Haiku of the Day

booooooo

happy Halloween
I have on striped socks today
I'm such a wild child

I went to the wee one's school today to help with their "fall centers" which is code for "Halloween Party." It was a blast. The wee-er one wore her ladybug hat and sat at a computer keyboard, happily banging away, while I read Halloween stories and fed kids cookies and juice boxes.

I was so impressed with how well the kiddos all bounced from center to center without everything completely devolving into chaos. They made ice cream sundaes and strung necklaces and played bingo and made ghostie lollipops - and they were so well-behaved.

Reading the books with them was great fun. I hope I can go back again for another non-party party.

Now we're home and it was discovered that the evil puppy chewed the all important M off of the wee one's Mario costume hat. Dun Dun DUUUUUUN. So I better go fix it. As well as dinner. And then I'm going to eat half a bag of candy because I can't stop myself.

Mario and the Disgruntled Ladybug say Boo.

Fantastic news!

"I just like how he's always leaning. Against stuff. He leans really well."

My So-Called Life is, like, FINALLY out on DVD. It was out once before? But I don't know what happened. Now it's out for real and, like, my whole existence has been waiting for this one moment, you know? This moment in time. And it's here. And I can, like, feel it breathing down my neck. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to get sucked into a moment of time and never be released. I would totally get stuck in math class or a conversation with my mom. But other people? Other people might get stuck right now.

Please tell me someone else is as excited as I am and that I'm not the only 31-year-old pretending to be Angela Chase on her blog.

torture

bags and bags and bags
obscene amounts of candy
make obscene fat ass

In an apparent desire to cure me of being "too skinny," my husband went out and bought some Halloween candy.

1 bag of Reeses Peanut Butter Cups
1 bag of Three Musketeers minis
1 bag of Butterfinger minis
1 bag of Baby Ruth minis
2 bags of Nestle Crunch minis

Have I mentioned there are only, like, seven kids that live in our neighborhood and two of them live in my house?

Have I also mentioned that my stomach is still not right from being sick last week, so I can't actually eat any of the SIX BAGS OF HALLOWEEN CANDY sitting on my kitchen counter?

Might as well put a leash on me and sic growling dogs at my gentials. I think that would be preferable.

everyone's a winner at the lollipop tree!

did not steal candy
can I get reward for that?
like, maybe, candy?

Yesterday was the fall festival at the wee one's school. I imagined it would be booths scattered around the playground area, and happy people skipping by, with balloons and funnel cakes, enjoying the beautiful fall weather. Instead, it was a bunch of kids and sour faced adults crammed into the school's cafeteria. Not every adult was sour faced, some were getting a kick out of playing games and taking pictures of the very, very few kids who came dressed up. But many looked positively glum.

I know there's no budget for bouncy things and funnel cakes and it wasn't fair of me to expect that, but I did and so I was disappointed. I also realize that the fall festival is not for the parents, but for the kids, so it isn't even fair for me to be disappointed.

I volunteered to run the Lollipop Tree for a little while. The grouchy old lady in charge of it before me told me to make sure I replenished the tree with lollipops, but only every other one should be a winner. Also, I noted that she wasn't letting any kid have a second chance, even though there were a million Blow Pops (what you won as your prize) and only about twenty kids, if even that.

So I took my seat, waved bye to the grouchy old lady, and immediately began to buck the system. I made almost all of the lollipops winners. And I gave kids up to three turns. Yes, that's right. I stuck it to the Man (but only after deeming there were enough Blow Pops to survive my rule-breaking).

I shouted, "Everyone's a winner at the lollipop tree!" over and over, and made the people eating hot dogs in the "stuff your face" area of the cafeteria that was close to my perch glare at me for being cheerful at a festival. Or maybe they were glaring at me because I was being loud. Eh, either way.

Sigh. I'm glad the kids all seemed to be having fun. And at least a third of the adults seemed to be enjoying themselves. But it sucked to be inside on a gorgeous day. It also kind of sucked that the principal stood around, spinning his ID badge like a Bobby with his baton. It seemed for a while that he was just standing there, wishing he had a tall police hat, praying for some rabble rouser to cause a stink so he'd have something to do. Eventually, though, I did see him helping out with the chili for the Frito pies, so I'm happy he dropped the Bobby imitation. The vice principal seemed to be truly enjoying herself, so that was good.

Ah, well. It's silly for the fall festival to make me rethink my decision as far as the wee one's schooling is concerned, but it kind of has. I love the wee one's teacher, and I think he's doing very well in school. He loves it, he's happy, he has tons of friends, and I'm very happy with the diversity he's part of everyday. But the school itself... I still don't know. I want to love it. And I want the reason why I can't quite love it yet to be that I'm just too hard to please. But I don't know if that's it. It's too early for me to be able to figure anything out, but the overwhelming feeling I have is that the wee one is very lucky to have an above average teacher at an average school. Is that OK? Is that enough for us? Do I accept the average-ness and throw myself into things like the PTA to try and make it an above average school? Or do I accept that an average school is OK, but start looking around at other choices for next year? I don't know. It's too early to make a decision... and yet I worry a little bit.

If only these things were as easy to figure out as a lollipop tree. A happily rigged lollipop tree where you get a dozen chances to win.

fame whore

she's sick and sassy
no, not me in third person
Kathy Griffin, bitch

I'm beginning to wonder if, in my Days of Horror, I have pooped out a little bit of my brains. And not just because when I blow my nose I first try to throw the Kleenex away in the refrigerator and THEN the trash can. I'm worried about my brain because I'm spending my whiny sick time on the couch watching Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D List. I am not doing this because someone has tied me to a chair. I am not doing this because someone has my eyes taped open and is torturing me for information on Dick Cheney's whereabouts.

I'm watching it because I like it.

I know.

But y'all? Kathy Griffin is a sassy bitch. She does shows at places like maximum security prisons. And when she has to wear a stab vest to visit the prisoners and someone shouts out "I want to kill you!" she just tosses her head and says, "Oh, honey, get in line." Which, if you think of the circumstances and all, is pretty hilarious. If I was wearing a stab vest and someone yelled out that they were going to kill me, I'd be all "heh heh" and try to be cool about it and then I would get diarrhea. But I am not Kathy Griffin.

Her meek staff of minions are enjoyable, too, especially hapless Tom the Tour Guy who is constantly ridiculed and abused. Also something I like about the show? The captions are pretty funny. I would give you an example that has to do with Suzanne Somers, but I can't remember the name of the other person in the story. Trust me, though: funny.

In conclusion, if you ever have a few Days of Horror and you need to lay on the sofa and cry a little bit and then laugh a little bit and then wonder if you can poop out your brains, check out Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D List. You will most likely thank me. And if not? You better go get yourself a stab vest.

the end.

i would blog today

but I can't stop pooping

mysteries of the universe part I

Why is it that when I'm sick I forget where the glasses go? Over and over and over for the past three days I've been trying to get a juice glass from the cabinet where we keep our spices.

What the fuck, y'all?

after these messages we'll be riiiiight back

those pesky children
it's nice they know how to share
except for the germs

Oof. Mama is down for the count. Some kind of stomach/achy joint/fever monstrosity is attacking me from the inside out.

Bed.

Rest.

Gatorade.

Bad TV.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

dinosaurs are cool

big teeth, scales, feathers
not just Halloween costume
or picture of Cher

Hey, so it turns out Newt Gingrich is a big paleontology nerd. I'm really bummed I didn't know about his talk in Austin yesterday. I would have totally tried to sneak in (which would have been incredibly stealthy as I lugged a chattering 15-month-old, her bag of necessary crap, a sippy cup that would have been repeatedly thrown at people, and possibly a smelly stroller into the conference room. No one would have ever guessed I didn't belong).

I never really thought I'd have anything in common with Newt, other than the fact that we both know people in Marietta, Georgia. But we're both geeks for bones, so there you go.

I've always thought that when I retire I will split my time between being a volunteer lactation consultant and a person who takes those extended working vacations as an amateur paleontologist (or archaeologist). I can write books while I'm on airplanes and/or while I'm waiting for babies to learn the proper way to latch. I have it all planned out.

Except for the part where I have something in common with Newt. Whod've thunk it?

I M sad

it's not just my hair
I'm overcome by oldness
just look at my phone

I'm feeling a little left out. I can't believe  I've missed out on the texting revolution. It seems so fun and pointless. Plus, you get to write in silly code, and make up your own code, and cause people to bust out laughing in math class when they get a silent text from you that's made of only consonants and symbols and means something about someone's fat ass.

How could I have missed out on this?

I guess it's not too late, if I really work at it. But that's kind of the point. Texting doesn't seem to be something to work at. You just do it. Plus, I don't have anyone to text anyway.

I'm old, and yet hopefully (in the only text-ish language I know) I'm still

2 good
+2 Be
-----------
4 gotten

squinty mcsquintsalot

small twig, giant strength
ominous crack, open eyes
say bye-bye, glasses

I was trying to sneak in an extra five minutes of sleep. I should have known better. the wee-er one scaled the dozing Mt. Mommy and grabbed my glasses off the night stand.

"Hey," I said, shaking off the sleep and the wee-er one. "Give me those."

Squinting with astigmatized blindness I surveyed the damage that was wrought in mere seconds: the right ear piece was bent askew. If I had woken up as a Picasso portrait, they might have still fit.

As gingerly as a still waking up blind person can be, I took the glasses and tried to bend the ear piece back to it's normal position.

SNAP

So now my glasses are in two pieces. I called the place where I bought them and was informed I have no warranty. I am wearing contacts that make my palms sweat and my heart race because I have to concentrate so hard on not clawing out my eyeballs.

Just five more minutes of sleep. That's all I wanted.

Hello, evening

I'm on the sofa, listening to the Foo Fighters (or as we like to call them, The Footers), waiting for the wee-er one to fall asleep. The wee one is in the shower with his daddy, fighting off a 102 degree temp.

It's a quiet moment for me, at the end of a kind of crazy day. The day could have certainly been worse, but it's nice to sit here. Initially, i thought I'd do some writing... finally finish up The Book That Will Never Stop Sucking. But I don't want to have to use my brain. Just some mindless writing sounds like fun, and so, thank you Blog.

Just a little while ago I administered some Tylenol to the wee one, and his hand shook as he took the measuring spoon from me. His pale face, his burning cheek, that shaky hand... it made me teary. He was so full of energy this afternoon and then BAM, he fell asleep at 4, woke up at 5 with a burning temp, and all that energy was just sucked right out of him.

We're so lucky that he isn't a sickly kid. I can count on one hand the number of times he's truly been sick enough to not want to leave the couch or his bed. So the fact that he turned down Jello and curled up on my lap when I sat next to him on the sofa tells me he's feeling pretty darn shitty right now. Poor guy.

Anybody watch Farscape? You know how Zhaan can channel the pain of another living being, to help them survive? I wish I could do the Zhaan thing - put my hand on his fiery forehead and suck that shitty feeling right out of him. Even if I have to be a bald, blue alien to do it.

I guess now we wait. We see how he does tonight and how he feels in the morning. I say a little prayer that the rest of us somehow miraculously avoid falling ill. I have a cookie. I go to bed.

monday

"daddy, I threw up"
with that, the choice had been made
oh, lucky daddy

Normally, I love Mondays. I know that sounds weird, but Mondays are the days when I have the most energy. I have a bright outlook on the week ahead, and I very much enjoy the quiet house when the wee one is off at school, my husband is off at work, and the wee-er one is napping. Mondays are nice.

Usually.

When Monday begins at 1:44am with the wee one bursting into my bedroom saying, "Daddy, I threw up in the bed," however, all bets are off.

Hooray for daddy, though. He cleaned up the mess, washed the sheets, cleaned up the next two messes, washed the sheets again, Lysol-ed everything (including light switches and door knobs), and got the wee one tucked back in. I stayed with the wee-er one, playing our nightly game of Titty-Twister Head Butting Shazam, and listened to the grim goings-on through the monitor.

This morning, the wee-er one is a crazy grouch. Her nose is snotty and she's warm to the touch. The wee one is extraordinarily pissed off at me because I won't let him go to school and I won't let him eat a bowl of maple and brown sugar oatmeal. Sigh.

Who ever heard of a stomach virus starting off with a runny nose? That's what happened. One runny nose + 12 hours = regurgitated lasagna all over the bed. And now the wee-er one is snotty and she's refusing to eat.

Usually Mondays are great. This one? Not so much.

oops

uh, yeah, that was me
do I have to take credit?
why not blame the dog

When someone asks me why the wee-er one has a (small!) scratch on her forehead, why do I immediately tell the truth? Why can't I blame the dog, blame the sidewalk, ignore the question, or run away? Why must I admit that I accidentally, accidentally nicked her with the prong-y, stabby end of a hammer?

"You hit your BABY with a HAMMER?" gasps the someone.

"No! No! No! I fell off the chair I was standing on, and as I was staggering to my feet to run catch the phone, the wee-er one was coming out of the bathroom and I just barely grazed her. With the stabby part. Of the hammer."

"You were... [disgusted pause] RUNNING with a HAMMER? [continued disgusted pausing] While your BABY was UNSUPERVISED in a BATHROOM?"

"Who me? I was talking about the dog. The hammering dog. And the neighbor's baby." [sounds of running - without a hammer this time]

you don't even know, Kenneth

delightful mayo
it dresses up everything
a food tiara

Last night on 30 Rock (where, incidentally, Liz Lemon built a desk in exactly the same way I would have), Kenneth The Page was astounded by the yumminess of eating a grilled cheese sandwich with mayo in it.

Yes, Kenneth. It is good.

You know what would blow your mind, though? Your very, very open mind?

A peanut butter and mayo sandwich!

My grandma used to make those for me, and while I admit, it's an acquired taste and might not be something I'd eat at this point in my life, it was an exotic and strange thing to eat as a kid, and not at all as bad as it sounds.

Try it out, Kenneth The Page... test those horizons.

And, also, I know that you're fictional. But you should try it anyway.

ow

She'll walk up to me so sweetly and say "mama." That's when I know when to duck. Because next? Next is when she heaves the remote/a book/a baby doll/my shoe/a full water bottle at my face with an impressive 98 mph pitch.

At what age does the throwing cease? I can't remember because I HAVE BRAIN DAMAGE FROM BEING BEANED IN THE HEAD A THOUSAND TIMES A DAY.

to eat, or not to eat... that's not really the question

avoiding poison
a seemingly simple task
with no solution

I went grocery shopping today - just me and the wee-er one. It's the first time I've been grocery shopping as the sole grocery decision-maker since I was pregnant a million and a half years ago.

I went in with every intention of buying as much organic, healthy food as possible. Even the junk - I was planning on buying quasi-healthy, organic crap.

But y'all? This mama ain't made of money. I do not not have gold coins flying from my ears, nor a money tree in my backyard. The wee-er one has stopped producing cash from her ass, and my bank account is forlorn.

I did my very best to buy organically, but then this question arose: Is it better to buy organic baby spinach that's grown in Salinas Valley (site of the e. coli drama from a while back) or should I buy locally grown (at least almost locally grown in San Antonio), non organic baby spinach? Which is worse? The threat of e. coli or the threat of baked in toxins?

And should I just forgo the grocery store produce altogether and only buy from the local farmer's market? Even if THAT stuff isn't organic? Is it better to support sustainability? I know that a lot of the local produce is organic, but it can't be called that legally because the farmers haven't forked over the cash for the certification. But even so. Local non-organic strawberries vs. parsed together frozen organic strawberries from Mexico? And how the heck will I be able to wrangle the kids and the hubby and the cash to make it to the farmers market every weekend - rain or shine - to buy fruit and veggies. And what about bananas? Can't grow those locally.

I was seriously having some kind of existential crisis in the produce department. "Would strawberries even still exist without the advent of pesticides? Would eliminating pesticides make children less allergic to seemingly normal foods? What about the children of the pesticide producers and advertisers and deployers? Pesticides literally put meals on their plates." Round and round I went - the crazy lady on aisle nine.

Then there's the money issue. If I could, I'd buy as much food as I could from local farmers. Beef, chicken, eggs, veggies, cheese, whatever. But fuck if I can afford to buy a half of a friggin cow, or even a deal called a "cowboy box" or something like that - that's $45 worth of hamburger and a couple of steaks. It's hormone free and certified organic and it won't make my baby girl grow boobs at the age of seven - all good things. But how in the frickin hell am I supposed to afford it?

Same goes with cheese. It's really hard to find cheese made with antibiotic- and hormone-free milk. Especially when you're at the local grocery store. When you're lucky enough to find some, it's nearly (if not exactly) twice as much money. $5 for 6 things of string cheese vs. $2.50 for like a million of those suckers. And try finding it locally produced...

I guess I can't have the best of every world - a convenient, affordable grocery store with convenient, affordable food that will not accidentally poison my family. I have a great store close by - really wonderful in the grand scheme of things. It has a huge selection of organics, decent prices on everything else, friendly people working there, etc. But I can't help feel like I'm the butt of some boardroom joke as I struggle over whether or not to spend $4 for granola bars with five pronounceable ingredients vs. spending $2 for ones with, like, fifty unpronounceable ingredients.

Of course this little whiny post is ridiculously ironic, seeing as how I just agreed to let an exterminator come and spray the eaves of my house with poison so that my family will no longer be dive-bombed by literally hundreds of wasps as we go in and out of the front door.

But you get the gist of what I'm saying, right? How does one afford to buy food with less ingredients, less additives, less chemicals and less poisonous tainty kinds of things? When will grocery stores - regular grocery stores - stock truly locally produced food?

Ah, well, I better shut my confused and hypocritical mouth now. I need to stuff it with M&Ms granola and, uh, Coke organic milk so I'll have energy for the rest of the day. Right. That's exactly what I'm going to do. Walk past the bowl of halloween candy. Have an organic grape. Sure. You bet.

At least he's not a book burner, you Nazi cow

rile up the zealots
turn on the lamp, make some tea
read scandalous books

Ten points to anyone who can tell me what movie the title of this post is from - WITHOUT googling it first.

So last week was Banned Books Week and I missed it because I was distracted by poop and muffins. But that's OK, because I'm personally extending the week by a few more days, so that everyone who, like me, was distracted by things non-banned in nature (so to speak) can take a few minutes and pick up something scandalous to read to their kids.

Here's the list of the top ten most challenged books of 2006. My guess is that there's not one book in that list as horrifying, frightening, scandalous, or generally traumatizing as the evening news. Unless reading about two male penguins adopting a baby penguin makes you crazy. If that's the case, you may want to stick with the news.

Mama Knows Breast

an instruction book
the magical manual
for your gazongas

If you've had a baby you already know this, if you haven't, this may sound shocking: Once your baby is born you lose all knowledge of your breasts. You think you understand them. You're pretty sure they're still part of your body. But then they turn into painful porn star rocks, and they shoot liquid half-way across the room, and you might as well have twin turbine engines jutting out of your chest because you can't figure out what in the hell is going on.

And as you struggle (yes, struggle) to get your baby to latch on, and you feel scorching, searing pain as your nipples toughen, you think, "GodDAMNit why don't these things come with a manual."

Well, now they do.

My friend Andi Silverman, fellow Quirk Books author, fellow mama, and fellow lactator, has written Mama Knows Breast: a beginner's guide to breastfeeding. It has everything in it from pros and cons, figuring shit out (literally and figuratively), tips and tricks - even weaning. It's a funny, helpful little book filled with real life anecdotes (keep on the lookout and you'll spot one from me).

If you're currently nursing, or plan to be nursing, or know someone who is currently breastfeeding or planning to, this is really a great book (and I'm not just saying that because my book goes great with Andi's book as a shower gift). It's short, easy to read, non-preachy, and full of trendy little illustrations that explain things like what the hell the football hold really is.

Check it out. You'll dig it.

watch me

This is when I choose to stop writing and go watch America's Next Top Model on the TiVo.

the story of how my heart broke into a million pieces (in a good way)

I went to pick up the wee one from school yesterday, still feeling sheepish about having to abandon him in the Muffins for Mom line. As I worked up my apology, he came running from his class waving something over his head.

It was a muffin in a ziplock bag.

"I saved one for you, Mommy!" he shouted with a crazy grin. "My teacher kept it in the secret classroom refrigerater all day so that it would stay fresh!"

And so my tiny black heart grew three sizes and then broke into a million sappy pieces.

Oh my God, where did this sweet kid come from? Forget the muffin. I could eat him up!

oh, the irony

who needs nutrition
my foundations are built with
bribery and fat

Today was "Muffins with Mom" at the wee one's school. I admit to trying to dodge this particular event. See, they lure you in with free muffins and then they send your kids to class and hold you hostage while a dietitian lectures on how it's bad to have fat kids and what the bureaucratic nightmare of a school system is trying to do to combat the Round Plague.

And that's all fine and good.

I don't really want to be lectured, though. Especially at 8 am on a Tuesday. So, admittedly, I made us run late today. We got to school about ten minutes after we usually do, thus allowing the wee one to skip sitting in the cafeteria goofing off with his classmates while waiting for his teacher to fetch them. Instead, we went straight to the classroom, hoping to avoid any muffins or dietitians.

Well, my plan backfired.

Right when we got the classroom, the teacher was walking out with her little girl. "Have you guys had a muffin?" she asked cheerily.

"Oh, no," I answered, flustered (as always). "We're running late."

"Well, you two go grab one. The wee one can be a little late to class today." And with a grin she shooed us off to the cafeteria.

So there we were, standing in a line two miles long, waiting for muffins. Then, lo - who shows up in line behind us? The wee one's teacher! We make polite chitchat until I realize the line isn't moving and I need to get home. The wee-er one is at home with her daddy and her daddy is undoubtedly sweating because he needs to get to work and I am late returning from the school drop off.

This is when my Mother of the Year instincts kick in.

"Hey, wee one," I whisper conspiratorially. "I have to leave to save daddy. What if I make muffins for you and they're ready when you get home from school?" I give him a hopeful, pleading look.

He looks at me skeptically. "But I want these muffins."

"I know you do, but I have to go. The line isn't moving and daddy is going to be really mad if I'm late and make him late."

The wee one, ever the trooper, heaves a long sigh. "But I wanted these muffins." His use of the past tense makes me hopeful.

"I know," I say, feeling terrible. "What if we swing by Sonic on the way home from school this afternoon for a special treat?"

"Sonic AND homemade muffins?" he asks, eyes aglow.

"Well, we'll see," I say, and we both know this means "yes."

I stand up (I've been squatting next to the wee one this whole time) and I notice his teacher smiling at us.

"He can stay here with me," she says, and I agree to leave him standing in line with her. And then I realize she has overheard me bribing my son with crap fast food and homemade crap food. Bribing him with food at the "don't let your kid get fat" elementary school hoedown. Awesome.

And so I leave. The wee one is happily chattering with his teacher and her daughter, waiting in line for his muffin - that he will now get along with the bribed food, thus doubling his caloric intake for the day.

Thanks, Muffins for Mom. If my kid gets fat, I blame you. (But not the teacher because she's really nice and sort of helped me assuage my guilt for having to abandon the wee one in line. I can't believe I did that. Do I suck or what?)

Boo long lines. Boo poor public parenting. Yay sympathetic teachers who are stuck in line no matter what and just make the best of it.

mundane monday? nah.

I'm poop's cute chauffeur
ferrying feces to, fro
all in a day's work

There's a small chance the wee one may have a parasite. Awesome. So to test for said parasite the wee one must poo into a layer of saran wrap plastered across the toilet. Then I (or my spouse) have the enviable task of digging around in the poo and scooping chunks of it into two vials given to us by the friendly neighborhood pediatrician.

We have to do this for three days.

So far we have two poos down and one to go (so to speak), but now that the week has begun I'm not so sure we're going to catch that third, wily poo. School is a long day and the wee one has no qualms pooping anywhere at anytime. Ordinarily this is a good thing. But now that I am the Supreme Poop Spelunker I don't really want to stretch this drama out any longer than necessary.

Now the question is: do I ferry the feces to the lab, incomplete, thus forcing myself to make two consecutive days of poop runs (again, so to speak), or do I wait for the last, taunting poo and just deliver it all together? If I go today, maybe they can test the two days worth of poo and we'll get lucky and not have to wait around for day three. There's a lot of ifs and buts hanging on that wish, though.

And by the way? The wee one loves this drama. He is so excited to watch me (or his daddy - we draw straws) dig around in his poo and fill up the "science-y tubes" with it. He thinks that we are all now scientists.

Also, because my husband and I were so shocked by the size of the wee one's poo, the wee one has now learned to say "man-turd." As in, "Mommy says I make man-turds. I'm so grown up now." I'm sure this is going over very well at school right now.

Where's that Dirty Job's guy when you need him?