My faith in humanity has been restored. No, really.

This year I really wanted an Advent calendar so Chicky and I could count down the days to Christmas together. And so the two of us would have an excuse to get a piece of chocolate every day for 25 days all in the name of the holidays.

I searched online for the perfect Advent calendar; a calendar I would want to keep for awhile and something the kids would be excited about taking out year after year. And I searched. And searched. Some of the ones I found were really... Jesus-y. They looked like my Catholic upbringing had thrown up all over them. You could practically see the guilt. Seriously. They stressed me out.

Others were too childish. I know the calendar is supposed to be for the kids but it has to live in my house, so Disney Advent Calendars were not even considered. That goes double for anything with a princess on it. I don't know about you, but a Princess Advent calendar just doesn't scream Christmas to me. It screams "You're the mother to two girls! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!", but it doesn't scream Christmas.

So I did what most people do these days when faced with a challenge - I bitched about it on Twitter.

The response I got was overwhelming. Within minutes I had all sorts of suggestions from the people who live in my computer. I love Twitter. Twitter completes me. So do the people who live in my computer. And the voices in my head. They're pretty cool too.

Then a certain lovely lady suggested I make one. Um, make? I'm sorry, that does not compute. Like with my hands? And glue? Did she not see what happens when I attempt to get crafty? I couldn't craft my way out of a paper bag with a hot glue gun and pinking shears with Martha Stewart personally giving me directions.

So she offered to make one for me. It just came today:


Pretty sure I Squee'd when I opened it. And I don't Squee. Unless I'm drinking, but since it arrived this morning I was still relatively sober when I opened it.

I gave her dog training advice, she gave me a handmade advent calendar. I think I got the better end of the deal.

Thanks, PGoodness! You've convinced me that not all people suck. Most do, but not all and certainly not you.

(And Happy Birthday, girlfriend. You don't look a day over 25.)

Nudge nudge

Today is the last day for nominating a post for a November ROFL!

(My how time flies. It seems like just yesterday we were spraying coffee through our noses and onto our keyboards because of the October nominees. Memories.)

Pick a post that made you... well... ROFL.

(duh)

Then send the link to that post, as well as a link to your blog, to me:

Chicky Chicky Baby [at] Hotmail [dot] com

or Oh, the Joys

Oh The Joys [at] Gmail [dot] com

(Or, as I like to call us, the Head Betches in Charge of Da Funny Round These Here Parts)

On Friday we will post the winners and all will rejoice in the funniness.

Huzzah!

-------------

You want some rules? I've got yer rules right here.

(Clicky the linky to learn the skinny on the ROFLs-y. Um, yeah.)

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.

Gobble Gobble

I'm thankful for first hand-print-turkey pictures.



(And, dude, she totally can write her own name. It looks a little funny but that's definitely her name. My baby, she is obviously brilliant.)

(And and, I about wet myself with glee when I saw this picture in her mailbox at preschool. Next up, macaroni picture frames!)

(And and and, those lines coming out of the turkey's butt? Chicky informed me that those are the turkey's tail and not the turkey trots.)

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. And to my Canadian and European friends, Happy Thursday.

Revelation

Chicky and I were enjoying a rare quiet moment together this morning. We were looking at pictures from my wedding day and she was showing an interest in them she had never displayed before. She was enjoying pointing out everyone she knew when we got to a series of photographs that made her pause.


"Who's that?"

"That's my mom."

"What's her name?"

"Her name was Brenda."

"Oh. Brenda." She let this information sink in for awhile. "Why is she crying?"

"Well, Puss, that's kind of hard to explain."

"I think she's crying because she loves you so much."

As I sat there with my arm around her and my chin on her head, she didn't see the tears forming in my eyes. She won't know for a long time that her sentence hit a tender spot. She won't know for a long time that truer words were never spoken, that she was exactly right. But I didn't realize it at the time the picture was taken.

"Mom, can I watch a show now?"

And as she climbed off the couch to fetch the remote, I knew the moment was gone. Which, for now, was probably a good thing.

If you are pushing your child around in a forward facing stroller not only are you stunting their emotional development but you're also a sucky parent

Oh for chrissake.

Hey parents! Are you using a forward facing, or "away*" facing stroller to push your young'uns around town? Then you're probably hurting them emotionally! According to the above-linked study, they will grow up to be stressed and anxious and possible end up being social misfits, introverts, possible serial killers or habitual bloggers! Turn them around so they can look at you and talk to you EVERY POSSIBLE WAKING MINUTE of EVERY SINGLE DAY. If you don't do this then you obviously hate your kids.

Okay, not really. I'm sure there was more to the study. But I want to be selfish and somewhat realistic for a moment and say that sometimes? I don't want to talk to my kids. Sometimes I want a couple of minutes of peace. And if I can get that peace by putting my children in a stroller and pushing them around the neighborhood so that they can get some fresh air and take in the world around them and I can get a few precious moments to not talk about Elmo or take a break from cooing and nibbling baby cheeks, then so be it.

Also, I sometimes wear ear buds and listen to my iPod while pushing a stroller. I wonder how much emotional and mental damage I'm doing to my kids by selfishly listening to "Wait, wait! Don't Tell Me."



* And don't you love the use of the word "away"? Away! I'm pushing my children away from me! It really drives home the whole I want to push my children aside point home, doesn't it? No, not forward. Away.

Forward = Progressive, Leading, Propulsive. Away = Absent, Apart, Distant.

I love the spin. Love. It.

And this is why I don't do crafts

Because Chicky and I set out to create something from a toilet paper roll and construction paper that was supposed to be a girl in a pink dress but ended up looking like a giant transvestite squid with technicolor boobs and a bad perm who was attacked by a rainbow pigeon.


But Chicky liked it. She took one look and sighed, "Mama, she looks so beautiful. Like an angel."

And that's what she referred to that abomination as - Mama's angel. Yep. The angel of cross-dressing cephalopods.

The ad missed its mark but I'm still a Motrin Mom

Motrin really put their foot in it, didn't they? They jumped feet first into the babywearing phenomenon in their latest ad and came out smelling like a full diaper pail that had spent two weeks festering in the hot sun.

By now you've probably heard all about it - the Motrin ad that caused such a commotion among moms on the internet. I hadn't spent much time on the internet this weekend, so when I opened twitter and noticed the #motrinmoms tag on every other tweet (twit?) I was all "What the hell?". Not wanting to be left out of the latest brouhaha, I searched twitter and Google and was bombarded with posts about Motrin and their latest add targeted to moms, specifically those who babywear. At first I rolled my eyes, because... Really? Not again. Not another kerfuffle about how we mothers are looked down upon! How we seen as inspidid breeders who live our lives through our children while whining the whole time! *shakes fist* Oh, the humanity!

(For the record, most kerfuffles - can I say that again? Kerfuffle. - have been warranted. Mommy wars? Breastfeeding? Warranted.)

This won't make me popular, but I think we should give Motrin a break. Sure, I get angry when someone tells me I shouldn't breastfeed my baby in public. That's worth getting irate about, in my opinion. The ad, though remotely insulting, did not start a fire in me like it seemed to in so (so, so, so) many others.

I believe "Meh" was my reaction.

I tried. I tried to be outraged. I even showed it to Mr. C., my barometer in all things such as these, and he looked at me after viewing it and said, "What? I don't get it." All the fuss? Yeah, it didn't seem to be a big deal.

Seriously, are we hating that much on Motrin and their ag agency because of a sixty second advertisement? They have a great product, a product that does what it says. To be cliche, a name you can trust. I for one use it regularly for back pain. I also used it for post pardum uterine contractions. Now that would have made for a good ad - Ow, my uterus hurts. Pass the Motrin.

But after thinking about it some more it seemed to me that the ad itself wasn't as important as the collective voices of mothers (and fathers too) on the internet who said, "We don't like this and we're not going to stand for it!" I'm very proud today to be in the company of those who were outraged enough to scream and holler until Motrin finally pulled the ad, their head hanging in shame and their tail between their legs. How proud I am today, indeed. Not in myself, who was too busy shaking my head about all I deemed proposterous, but of you. You who raised your voice and made something happen.

The message of the ad, in my opinion, is still not worth the outrage but I do think we need to get to the bottom of what made so many so angry.

Was it the choice of voice over, the "Oh Mah Gawd. Like, totally." delivery? The whiny "What about Meee?" message? Or the fact that babywearing was called fashionable?

I don't know the answers to those questions, I'm just throwing things out there and seeing what sticks.

Sure, the woman was a sad stereotype. The whiny mother who chooses to do it all for her child but whines about it the whole time. I've got news for you, she who has not written a blog post, a tweet, an update on Facebook, or even sat over coffee with her girlfriends and complained about her kids with a tinge of whine while professing her love for her offspring can throw the first stone. We whine sometimes. We complain. And that's okay. We're allowed because this mothering thing is damn hard work and if we didn't whine we'd be hitting the wine by 10am every morning. But stereotypes don't appear from thin air, they are based in reality and then bastardized and lampooned and turned into caricatures of the originator. But they begin somewhere. The ad agency who took that and ran with it ought to be ashamed of themselves to trivialize what I see to be a strength, in that we can allow ourselves, unlike our mothers and their mothers before them, to show our weaknesses. To admit that we want our pain, both physical, mental and emotional, to be agknowledged. But the character was based in truth. Sorry.

Maybe it's the babywearing-as-fashion angle. Is babywearing a fashion? Is it all the rage? If you pick up a gossip rag it might seem so to the casual observer. So, yeah, it is, by definition, fashionable to wear a baby today. I prefer to think of it as a positive trend that started decades ago (in this country. All over the world it is not only done, but necessary) but has gained in popularity. Or better yet - a Movement. Much more empowering than suggesting that wearing ones baby is akin to wearing a pair of skinny jeans.

Taking from my own experiences with babywearing, I have no problem admitting that when registering for baby items before Chicky was born I had no idea what a sling was. We only registered for a Bjorn because that's what everyone else seemed to be doing and surely these new parents knew something we didn't. After she was born I purchased a sling because she never stopped screaming, she never slept and because Dr. Sears said to do so.

I wore my baby and I hated it. Yes I did. I hated it because I didn't know how to wear the sling correctly and I have a bad back and IT HURT. But I pressed on and wore the sling and sometimes, when Mr. C wasn't wearing it, the Bjorn. Because she did sleep better and cried less, so I guess I just backed up the woman in the Motrin ad. I am that Motrin Mom, with less flip. I wore my child, not because it made me look like an [really annoying finger quotes] Official Mom (*gag* Like, totally.) but because it made my colicky baby stop crying. I couldn't care less if I looked like I was wearing a baggy sack around my midsection and it made me stoop like a 95 year old woman with osteoporosis or if it made me look hip and trendy. She was not screaming like a banshee. Fashionable? Pssh. Necessity.

Now I wear C.C. I'm better at it, marginally, and my back still hurts. I do have a much prettier sling this time around so maybe that's where the fashion comes in? I don't know, just throwing and sticking, throwing and sticking.

And I use Motrin to help ease that pain. Yep, yep I do.

Bottom line, I'm not offended by this ad. I relate to parts of this ad. Admittedly, some lines were clunkers (again, the "Plus it totally makes me look like an Official Mom" line was a total stink bomb. Like, totally.) but I will not be defined by a print, radio or television advertisement. I will not be defined by the mother-as-nagging shrew character on popular television sitcoms either. But as I said before, I am very proud of the power of the internet and the strong women and men behind this movement. It's proof that when we come together we (the collective we) can effect change. Now, how about we tackle something more important, like health care, affordable childcare, or outlawing skinny jeans, and give Motrin a break?

It takes more than an extra generation to make a great grandmother

If I was 100 percent positive there was a God, today I would thank him for giving my girls a truly Great Nana.


Happy Birthday, Nana. It's a selfish birthday wish but today I wish for you the gift of time so that Chicky and C.C. would have more moments like these. Here's to many more years of big hugs, homemade cookies, hand knitted sweaters, and the type of love that only you have to give.

Because if you don't help me I will be forced to go into great detail about my sex dreams

News Flash! Life with a preschooler and an infant is not conducive to writing.

No, really. I'm not making this up. It's really hard to string together a coherent sentence when you spend most of your days either making baby talk or saying nothing but "No. I said, No. N-O. No. No! NO!!!" to a three year old who obviously has the hearing of an octogenarian. The other precious few hours are spent drooling on my pillow dreaming of hot sex with John Krasinski.

What is it about that guy? Most of my sex dreams involve him or Neil Patrick Harris and nasty acts in barn lofts. Usually with a cow present. But I digress.

I have at least four posts in the hopper, posts I have spent some significant time on. But honestly, at this point I can't stand the sound of my own voice, so the sight of my own words? Please. Reading them makes my eyes itch.

The problem may be that I haven't been reading books lately.

Really? No time for books? Get outta heah.

I know, right?

During the recent move and first few months after C.C. was born I somehow managed to read all four books in the Twilight series - and sadly enough, none of my sex dreams involve hot vampire love with a certain undead named EDWARD. Nom nom nom - but I haven't found a decent book since. It's not for lack of trying, I'm just so out of the loop that when I enter a Barnes and Noble to check out the stacks, the sheer volume makes me run away screaming.

Or maybe because I'm embarrassed someone there will recognize me as the thirty*mumblemumble* year old woman who reads teen lit. Whatever.

The fact of the matter is, I'm a better writer when I'm reading. And this is where you come in.

(You didn't know this was audience participation day, did you?)

I need book recommendations. Preferably new releases so I can find them easily. Something that will make my brain work a little is not a bad thing. Chick lit must be kept to a sane level, so Jodi Picoult and the like will be considered but it won't go to the top of my list. I'm not oppossed to chick lit, I like chick lit as much as the next chick, but some makes me want to throw up in my mouth and, really, the last thing I need is to be known as the woman who reads teen lit, has sex dreams involving gay men and farm animals, and smells like vomit.

So tell me about the book you're reading or have recently read. Tell me about one you've got on your bed side table and haven't gotten to yet but you're dying to dive into. Hell, while you're at it tell me about the last hot sex dream you had and whether or not you think I'm crazy as a shit house rat for thinking Neil Patrick Harris might go straight for me one day.

Hey, it could happen. Bovines are optional.

Up a road, kind of slowly

One of the things that sold us on this house is the access to the adjacent forest preserve and all the trails that run through it. I had beautiful day dreams of gathering up the whole family and strolling out the door and into the woods without having to worry about driving and parking and the possibility of not having all the important gear we'd need for a Sunday afternoon nature hike. Like snacks. Snacks are very important to three year old hikers.

Dude, where's my graham crackers?

Unfortunately, we've only been on two or three decent walks since moving here. It's amazing how much of a time suck raising an infant is. We've had a beautiful fall, the weather has been perfect for it, but all my plans of family walks usually go down in flames when there are naps to be thought of. Not to mention the ticks. Don't even get me started on the ticks.

Okay, I can't resist. Not only have we found at least a gazillion ticks on the dogs upon returning home, not only wood ticks but also the dreaded Lyme Disease carrying deer ticks, but I also found a tick crawling on my arm while I was carrying the baby (and I screamed like a girl as my body went into fits of convulsions trying to shake the damn thing off, because DEER TICK. LYME DISEASE. CREEPY CRAWLY DISEASE CARRIER. GAH.) and Mr. C found a tick embedded in his.... In his...

Well, as one man confided in me on twitter (as if that was possible), and I quote, "My Uncle Nishan once found on his ... Balzac."

[Insert inappropriate testicle comment here.]

Yeah.

So anyway, the walks have not been happening. We went on a short hike last week with Mr. C's parents but it was late in the afternoon and kind of chilly and on the trail we chose to take there were lots of piles of horse poop to avoid. Poop that was hidden under a thin layer of fallen leaves. Dodging those landmines is really fun when you're holding onto a three year old's hand for dear life but the last thing we need is for Chicky to trip over a tree root and fall face down in week old horse apples. Needless to say, the hike did not live up to my expectations.

I let go of her hand to take pictures. I like to live dangerously.

Oh, and did I mention the hunting? Apparently, hunting season starts in the beginning of October, guaranteeing that our hikes during the best weather for it will take on a whole new level of stress. Horse poop? Ha! I laugh at horse poop when there's the possibility of being stuffed and mounted over someone's fireplace.

I come from a long line of hunters, deer mainly, but I had to do my research to find out the 411 on the full hunting season. There's bird season (pheasant, grouse, Wild *hiccup* Turkey) and Peter Cottontail season, Rocky the Squirrel season and Let's Kill Tod the Cute Little Fox season. Then there's hunting Bambi with bow and arrow and hunting Bambi's mom with a shotgun. That's my personal favorite. Guess taking the dogs out to the backyard to do their business will be a lot more interesting.

We even bought orange vests so we wouldn't be shot at while hiking. I have no joke for that. Feel free to interject.

But I still have my dream. The dream of one day seeing my dogs and my children on the trail, running ahead of me and Mr. C as we hold hands on a warm fall day.

The reality is the dogs will run ahead to gobble all the poop they can find and then I'll spend an hour picking tiny little disease carrying parasites off of them. And the girls will probably start a stick fight and one of them will end up in the ER. And we'll have to listen for gun shots and try not to be mistaken for Thumper.

But, dammit, I'm still going to dream.

Because I look pretty good in fluorescent orange.

October ROFL Awards

It's funny time again!

(Is it wrong that we need to schedule funny time? Yes, yes it is. It should happen every day, like Tea Time. Ooh, look! It's 3 o'clock. It's Tea Time.)

(What?)

My nomination for this month was not only funny but damn clever too. And the writer did it all while dealing with three kids. How anyone even wipes their own ass while dealing with three children, I'll never know. But writing an entire song parody/ode to tampons? Wow.

So I'm nominating Mothergoosemouse and her post "The Cost of Tampons". Trust me, you won't listen to Simon and Garfunkle quite the same way ever again.

Congratulations to this month's nominees:

Killing A Fly with A Ukelele awarded Graze If You Want To...

Rusti awarded Her Bad Mother

Little Nut Tree awarded Suburban Mum

SJ awarded What Ladder?

Maddy awarded Magnetobold

Under the Mad Hat awarded Collecting Tokens

Lottifish awarded The Blogess

Magpie Musing awarded Waitress Where's My Martini

Motherbumper awarded Mr.Lady

Dutch Blitz awarded Full of Snark

Tiny Mantras awarded Prefers Her Fantasy Life

Queen of the Shake Shake awarded Miss Britt

All Rileyed Up awarded What Works for Us

Whee! All the Way Home awarded The Spohrs are Multiplying

wellreadhostess awarded Formerly Fun

Oh, The Joys awarded Notes From The Trenches

As always, don't forget to get your nomination in for November's ROFLs. Send them either to me at Chicky Chicky Baby [at] Hotmail [dot] com or Oh, the Joys, my partner in crime and funnyness (shut up, it could be a word) at OhTheJoys [at] Gmail [dot] com.

To: President-Elect Barack Obama Re: That puppy you promised your kids

Dear President-Elect Obama,

I'd like to start by congratulating you on your historical victory. I voted for you and I was extremely happy to do so because for the first time in what seems like years, I felt like my vote actually meant something. Being that I'm from Massachusetts, a state that voted overwhelmingly in your favor, my one small vote probably didn't make that big of a dent but it felt like it did and that's what matters. My family is very much looking forward to your first term as President of the United States and we look forward to seeing your family mature while you're in office.

This leads me to the point of this message.

Apparently, you promised your girls a puppy when you all moved into the White House. This is a very big deal. A girl’s first dog is very important so you want to make sure you pick the right pup.

This is where I come in.

You probably don't know this - I mean, why would you? You’ve been kind of busy - but I'm a professional dog trainer, and I would like to take this opportunity to offer my services to your family. I’d like to apply for the job of First Dog Trainer. It would be my honor to help you mold your one-day puppy into the fantastic family pet it will grow up to be. My specialty is dog training for the whole family and with young children around that is exactly what type of training you'll need. No charge, Mr. Prez. It's on me.

I don't know what breed of dog you were considering, though I'm sure your girls and your wife might have specific breeds already in mind, but there are a lot of things to consider when picking the right dog to fit your family's lifestyle - Do you adopt a rescue dog or get a purebred from a reputable breeder? Small, medium or large? Hair or fur? But most of all, and most importantly, temperament, temperament, TEMPERAMENT.

I was thrilled to hear Mrs. Obama tell Mary Hart that you were considering adopting a rescue dog. Since every year millions of dogs are given up for adoption, there needs to be more families willing to give these animals a second chance. Adopting a dog into a family with children, even those as obviously well behaved as your girls, can be tricky so take all the advice the rescue organization you work with can give you. Put your trust in them. They have the dogs, and your, best interest at heart.

If you do decide to get a dog from a breeder please, PLEASE, make sure the breeder is reputable and never, ever, get a dog from a pet store. I’ve got two words for you – Puppy Mills. You don’t want to open up that can of worms. Literally - worms. Ick.

Whether you go the rescue route or pick a purebred pup, please remember your lifestyle. You seem like a pretty active family so you need a dog that can learn to fit into your busy life. Mrs. Obama mentioned possibly getting a hypoallergenic dog. I’m not sure if one of you is allergic, but please don’t base your decision on the dog’s coat and whether or not the pup sheds. Temperament is more important than hair and you have a staff who can vacuum the carpets.

When you finally make your decision and make that special dog part of your family remember that early socialization is key. With all the staff you’ll have, I don’t think dog/people socialization will be a problem. But don’t neglect dog/dog socialization. I think the dog should have his or her own Secret Service agent. You know, for when Fido or Rex goes to the local dog park for his weekly playdate with the rest of the DC dogs.

One last thing, a dog was requested by your girls but your youngest is now 7 years old. A dog, depending on what type you get, should live at least 10 – 12 years. This means, there’s a good chance you and the missus will be caring for this dog while the girls are away at college. In other words, this dog will be yours and Michelle’s. Be happy with your choice now because you’ll be living with it for some time.

You’re busy, I get that. You’ve got a cabinet to build, staffers to hire, a country to run in a couple of months. But the First Dog is a big deal. There's going to be lots of photo ops and you don't want to be that owner. You know, the one who lets his dog put his muddy paws on the Queen of England (though I think she might understand, being a dog lover and all). So embarrassing. So let me take this load off of you. Hire me! I’m available and I’m qualified for the job. I may not have decades of experience like some other trainers but I bring an optimism that some other more seasoned trainers are lacking. I bring a fresh perspective. I am the trainer that your new dog needs!

Say it with me – Can we train this dog? Yes we can!

***Added***

I think I'm going to agree with America. If the Obamas go for a purebred dog, the Poodle would make an excellent companion for the family. A miniature Poodle would be a great traveling companion due to its size, but I still favor the larger Standard Poodle. And don't let that high maintenance coat fool you, the Poodle is extremely smart and athletic and excellent to train. Just ask this lady.

Needles and pins

I voted. Now all that's left is the waiting. And as Tom Petty so eloquently sang, The waiting is the hardest part.

It's going to be a very long day.





Do you want to vote but you're not sure where the closest voting location is? Go here, enter your address, get the directions, and then get your butt to the polls.

Unless you're voting for McCain. Then maybe you should go take a nap, maybe a leisurely lunch, and watch the latest Tivo'd Dancing with the Stars. I hear you can catch the entire season of Mad Men on most cable providers On Demand services, that should take up a good chunk of your time.

Oh, I kid. Everyone should vote. Even my dumbass ex husband, though I doubt he will. Dumbass

Ahem.

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?"

-------

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*

Saving money the old fashioned way - Sure it's hot as hell but I don't need to go to the spa now

So Bossy - or as I like to call her, Bossy - is having this thing called a Poverty Party and I knew immediately I had to get involved because a poverty party has got to be better than the Pity Party I usually throw for myself.

Here's the gist: Things suck right now, economically speaking. People are now, more than ever, trying to save some scratch in new and inventive ways. I'm all for that, because who knew two kids could be so expensive? Not only that, but Mr. C and I decided this summer would be the perfect time to buy a new house. And if I hadn't thrown my crystal ball across the room when it told me I had a week's worth of laundry in my future I might have realized that now was not a good time to get into even more house debt. Maybe.

Okay, probably not because this house? She was made for us. I truly believe that. She spoke to me and told me so.

No, my meds don't need to be adjusted. Why do you ask?

Anyway, with money tight my husband and I are thinking of ways to stretch our dollar. You know, paper money being so flexible and all. We've already proven our commitment to saving some cash in some ways and here's another way:


This is the wood stove in our Great Room. I call it our Great Room because, um, it's great (duh), but also because when the stove is lit and there's a roaring fire in it you can take a Great big sauna in that room and sweat out all that Great box 'o wine.

Throw one of those steamer pots on top and it will also clean out your pores. See how I just did that? I just saved myself hundreds of dollars in facials.

It doesn't matter that oil prices are starting to fall a bit, we've decided to try to heat our house a good portion of the fall and winter with this stove. Of course, the first weeks don't count because of the money we had to sink into that ugly ass child safety gate around the stove. But that was an important purchase because -

Hot Stove + Sensitive Baby Hands = Nasty Flesh Prints + Smell of Burnt Flesh + Emergency Room Co-Pays.

My math is not so good but I'm pretty sure the sum total is money out of my pocket for things like skin grafts, therapist bills and aromatherapy candles.

And the television is just to the right of the stove, so the way I figure we'll also save money on electricity because we won't be able to sit in this room to watch TV because it gets hot as Hades in our Great Room. Great.

This is just one of the ways we're making our money go farther. Tune in next time to see how I use plain old black beans to not only feed my family for days but also as an inexpensive preschooler toy!

Love/Hate

My mother was fond of saying, "When you were a teenager, though I always loved you, I didn't like you at all."

I believe her. She did not like me very much at all. Between the ages of 12 and 17 I was at war with my mother. We screamed and yelled and doors were slammed - mainly by me but she slammed her fair share - out of frustration because neither of us were getting our own way. She wanted me under her thumb because she loved me and wanted to keep me safe and the only way she knew how to do that was to control pretty much my every move. I wanted independence so badly I could taste it and pushed her buttons every chance I could. We were the same person living in two different bodies and that, my friends, was a recipe for disaster.

I didn't like her and she sure as hell didn't like me.

Raising two girls is my mother's parting shot from the grave. A little joke to chuckle over in the afterlife. She always told me during those years at odds with each other that she hoped I would have two girls just like me so I would know one day what she was going through.

I thought I'd have at least twelve years before I had to worry about that. Eleven at the earliest.

I got three.

Chicky is three going on sixteen. She is defiant, opinionated and very independent. Except when she doesn't want to do something and then she demands I do it.

"No Mommy, I don't pick up my toys. You do it." With arms folded and a look of triumph on her face. Yeah, who's in charge here? I ask myself that question fifty times a day.

Next week she'll probably climb out of her window in the dead of night to run away and get a tattoo of Elmo on the small of her back.

If this is how she is now I should probably get to work on my padded room before the teen years start.

We are at war. Which means, she is shaping up to be exactly like me. And right now my mother is laughing so hard she's probably wet herself. If you can do that in heaven.

I love my daughters. No one who has read this blog for any length of time can ever accuse me of the opposite. I love them fiercely. I would wrestle a bear to save them. I would throw myself in front of a speeding bus. I would beat up the playground bully if I had to, if that meant keeping Chicky safe and happy.

But sometimes I just don't like her.

And some days it even goes beyond that.

I wouldn't say that I hate Chicky because that's too ugly a word. But I believe there is an emotion that is stronger than dislike but not as base as hate that only parents experience. It's a mixture of dislike, frustration, resentment, exhaustion, with a smidge of wounded pride and a sprinkle of heartache. It makes our blood boil and has us seeing red whenever it bubbles to the surface.

Extreme dislike? I'm no wordsmith. Maybe someone else has a better term for it.

I think it's normal to have these feelings from time to time. We raise our children to be decent human beings. We teach them to say "Please" and "Thank you" and have good table manners. We raise them to be moral and just. To be kind to animals and to help those in need. Respect authority but think for yourself. Always kiss me goodnight, say your prayers (if that's your thing), and wash behind your ears.

But then, then, in those dark hours between 4pm and bedtime when they're literally bouncing off of the walls and you're tired of yelling, "I said get out of your sister's face and if you make her cry you will never watch television again do you hear me young lady??" for the billionth time (and by "you" I mean... Oh, never mind.) you look into their faces, still round with a touch of baby fat, and you want nothing more but for them to Go. The. Hell. Away.

Because this is how you treat me? After everything I've done for you?? Do you have any idea what my once perky breasts look like because of you, you little ingrate???

You don't really want them to go away. At least, not forever. No. You love your child. But for that moment you really, REALLY, don't want them around because they're not being very likable.

I hope one day when Chicky reads these entries she understands why we screamed so much at each other. I hope she gets some insight into her mother's crazed rantings by reading these words. I hope she knows that I always loved her but sometimes I didn't like her. At all. But yes, I always, and will forever continue to, love her.

And I hope she has two girls just like her so that she knows just what I went through.

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.

Notorious

I don't usually do this type of thing, but this quiz sized me up just a little too well. Kinda spooky.

Guess I need to work on my Swedish accent.

(Thanks, Miguelina!)

------------------

Your result for Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz...

You Are an Ingrid!

You are an Ingrid -- "I am unique"

Ingrids have sensitive feelings and are warm and perceptive.

How to Get Along with Me

• * Give me plenty of compliments. They mean a lot to me.


• * Be a supportive friend or partner. Help me to learn to love and value myself.


• * Respect me for my special gifts of intuition and vision.


• * Though I don't always want to be cheered up when I'm feeling melancholy, I sometimes like to have someone lighten me up a little.


• * Don't tell me I'm too sensitive or that I'm overreacting!

What I Like About Being an Ingrid

• * my ability to find meaning in life and to experience feeling at a deep level


• * my ability to establish warm connections with people


• * admiring what is noble, truthful, and beautiful in life


• * my creativity, intuition, and sense of humor


• * being unique and being seen as unique by others


• * having aesthetic sensibilities


• * being able to easily pick up the feelings of people around me

What's Hard About Being an Ingrid

• * experiencing dark moods of emptiness and despair


• * feelings of self-hatred and shame; believing I don't deserve to be loved


• * feeling guilty when I disappoint people


• * feeling hurt or attacked when someone misundertands me


• * expecting too much from myself and life


• * fearing being abandoned


• * obsessing over resentments


• * longing for what I don't have

Ingrids as Children Often

• * have active imaginations: play creatively alone or organize playmates in original games


• * are very sensitive


• * feel that they don't fit in


• * believe they are missing something that other people have


• * attach themselves to idealized teachers, heroes, artists, etc.


• * become antiauthoritarian or rebellious when criticized or not understood


• * feel lonely or abandoned (perhaps as a result of a death or their parents' divorce)

Ingrids as Parents

• * help their children become who they really are


• * support their children's creativity and originality


• * are good at helping their children get in touch with their feelings


• * are sometimes overly critical or overly protective


• * are usually very good with children if not too self-absorbed

Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz at HelloQuizzy

Eat your heart out, Mia Hamm

I get a kick out of telling people that Chicky plays soccer. Soccer? For three year olds? Surely we must be those parents who are pushing their babies into activities well before they should. We're probably stunting her growth but how else will she be ready for the 2024 summer Olympic women's soccer team?

Well it's not so much playing soccer as it is spinning in circles in the sunshine and picking grass. Also, kicking playground balls into the woods. It's a good time. I leave every "game" in tears. Happy, joyful, laughing-my-ass-off kinds of tears.

Most of the other kids in this "league" (Don't you love the "finger quotes"? Aren't they "awesome"?) are four and five years old so being one of the youngest she gets cut a lot of slack. When the others are trying to follow the coach's instructions she's kicking a ball from one end of the grassy area to the other. I've never enjoyed watching my kid blatantly ignoring authority more.

My budding fashionista. They're supposed to be stretching but she's making found objects into pieces of wearable art. She's a multi-tasker! If pro soccer doesn't work out there's always Project Runway.

You like my hat? What, this old thing? Orange is the new black.

It can also be used as a mask to hide from the paparazzi. Mary Kate already order five of these.

That's my girl, staying close to the coach. I sincerely hope she was just trying to get the hair out of her face and wasn't practicing using her femine wiles.

That's it, Chicky. Don't rely on pretty, impress him with your mad goalie skills instead. Look at that form! I dare some kid to try to get something by her.


Some might look at this picture and see a girl learning how to trap a ball. I see the "Crane Pose".


We'll wait until Chicky-san's in the third grade before we teach her to sweep the leg. At least. When it comes to sport we're ruthless in this family. Strike first, strike hard, no mercy.

(Okay, not really. We're total pacifists. Or is it pansies? I forget.)

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.

September ROFLs!

*** Update!

I forgot a nominee! I suck, but in my defense I haven't slept since 2007. See the added nominee below in red. ***


I'd love to write a knee-slapper here - you know, since this is the first ROFL Awards in about a bajillion years and I have a sexy new co-host. But C.C. is still not sleeping... blah, blah, blahdee, blah. So on and so forth. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. And the cow jumped over the moon.

Wait. What?

Oh yeah. The ROFL Awards. Right.

I'm so glad to have these awards back because the world needs more funny. And the Vice Presidential debate is just not cutting it.

My nomination for the relaunch of the ROFLs is for a post written by one of the best women blog writers out there. And I'm not just saying that because she's paying me.

She usually writes some pretty serious stuff but this post - which is actually a re-post actually but I don't care because... well, because I just don't care - made me pee my pants. Which, come to think of it, really isn't that hard after having two kids. But it is damn funny. Especially since it's all about talking babies and believe me, after staying up all night every night for a month with an infant a parent starts to believe that their baby is really talking to them. Usually in four letter words.

So my nomination this month is for Blog Antagonist's Out of the Mouths of Babes.

Congratulations BA!

On to this months nominees:

Motherbumper awarded For a Different Kind of Girl

Let the Dog In! awarded Derfwad Manor

Charming & Delightful awarded Flutter (for this guest post at One Plus Two)

The Heart of a Cult awarded Skepchick

Backpacking Dad awarded every post he's ever written. Seriously.

Can We Kick The Bar Here and Growing A Life awarded The Blogess

A Smeddling Kiss awarded Petunia Face

Hope 4 Peyton awarded The Sphors Are Multiplying

All Rileyed Up awarded Scribbit

A Schmitty Life awarded In The Trenches of Mommyhood

Missy McKerroll awarded OKJIMM'S EGGROLL EMPORIUM

Oh, The Joys awarded Mom Voyage

Momma's Tantrum awarded Killing A Fly with A Ukelele

Tales from the Dad Side awarded Avitable

Patois awarded Joy Unexpected

simplynutmeg awarded The Well Read Hostess

Sugarplum's Mom awarded DooDaddy

Midwestern Mommy nominated Hola, Isabel!

Rusti awarded Boobs, Injuries and Dr. Pepper

----------------------------------------

Don't forget to get your nomination in for November's ROFLs. Send them either to me at Chicky Chicky Baby [at] Hotmail [dot] com or Oh, the Joys, my partner in crime and funnyness (shut up, it could be a word) at OhTheJoys [at] Gmail [dot] com.