should change her name to "MeMe"

C.C. is a talker, a big one, and the more tired she is the more talkative she gets. Which means she'll probably grow up to be that really annoying girl at the slumber party who dares everyone to stay awake all night long. You know the one, the girl who will put your bra in the freezer if you're the first one to fall asleep and then tell all the boys at school about your icy boobs.

But even when she's perfectly rested C.C. is the type of baby who likes to engage whomever is near, and that someone is usually me. Her eyes will follow me where ever I go and when I turn to look she shoots me the sweetest smile before chattering away. And that smile is the reason why she's still allowed to live in my house after waking me up every two hours last night.

Crying in my w(h)ine

When I was two years old my Mom and Dad and my grandparents, my Dad's parents, took me on a family trip to the sweetest place on earth - Hershey Park, Pennsylvania.

It turned out to be, apparently, the family vacation from hell.

I know this because my parents have never let me forget how I ruined that trip for everyone because I was such a brat. The story still comes up periodically and my dad - and before she died, my mom - takes great pleasure in telling whomever will listen how I screamed and cried all day and how my poor mother broke down and my grandparents had to step in and take me away for a few hours so that sainted woman who so generously carried me for nine months and then forcibly pushed me from her lady parts could get a few hours of peace away from her ungrateful toddler.

Yeah, that's fun.

What is sometimes included is the conditions of the day - Hot and Sunny. Very hot and very sunny. What is never included is if I was given adequate food, snacks and liquids to balance out the heat, excitement and inevitable chocolate overload. If I had a nap that day or how I was sleeping during that trip overall. But for the past 33 years I've had to listen about how I single-handedly ruined what might have been a lovely family vacation with my terrible behavior.

So to recap - I was probably not eating right and was probably hopped up on sugar. I was in a strange place, away from home, and probably overexcited. It was 90+ degrees. I was TWO FREAKING YEARS OLD. I'm going to be 36 years old in a few days and yet I'm still subjected to this story and the blame, always the blame. My parents have never taken any of the blame onto themselves. Ever.

Why yes, I do have a wee bit of a chip on my shoulder. Why do you ask?

I mention this because we've been having a tough go of it with Chicky lately. Her turning three (apparently an even tougher age than two for some kids and a little nugget of information SOMEONE should have told me before I decided to have unprotected sex, thankyouverymuch) coincided with C.C. being born and our subsequent move to a new home, not to mention her starting preschool. A lot is going on in that girl's life and I don't know if it's all the changes or just the age, but whatever it is I'm failing her. Yes, I'm failing her.

She whines and cries more than any child I've ever seen and most days I just can't deal. I'm trying my best but she breaks me down. And sometimes, in my greatest moments of weakness, I blame her for being hateful and defiant. I blame her for peeing on the floor when just a minute before I reminded her to use the bathroom. I blame her for being too rough with her sister and making her cry. I blame her for my headache after she's spent the past hour running through the new house screeching at the top of her lungs. I blame her for being three.

Isn't that the stupidest thing you've ever heard?

But then I remember how my parents made me feel every time they brought up that day in Hershey Park and I hate myself.

I told Mr. C today, after a particularly draining afternoon, that I need to go back to work. Not necessarily because I need the personal fulfillment but because I need to give my children to someone else to deal with for awhile. I probably don't have to say how that made me feel, right?

Oh. I do? Like shit, that's how. Like a big pile of steaming dog shit. Not a nice visual, but it drives the point home.

What can I do? I'm desperate and I need help. I'm reaching the end of my rope, so I'm asking you, Internets, what do you do, what have you done in the past, that has worked? A book, a method, a roll of duct tape?

Another glass of wine, perhaps?

I wait anxiously for your suggestions. Really. Anxiously and exhaustedly. Because if there was any time that I refuse to be like my parents, it is now.

I'm pretty sure Mama never told me there'd be days like this

C.C. is passed out in front of me, all scrunched up in her car seat under a blanket that is slightly more fragrant than I'd like it to be, wearing a long sleeve shirt on this warm summer day and newborn pants that don't really fit.

This was not the outfit I put her in before we left the house today.

No, the other one matched. It fit. It was goddamn adorable, okay?

Then I took her to see the doctor.

Everything was going swell at her two month appointment. She was smiling and cooing at the doc. I was told developmentally she's doing spectacularly and she's growing like a weed. Yes, everything was going along swimmingly until...

Until she got her foot caught under the protective paper on the exam table and it scared the holy hell out of her and she began screaming at the top of her lungs for a good five minutes straight until I was able to finally calm her down. Five torturous minutes where the doctor looked at my baby and me like one of us had sprouted another head.

That was fun.

But wait! There's more.

Then they gave her the two month vaccines. Then she screamed bloody murder for a good fifteen minutes because they stuck needles in her tender thighs. Chubby baby thighs suitable for snacking on, not sticking sharp things into.

FOUR freaking needles. In my sweet baby's adorably chubby, very tasty, extremely sensitive, thighs.

As if the screaming and the crying and the gulping of air - because the hysteria, oh my Christ, the hysteria - wasn't enough, I had the brilliant idea to try to nurse her to calm her down.

Well, what would you have done?

My sweet, chubby, tasty, high sensitive and now hysterical baby decided that screaming was easier without a tit in her mouth so she screamed whilst trying to gulp down a very strong gush of milk, until she finally tore her wee head away, letting fly a gusher-like stream of breast milk that would make the caretakers of the fountains at the Bellagio proud, and in her own way told me to GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME, YOU CRAZY BITCH. LET ME SCREAM. Better yet, LET ME DIE.

And just when I was about to call to the doctor to get a sedative - for me - C.C. got eerily silent and...

Projectile vomited all over the exam room.

Think Linda Blair, but cuter.

Fortunately, I came prepared so I had a burp cloth and a bib in my free hand and was ready to catch any spit up. Unfortunately, this was not spit up and the flimsy material could do nothing to stop the gusher of spew.

Meanwhile, during the screaming and the thrashing and the choking and the crying and the hurling, Chicky was dancing around the room, standing on chairs, crawling on the sink, yelling for crackers and water and stickers and CAN WE GO HOME NOW?? I WANT TO GO HOME NOW. I WANT TO GO HOME. RIGHT. NOW!!!

Indeed, can we go home now?

Uh uh uhhh, not so fast.

First I had to clean up the floor, then I had to clean up the baby, then I had to hose down my hands and arms, and then I had to go rummaging around my humongous bag for a fresh set of baby clothes that apparently I packed when C.C. was four days old.

My apologies to the nurse who had to clean up the rest so I could get my children the hell out of there before someone mistakenly called the proper authorities because they thought they heard hara-kiri going on in the next room.

That was three hours ago and C.C. has been passed out ever since. She smells and her clothes don't fit and the blanket she's laying under is kind of gooey, but she's sleeping peacefully and she will wake with no memory of the torture her mother and doctor put her through.

I, however, am wondering if it's too early to submerge myself in a vat of gin.

And don't even get me started on what happened while Chicky was supposed to be sleeping in her room just now. It involves fecal matter and I just don't want to go there.

Make that an extra large vat of gin.

She's got the whole world in her hands

With both my mom and my grandmother gone I don't have too many people left to remark on how my kids may look like me or like someone else in my family. It would be nice to have someone who can say with some authority that Chicky has my nose or Caroline has my eyes. My aunts were both pretty young when I was born and my Dad is just not one of those people who remembers those types of things, especially when there are much more important things to remember. Like Frank Zappa lyrics. My mother in law is always quick to compare Chicky or C.C. to people in her family or my father in law's clan but always seems to forget that I did have a part in creating these children and they did not spontaneously appear from a drop of her son's sperm. I'm not looking for an award but a little credit would be nice.

When she was a baby I always thought Chicky looked a great deal like Mr. C. Random people, nice old ladies especially, like to stop me in stores to let me know that she's the spitting image of me but I don't see it. When C.C. was born, though I saw a great deal of my husband in her, I knew immediately that this child was going to take after the women in my family, my sister, mother and grandmother especially. She really reminds me of my mom. So much so, in fact, that while counting her fingers and her toes I took note of her fingernails, her long nail beds and the spindly length of her fingers, and thought, Her hands look exactly like Mom's. I don't need anyone else to agree with me. Others can compare her to a living or dead relative but this is proof at least to me that she did come straight from my vagina.

Because after a few sleepless nights a woman starts to hear things

Psst. Hey. You wanna break me out of this straight jacket? Put down that camera, will ya? What am I, a burrito? For crying out loud, I'm a baby fer chrissake. Stop laughing! What, am I here to amuse you? Sure, you think this is funny now but wait until you see what I've left for you in my diaper. Let's just say it's not something you'll want to photograph for the ol' baby book. Yeah, who's laughing now?

And don't even get me started on where you can stick that pacifier.