Back in the saddle again.

Sort of.

Surgery was Monday and I'm making progress. Don't have much of a brain to post this (I'm sorry, the drug dispensing gods stole my brain) but I did want to make it clear that I came through alright and that I am walking again. It's going to be a fun road to recovery, but I am improving and, most importantly, I have taken a shower. And for that the entire State of Maryland is grateful.

Happy Holidays.

Baby got back.

Without going into the horrible details, I am playing patient at the moment and am practicing the height of mediocre mothering. My back is out. Beyond out. It started 2 weeks ago and will hopefully end tomorrow morning when I'm admitted for surgery. I can't walk. I can barely type this e-mail at the moment, what with the heavy drugs and all. I've got family in and my current "quality time" with Captain Kid involves throwing Playhouse Disney on TV and vegging out in bed with him. I'm about to have 6 weeks of recovery ahead of me and I don't even want to talk about work.

You know what they say, when life throws you lemons, make gin and tonic with a twist. But for right now the only drinking I'm doing is accompanied by a couple of little pills on the side. I'll update more after surgery, but for now...the doctor is out.

Private parts.

I've never been very squeamish when it comes to horror films. I'll admit it, I do get a certain delight to watch a Zombie munch on the living in any and all "Night of the Living Dead" films and for sure, I dig the pea soup scene in "The Exorcist."

It's real life that gores me out. Which is why it was a bit of a shocker this morning when my friend, I'll call him "Bobert," e-mailed me photos of his newborn...and the placenta...and the detached umbilical cord. Actually, to be fair, the placenta was jiggling around in a bowl like jello and the umbilical cord was laid out on a tray, vaguely reminiscent of my 7th grade worm dissection project. I shrieked, just as I did in the 7th grade, and closed the photos.

Am I such a pansy that I can't take that before drinking my coffee?

When I was giving birth I was delighted that I had a big belly blocking the view. After the first push the doctor asked me if I'd like a mirror so that I could see.

No. I'm good.

After the third push when the head was coming out she asked if I'd like to reach down and feel it.

No. I'm good.

In fact, if I had my druthers NO ONE would have seen that. I, in fact, have marveled with a girlfriend that our husband's actually want to "go there" now that they've seen that. I suppose I feel lucky that the Dad's still interested after seeing my bits and pieces in such a state. Especially after his squeamish reaction when they asked if he'd like to cut the cord:

Ummm. Cutting is for doctors.

Of course, some readers may think I'm a bit prudish and that it's all natural, animals eat their baby's placenta, in some cultures humans eat the placenta, blah blah blah. Alright. I'll give you that. But it taint my thang.

But if it's your thang, maybe this link will satisfy your appetite. For your entertainment, Tom Cruise' Placenta Eating Guide...

The Story of Vodka.

Ah, yes, kids do say the darnedest things. Which is why the Deviant Dad and I went cross eyed the other day when Captain Kid delightfully requested "Vodka Singing, pease!" It quickly dawned on us he was requesting "Hanukkah singing." So now we delightfully regale him in rousing choruses of "Oh Hanukkah" or "Oh Vodka," if you will, over and over again.

Hanukkah starts next week and we've been furiously buying small items to delight and disappoint him. But naturally, all he's really interested in is the "kismass ites" that line our street. And so I find myself in new territory. I've been living in this town for nearly 10 years and I have never had to ponder the lessons I might have to teach and the disappointment that may lay ahead. Because in truth I grew up in a very Jewish neighborhood, where Christmas lights we're generally met with indifference or some yente exclaiming, "Oy, how tacky."

But now, with the realization of the Captain being the outsider ahead of us, it brings up the larger question to me of how to infuse religion and culture into his life when the competition has really pretty lights, trees and costumes and, let's face it, much catchier songs. The reality that lies ahead is that learning through peer osmosis will simply not be an option. And then the more harsh responsibilities, like how to broach the subject of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, will have to be infused with a degree of diplomacy and tact. .

I'm not going to sugarcoat this thing...Christmas is a load of fun. As probably the only Jew who was at the Vatican on Christmas day last year, I'll admit, yeah, I get a little Christmas spirit. And save last year, we have a long-standing tradition of hanging with the Captain's godparents on Christmas Day and they put on a hell of a show. But I have to ask myself...what's my bottom line? As much as I'd love to say that a fun light-up menorah is just as rockin' as a string of twinkly lights....really, who am I kidding?

Sigh. If only some of these favorite television Hanukkah characters would come along and explain it all to the Kid, life would be a lot easier...

Those were the days.

"ABCD Cookie Monster"

Remember when it was hip? Check out this New York Times article for more fabulous memories. We were so badass.

The Chuck E. Cheese Effect

A number of years ago I had the distinct misfortune of taking a family trip to Chuck E. Cheese with a couple of toddlers. It was during such a visit that I discovered the truth...Chuck E. Cheese is actually Satan.

Here's what it broils down to. Nowhere in the world will a child's worst attributes come out like at Chuck E. Cheese. They push and shove, they eat too many carbs, and it's all "mine. Mine. MINE!!!" If you have the misfortune that I did you will see a fight break out. You may even see (and yes I did) a kid puking (minus the head spinning, but I think you know where I'm going with all this). I'm pretty sure that my experience put off parenthood a good 5 years. And if after reading this column you STILL want kids, pack up your favorite niece or nephew and head on over.

I bring all this up, not because I plan to visit the 7th Circle again, but because after a 2 week long coughing fit, Captain Kid was diagnosed with walking pneumonia yesterday and I'm convinced that the same devil was tinkering with his brain. Yes, it's 9 o'clock on a Saturday and I've been sipping wine for a couple of hours to cope with what was a nightmare of a day. First off, I think walking pneumonia is a bit of a misnomer. Try Running-like-a-maniac-completely-unable-to-settle-down-for-even-a-minute-whilst-throwing-toys-cups-of-milk-and-insanely-bucking-his-head-at-anything-and-everything-he-can-including-DOG-Mom's-leg-and-the-floor Pneumonia. And naturally when they're sick all you can do is take it and resist the urge to throw them and/or yourself out a window.

The truth is that it's days like today where I doubt my capacity to ever do this again. And I don't understand how time and time again he manages to draw me back in. But mother nature must have a short ass memory for this kind of shit. Hell, she got me past Chuck E. Cheese in the first place.

Nannycide.

Many have suspected and, yes, I declare now that it is true...I have dropped off the face of the earth. In a working mother's universe of "something's gotta give" I selected the blog, at least for now. Truly, it was this or sleep and I'd sooner be declared a Mediocre Blogger than a Mediocre Driver when I haul ass an hour back and forth every morning and every afternoon.

As much as I want to curl up under my sofa and not address the Nannycide, a good friend pointed out that I should do it for posterity, lest I decide to forget or block it out. So here goes.

As it turns out, I didn't have Mary Poppins watching my kid, it was more like Mary Shelley. After only one week of service I started to become suspicious. I walked in the door after 6 to find a stack of dishes in the sink and hardly a noticeable trace of activities she engaged in with the Captain. So I did what any suspicious mother would do and checked her internet history. Yes, I felt like the Mom from The Nanny Diaries and was mortified by my own distrust. But naturally it was all well founded. After only one week, she'd decided to use my computer to solicit new jobs, saying that she'd been nannying for a 2 year old but that was about to change. When the Dad got home he used his hacker-like abilities and discovered a string of e-mails she sent in support of her craigslist ads.

Though our first instinct was to call her out and blast her then and there, our more pressing concern was that we had absolutely no replacement for her and we were just stuck. What was worse was that we knew if we confronted her with our findings that we'd have to explain the e-mail sleuthing and then we'd really be up shits creak. We resolved to find someone quickly and quietly so that we could drop her asap.

As it turns out, Frankentrash did us a big favor. She called out sick the next two days, thus throwing up into nanny-hunt overdrive. Long story short, we found an in-home daycare person with all the inconvenience of location you could hope for, but with a long list of references and immediate availability. But it was only Wednesday and we were set, meaning that we could boot her the next day. Now the fun began.

I should back up and mention in all of this that Frankenbitch kept making fake overtures about wanting to engage Captain Kid in a "sensory learning activity plan" and that she would need supplies to start this bad boy up. For sure, there's nothing more amusing than when uneducated stupid people try to use big words to deflect from the fact that they are fucking you over. So I played along. What did she have in mind? What would she need to buy? She even told me of her plans to sit in on the Captain's Montessori class to observe so that she could be better prepared to play with him in a meaningful way.

All the while, the craigslist ads kept going up. Now it's Wednesday and she's advertising for the hours that she watches Captain Kid.

So I did what any savvy internet user would do...I created a fake hotmail account to solicit her services. Not only did I create a whole fake persona I used small words, misspelled words and let's just say that I forgot to capitalize all around.

And not only did she take the bait, she told me of her availability starting November 9th and how she'd just given notice to her current family.

And naturally this is how I discovered when she planned her last day of work. I followed up with another e-mail saying I was interested; could she please send me a list of references, including the current family she nannies for.

So now (and if I haven't lost you yet) this is where the story gets complicated. Simultaneous with sending the fake hotmail e-mails, I contact her through AIM. I ask how she and her poor baby are feeling and she tells me much better. I ask her to please bring back the little riding toy I loaned her so that I could bring it to New York the following weekend. I verified that she was feeling well enough to watch Captain Kid the next day. No mention is made of her giving notice. By all measure, she sounded positively pleased about returning to work.

Suddenly, I notice an e-mail arrives in my inbox from her. She says she's giving her notice, that she has found another position that would work much better for her at this time, and that she has truly enjoyed the time she has spent with Captain Kid (yes, if you were doing the math, 1 week). I promptly log off of AIM, sit down and write the following note:

Hi, Felicia!

Sorry the house isn't cleaner (it was a crazy couple of days without you). If you could load the dishwasher and run the laundry that would be great. Also, we'd like to know what you have in mind for these "sensory games/play" you have in mind. A budget would be great too.

I'm in meetings all afternoon tomorrow, so txt me if you need anything.

-A

PS - Sorry there's no computer today. We packed it up last night to send to Dell for keyboard replacement.

PPS - So Glad everyone is feeling better!

My reasons for the note were threefold.

1. I did not want this little witch knowing that I knew she gave notice. My desire was to make it as uncomfortable as possible when we walked in the door to fire her ass;
2. Since she had an e-mail sitting there from chicchica81@hotmail.com requesting the details of her current employer, my feeling was that I could get a good bit of housework out of her; and most importantly
3. I had to do the hardest thing imaginable the next day and leave Captain Kid in her care. I had no option - we needed to get his car seat back and, more importantly, our key. My feeling was that if she even got a whiff of discontent from me that she could take it out on him. I needed her to think that she had a lot to lose by being a bitch. And that is exactly how it went down...

On Thursday, after she picked him up from school, I called the front office to let them know that she was never to be seen setting foot near my son after this day. His teacher was in on it too. At 5:30 pm that night, Deviant Dad and I met up at a local parking lot so that we could walk in the door together. Our first order of business was to find out how the Captain did that day. Our next order of business was to get our things back and throw her ass out the door. I now offer, unedited, a transcript (or as close to it as my brain can recall):

Deviant Dad - How did he do today?

Felicia Miller - He did fine. Ate pizza, napped for 2 hours. Sorry, but I really have to be running to my next job (EDITORS NOTE - NO, SHE DIDN'T RESIGN TO US AT THIS TIME, EVEN THOUGH SHE BELIEVED WE'D NEVER SEEN HER E-MAIL AS EVIDENCED BY A NOTE SHE SCRATCHED OUT TO US SAYING AS MUCH).

Mediocre Mama - Great, well, we'd like your key back, the name tag to pick him up, the car seat and the riding toy, and we'd like you to never come back again.

FM - Ummm, okay.

MM - Felicia, we're not stupid. We've known what you've been up to since Monday. And the fact that you could even pretend to my face that you were creating some curriculum and planning to go to his school is just incredible.

FM - No wait, I was only just offered a job yesterday.

MM - That's because you've been soliciting jobs from my computer since MONDAY!!!

I ask for the things back and she confesses that she neglected to bring his riding toy. I said, fine, you bought it and deduct $30 out of her two days pay for the week.

DD - The fact that you lasted with us as short a time as you did is just unacceptable.

MM - Felicia, you've got a lot of growing up to do.

The Dad escorts her out to the car, gets our belongings and out she goes, both dazed and/or confused. Nary a craigslist ad has been posted since.

It's hard to say which is the biggest lesson we learned. Clearly, never trust a Sicilian when death is on the line, but we already knew that. Naturally we'll be more careful in the future blah blah blah. But the bottom line is you never know. And the truth is that many nannies shop around new jobs as though they're hopping from Wendy's to McDonald's. I wish I could say that Felicia learned something from us, but the truth is that all she learned is to use a blackberry to solicit jobs instead of your employers computer.

What it did show me is how decidedly non-mediocre I can be when someone tries to fuck with my kid. It also showed me that as much of a cynic as I am, I am decidedly too hopeful and trusting in my belief that others have intentions as good as my own.

I did a lot of babysitting as a teenager and was consistently told after I left that world that they didn't know how good they had it until I left. Maybe in my mind it was hard to believe that another young woman, in particular, a mother, could have intentions that were less than honorable. Or maybe I just thought, hey, she's a mom...she wouldn't fuck over another mom.

So I thank Felicia Miller for teaching me something. She taught me that under the proper circumstances, I too am capable of fucking over another mother.

Captain Kid now has reliable daycare. And though not ideal, it will do. For now, being a working mom is stable and the job is going well. So, with apologies, hopefully I can get back to doing what I do best here. Making myself look like an ass for the entertainment of others. Thanks for hanging in there with me.

Happy Birthday, Captain.

For a year of bumps, bruises, tantrums, laughs, tears, travel, toddling, and basic running away from the camera, I present the Captain's 2nd year of life. Happy Birthday, baby.

Free MySpace slideshows, photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Special shoutout to my man, Willy Porter, for Unconditional.

Poops and pail and puppy dog tails.

That's what little Captain's are made of. I don't even know where to start about my shitty afternoon and all the shit that ensued, but I guess I'd best start with the backpack.

Every day when the Captain arrives home from school, I am tasked with the daunting job of emptying the backpack. It's with great trepidation that I pull the baggie from his bad for fear of the contents inside. Will it just be a wet T? Or will it, like today, be 2 pair of totally pooped up underpants?

Now, to me it's a game of what's grosser than gross. You remember the old game. What's gross? A pooped up diaper. What's grosser than gross? Pooped up, hardened, cold underpants. I hate it and I hate cleaning it out. It usually amounts to a stifled gag reflex and a lot of breath holding. Which is how the events of this afternoon transpired.

So while I'm cleaning out the shitty pants, Captain kid decides it's Naked Time. I see the pants and diaper come off and the diaper gets balled on to the floor. But now he's running around the house and his tushy is covered by his t-shirt, so there's really not much I can see. All I know is that my hands are deep in shit and I can't very well chase him in current state. So I finish cleaning out the underpants and grab some bleach and a sponge to disinfect the sink. If anyone out there has a better method I'd appreciate the feedback.

Anyway, seeing as how I'm holding my breath, it somehow escapes my attention that within the balled up diaper is a balled up turd. And even if I had been breathing in the air from the cruded up underpants, naturally shit is a natural mask for the odor of...shit.

So now I finally spot aforementioned turd in the diaper and it dawns on me that he's been running around nude for the last 5 minutes. I don't even know where to start. First stop, swab down the toddler, which he's none too pleased about. Then I run off to assess the damage. But where to start? Thank goodness for Dog, because like pigs sniffing out truffles, she's on the case. I follow her nose and (hopefully) clean up all the skid marks around the living room. But...

Now it dawns on me that I've forgotten about the toddler. So I return to the bathroom and he's picked up the bleached up sponge and is swabbing out the garbage pail (oh thank you Montessori). I clean him up, put away all the cleaning products, and turn around to rinse off the sink. Still with me?

While I'm rinsing the sink it gets quiet. Too quiet. And now I look and he's standing out on the patio holding...a can of cement glue and a power drill. Deviant Dad gets a serious Memo award on that one, I manage to shove the toddler in his crib for some much needed R&R (you know, for me), and now I sit here blogging away and dreaming of being in a nice cozy office next week, away from shit and poop and smart ass toddlers that make me look so goddamn mediocre.

And now...the entertainment portion of our blog. Thank you for reading...

Enter stage right.

Recall months ago when I lost my shift key. Think back...it was May 2007. Lindsay Lohan was not yet in rehab (this time) and Britney Spears was in a downward spiral (oh, wait). For oh these many months I have become an expert left-handed shifter for the sake of clarity, grammar and so that I can make FUCKING EXCLAMATION POINTS1 for your amusement and for the sake of posterity. Honestly, these days I have trouble working on a normal computer with two shift keys. Yup, my computer has gone ghetto. But I do believe these days are over. It's time to grow up and use some of that soon-to-be-earned income for the sake of a new keypad. Why, do you ask? Well, think hard. Could there be something missing in my work with this current keypad? I'll give you a clue. When I was a little girl sitting in Mrs. Smiley's (I swear to you that was her name) 5th grade class we learned a very important lesson about division of thoughts and ideas into separate and distinct paragraphs. Not only does this provide the reader with some clarity it sets the tone of each individual thought and assists the reader by dividing out separate ideas into small blocks of content. Without paragraphs it would make the authors thoughts blurry and difficult for a reader to grasp each idea. If you don't remember about paragraphs and the important role they play in both fiction and non-fiction, feel free to check out this entry in the wikipedia. Now I love my little Captain, but he does have the ability to be trouble. I am also very pleased to announce that we found our Mary Poppins to watch him when I return to work. She's young, she's willing to pick him up from school and she's a mom herself. But Poppins brings her tiny tot, the Captain's new First Mate, along to watch the Captain during the day and I'm afraid to say that this is where the trouble starts. Now Mary Poppins is not sure who savaged my keyboard last night, but it's safe to say that it was either the Captain or his First Mate. I have my suspicions, but as both of them are under the age of 2 and difficult to bring in for questioning, it's just impossible to say. And for that matter, it doesn't really matter who did it, does it? All that matters is that I am once again searching for alternatives to give the reader some clarity and hopefully won't have to wait too long before I get my new keyboard. Otherwise, does anyone really give a shit what Mrs. Smiley taught me?

Pottygate update.

I know I don't normally post so quickly. Hell, usually I like to wait a good 2 weeks to get my readers fully alienated from my life, but we had a breakthrough. After lunch, the Captain stripped down once more and headed for the potty. This time he asked for Cheerios, which made me think, wow, he wants a snack. This must mean he's committed. The Kid hops on the toilet and I run off to get Cheerios. When I return, believe it or not, he's sitting on the toilet and yes he's doing it. Pee's flying everywhere and even a drop or two got in the bowl.

All hail mighty Dog, though. Just like the good doormat she is, she walks over to the toilet and laps up the urine. Good dog. Woof.

Naked ambition.

Sigh...


Alright, I am very excited and pleased to report that Captain Kid asked me to take off his clothes and diaper, ran into the bathroom, and for the very first time (for me) decided to sit on the toilet. We had a wonderful half hour in the bathroom. He hopped on, he hopped off. He flushed the toilet. He flushed it again. And again. He put paper in the toilet until I put the paper away. We talked. We laughed. It was better than Cats, better than Les Miz.


But when the Captain goes for something, it doesn't just stop there. And so began the hour-and-a-half of nakedness and a few frightening moments of tushy to rug contact. It seems that he's tried the naturist thing and decided he's "into it." Every time I tried to get him dressed again he peeled off all his clothes and diaper. Which is all well and good when he's sitting on the potty, but a little frightening when he's running about, blowing in the breeze. And since he's figured out how to get naked...let's face it, I've lost.


Does it make me a terrible parent that I'm not eager to get piss and shit on my furniture? We do have mostly hardwood floors, but with all the grooves and crevasses I'm not certain how a cleanup operation would go. It sucks bad enough when Dog pukes. I do understand why people wait so long to potty train, because dealing with the prospect of piss and shit all over the place is none-to-appetizing. But we are already down the dark path and of course his school is to thank for the progress.


The question is, how do I keep him on the potty in his al natural state? Is there some incentive or coercion that I'm missing out there? Hmmm...

Emily Post, eat your heart out...with a dull spoon.

Last weekend the G'parents threw the Captain a little birthday partay on account of his upcoming 2nd birthday. It was fun, though he was more interested in playing in the swing than anything else and I daresay he was afraid of his birthday cake. No, really, he swatted at it, got a handful of icing, and then was horrified at the idea of eating it.

So being that I am returning to the workforce in less than 2 weeks, I decided to be on top of things and get my thank you notes out immediately, seeing as how I'm notoriously mediocre at sending out thank you notes. I pull apart Deviant Dad's still yet-to-be unpacked office, find thank you cards, address labels and...10 thank you notes for the Captain's BIRTH 2 years ago that I handed to Deviant Dad to be addressed, which, obviously, are still waiting to be addressed.

The whole thing was just so sad. They were filled out and stamped as of 2 postage price changes ago. So now I'm faced with the prospect of sending 10 sheepish mea culpas out to various friends and family. Yes, I know what you are going to say, why not make the Dad do it? Ummm, please reference previous paragraph for more information on why that's never going to happen!!!

And as a sidebar, Captain Kid's speech is developing by leaps and bounds. Baby's first swear word? Bastard. Awww. Thank you Fat Bastard for making it happen.

When one baby eats another...

The result? Mom births her 12th baby — 17-pound Nadia.

Punk rock.

It's always an endearing moment the first time your child paints his hair purple. But today I think Captain Kid completely revolutionized the hair tinting industry. Teacher was both amused and shaking her head today when she described the events that led to his foray into punk rock. She documented his technique as such:

1. Start by painting a picture.
2. Get bored of painting picture and look around for something more interesting to paint.
3. Spot hairbrush and remove from hairbrush bin.
4. Paint hairbrush bristles.
5. Get bored of painting and decide instead to brush hair with aforementioned hairbrush.
6. Rinse.
7. Repeat.

Now after reading this, don't you feel stupid spending hundreds of dollars on expensive highlights?

When I grow up...

Remember when you were a little kid and they used to ask you what you wanted to be when you were a grown up? Think back...you're small, maybe drawing with some crayons, eating some paste...that's it, you remember. And so all my dreams came true this week. Yes, folks, it's true. I'm going to be a Land Use and Zoning Manager focusing on Wireless Telecom.

Okay okay, not quite as simple as a childhood dream, but it is actually a lawyers dream and an interesting job to boot with many many of the perks that we lawyers like (translation - no billable hours). I'm pretty excited and I start mid-October, which means the drag race to find a nanny begins. And then, of course, the next phase...how to be a Mediocre Working Mama.

This is going to be a major. Not only will this be a serious job with often serious hours, I'm going to be a good 30 miles from home, which means I will be assuming the role of Beta Parent and Deviant Dad will be the Alpha. It is more than for the best, and a much more comfortable lifestyle for sure, but I don't doubt the posts that are to come and the difficult adjustment we are certain to weather. In many ways, it will be harder for me and than it will be for him.

Though I often pick on the hard stuff, I must boast for a moment about the Captain's ability to adapt to any situation that we've thrown him. Maybe it's because we've thrown him so many curve balls (travel, living abroad, school, new homes and beds, different foods) that he's been so capable of dealing with change. Or maybe it's that he's 2 and hasn't quite the attention span or ability to focus on the past like we do. I suppose we'll find out soon.

I know, I shouldn't go sappy with this post because I really do neurotic and self-deprecating much better. But if I said I wouldn't miss him it would be a lie. And if I said I wasn't relieved it would be a lie, too. To be sure, it's all been a journey; the next journey is to find myself again. If you've seen her, please forward her to Mediocremama.blogspot.com. We offer COD but the sender assumes the responsibility for damage.

Shopping Fart

I have come to understand why so many parents leave their kids in the car in the sweltering heat and get turned in to child services for all manner of similar behavior. It's because the fucking shopping cart gestapo is out there and they are scary.

Today I was assaulted by one such member of the third Reich. To protect his true identity I will call him "rich-fat-ass-with-no-kids-too-much-time-on-his-hands-and-a-small-penis-which-is-clearly-the-reason-he-doesn't-understand-the-plight-of-a-mediocre-mama-because-he's-never-had-a-baby-or-quite-possibly-he's-a-eunuch." For short, I'll call him Euni. I digress.

I'm shopping at the local market with the Captain, loading my cart up with sushi and all manner of expensive goods because I finally got a job offer (more on that later). I'm feeling pretty good about myself, even bought environmentally conscious shopping bags to boot, but my bad back has been pretty horrible lately and I'm willing to take as many shortcuts as possible when it comes to carrying things. Anyways, my parking spot is in a land far far away and naturally I have to roll the tiny tot and groceries to the car. With no cart returns in the lot, I do the only thing possible and roll the cart between the spots, up towards the top so no one will have trouble getting in or out. I get in the car and quick as a whip, Euni starts shouting at me. At first I thought it was German, but no, it was my native tongue and he offered this scathing review:

Euni - You're too lazy to return your cart.

Me (stepping out of my car to see if he wants a piece of this) - Excuse me? I have a baby in the car.

Euni - You're irresponsible, blocking car spots, and too lazy to return your cart.

Now, I'm blinded with confusion because I thought the baby in the car was a pretty good rationale, not to mention that if he weren't yelling at me to return my cart someone else would have turned me in to child authorities for leaving my kid in the car by himself on a warm day, no less.

Me - Well, I'll tell you what, I'll pay you $.25 and you can babysit my kid WHILE I RETURN YOUR GODDAMN SHOPPING CART! No emphasis added, I assure you.

Many heads turn and now I AM being irresponsible because I for sure am driving angry.

Will someone please tell me what the point of striving to be a little less mediocre as a mama when Euni is going to shout me down for it? Did I do something incorrect? And if he was so civic minded and worried about the spot I was blocking, wouldn't he have just offered to return the cart for me?

Cobwebs and dust bunnies.

If you've noticed them on my blog, you wouldn't be alone. I thought I'd be a blogaholic when the Captain went to school, but it turns out not so much. There are many reasons, most of them psychological and all of them having to do with my job search. But the time has come to clear out the tumbleweeds and getting back to what I do best...productive procrastination.

Anyhoo, let me just enlighten my faithful reader(s) as to the recent developments of my life:

1. I interviewed for a great job, was told I was going to be offered it, and still after 4 weeks am being hung out to wait (at this time I suspect I'm waiting to be told it's not going to happen) and that is what I do, like a loser, by the phone, waiting like a girl waiting to be called for a 2nd date;
2. Captain Kid is loving school and keeping his teacher busy. Montessori has given him manners and he now clears the table and throws out trash. They have not yet cured him of his habit of torturing Dog, but he can put together a lovely floral arrangement for her to say he's sorry;
3. Deviant Dad turned 32 yesterday so I can now breath easy for the next 9 months and don't have to listen to his stupid jokes about me being "old;" and
4. The Captain has been through 2 head colds, as have we, and I've been nursing a sinus infection for the last week-and-a-half.

So in the net, not all that much has happened in the last month, yet I don't even know where the time has gone. The Captain turns 2 in just a couple of weeks and we are busily planning his birthday party, to be held at the casa de grandparent in a couple of weeks. And as for me, I'm back to square one on my job hunt, which is depressing the hell out of me, expanding my waist line, and emptying my wallet. I think what kills me most is that I dropped $85 on a pair of victory shoes when I thought I had a job. I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go.

But alas, this is not all why I decided to blog again. I decided to blog because of yet another less than mediocre mama out there that's making me look bad. I refer to This Blog, which details one woman's journey of homemade gourmet lunch boxes. She (a) makes it look easy, (b) makes it look delicious, and (c) made me feel really bad as I let the Captain munch on cheerios and an ego waffle at lunch time. Take your time and look through, but don't do it on an empty stomach.

Sigh. Thank god Britney's out there to make me feel better all the time. If I don't say it enough, I heart Britney!

Driving that train, high on cocaine.

I didn't think I'd be giving out another Memo Award in such short order, but the more mediocre parenting out there they just leave me no choice. Today's award goes to the Mama who was doped out on Percocet and vodka and used her better judgment to allow her 5 year old to drive the car.

There are many facets of this story that intrigue me. I almost feel as though her intent was something I could jive with, just not her execution.

First and foremost, who amongst us hasn't been tempted to pop a little something something to deal with our kids? I grant you, in my case it's usually a nice glass of wine when I put the Captain down to bed at night. But there are times he's so out of hand that I think what I wouldn't give to take a Soma and check out for a while.

Second, you do have to hand it to her; she knew she was not capable of driving an automobile.

I guess what I find totally obnoxious about this story is that the grandfather comes on the news exclaiming that he's not bailing her out and wagging his finger of shame. Yet he consented to let the kid give an interview? I should come up with a Mediocre Grandparent award but the Mega doesn't have the ring that Memo does.

Have a great holiday weekend everyone. And remember if you are going to let your toddler drive, make sure you're sober enough to give him directions. Or at least be like Britney and have the courtesy to work the gas.

“Temptation, frustration, so bad it makes him cry."

Ah, just a little school song to set the tone.

Yes, the Captain is off to school. Only 2 days in and 1 morning crying-jag down. "I think I'm gonna like it here."

The first day sorted out so so. A new pair of shoes and a brand spankin' new backpack to start things right. It took a few shots with the new pair til it was a meltdown-free affair, but the Captain is taking change in stride and looks rather outdoorsy in his new stride rite extra-wide shoes. Naturally the Deviant Dad didn't get new shoes to honor the Captain's first day of school, so we're still using his ailing flip flops to open beer.





My biggest concern about the Captain's first day is that naturally he decided to mark the occasion by coming down with a head cold. Of course, the parent handbook details the shape, color and precise location of discharge that would preclude a child from attending school, which sends me into a panic because as the "volunteer" parent I have to get my arse over to the school for the first 2 days. After a few alarmed phone calls to a "Friendly Mom," I decide to dope the Captain up on some contraband narcotics and send him off on his first day.

And he did great. Until his 2nd day. It seems that after the first time of abandonment they "get it" and go mental on subsequent occasions. And so he kicked and screamed and panicked this morning whilst I pranced into the front office to take on the mighty tasks of garbage disposal and recycling. Ah well. When your only real job in the last year involved shit and laundry you don't feel all that picky when someone gives you an important task like garbage removal.

And so I thought all was lost and that my brain would wither away during my volunteer time until I ran into Friendly Mom in the toddler drive-through pick up line. We chat for a moment and it turns out that in addition to having our kids in the same class, we're both temporarily SAHM's/Lawyers looking to re-enter the workforce. We agree we have much in common and exchange hand signals in the international code of "call me." I drive off feeling pretty good and the Captain's waving bye-bye rather contently at his teacher.

And then it hits me.

Have I joined the Momtourage?

A little "act of god."

Whatever insurance genius coined the term "an act of god" got it right. For only god could have known how much I hated the Deviant Dad's Miata. Owning up to this in full terms, I must confess the following thoughts have flickered through my brain over the years:

God, I hate this Miata.

God, I feel like an idiot riding around in this thing.

God, he looks like a 16 year old boy or an early mid-life crisis in that car.

God, I wish he would get rid of this stupid matchbox car!.

And so, it seems that She may have been listening. Saturday night a wild storm broke out and a large branch took out the side mirror, the windshield and various other bits of said Miata. The thing needed so much work to begin with that totalling is not out of the question. Now, of course, I don't have a job and it means buying a 2nd car we weren't prepared to buy. But no one was injured (thank god!) and it means we wouldn't have to put any work into fixing the car up to sell.

So...can I get an Amen?

I'm just a cupa cupa burning love....

Back to school started with a bang last night at the Captain's back to school picnic in the park. There was pizza. There were brownies. And most importantly, there were cups and a playground. So it came as no surprise to me that the Captain ran around all evening with a death grip on his paper cup (his favorite playtime accoutrement) and was extremely intent on bringing this cup where ever he went. Up the steps, down the slide. Anywhere you could truly think of. And it didn't stop there. He was particularly adept at conning unassuming parents to fill his cup. I think he had about 4 bites of pizza and it didn't really interest him. To the Captain, it's all about the cups...







I can attest to the fact that the Dad and I have no fears about sending the Captain off to school on Monday. He ran from us faster than we could put him down and didn't have the general confidence problems some wee ones might have. This, of course, being the reason that we were forced to put his name tag on his back instead of his front; he wouldn't sit still long enough for us to put it on his front. Which is all fine, anyway, because he spent most of the evening running away from people and it made it easier to find out what his name was.

But that all being said, I do have one major fear: the playground. Not that he'll fall, but that they will have to pry him from the riding cars, slides and sandbox that adorn the side of his classroom. This morning all the Toddlers were gathered at said play area and I can assure you that the Captain was the only child who would not be deterred from the playground. In fact, he was kicking and screaming when we left. With a window overlooking the temptation I fear that Teacher is going to have her hands full. But am I really afraid? Nah. This is why we pay other people to raise our kids. Ah, bliss...

A sibling at the end of the rainbow?

Despite my constant self-doubt, and Deviant Dad's even greater self-doubt, as to whether I want another little Captain running around the house, last night there was a ray of hope. Last night was toddler school orientation. And what did I learn, or so you wonder? Captain Kid is going to soon be a well-behaved angel who sets his plate at lunch and cleans the floors and dishes whilst peeing and pooping on his potty and putting on his own clothes, brushing his hair, and doing floral arrangements on the side. He might even be finding the cure for cancer in his spare time...I'm not sure, they didn't cover the entire year's curriculum.

But "Teacher" did set out a very specific daily lesson plan, which starts with getting stripped down to diaper or underpants and a shirt, sitting on the potty (not all at once), a bunch of work, setting up for and preparing meals, cleaning, everyone get back in the potty, music time and finally outdoor play. I sheepishly raised my hand and asked how the hell Teacher was going to coordinate this dance. I mean, I know she's a professional and all, but what if she gets 9 little Captains in her class?

Incredulity aside, we're pretty damn excited. Not only because someone else will be reining in our diablito, but because starting Monday I get 3 hours of my day back to troll for a job. Or so I thought.

As it happens, the parents get homework too at his new school. Our homework involves 2 days a month of "voluntary" service, clipping out class work and whatnot. We don't get to be in the classroom, we're actually put to work in the main office. We bring snacks and projects for the kiddies, wash all the crudded up clothes and stuff when we're in on a Thursday, and Mondays we bring a bouquet of flowers for the wee ones to arrange. Am I going to be adorable or what?

So starting Monday, the Captain has his first day of school. And remarkably, so do I.

Prison break.

It's either age, dementia or kids (maybe even erectile dysfunction) that has gotten me to the point where I can't remember one friend's wedding from another. What once seemed so important and exciting has suddenly faded into distant memories that start with a big poofy dress and end with a big poofy cake. Such is the difference between being 20something and 30something. But when a weekend wedding means your first night alone with your husband in nearly two years, suddenly a wedding starts to look like a conjugal visit. It's just that memorable.

And so my conjugal visit begins this Friday at 5:30 when my flight takes off to Connecticut. Captain Kid gets to play pirate with the grandparents for the weekend. It gives us many questions to ponder...

1. Will the Captain sleep through the night?


2. What if he gets scared while I'm gone?


3. What if he's hurt or confused and will my parents be able to comfort him?

If you answered "The Mediocre Mama doesn't give a shit," then you're right!

Oh, come now. Don't think badly of me. My parents raised me just fine and I doubt they can do very much damage over a 2 day period. Of course, there was the bad haircut they gave me as a kid. Not sure I ever recovered from that one...oh wait.

So now I go through the drama of what's going to fit my new post-mama figure and how will I survive a whole night in heels. Problems that seem rather insignificant compared with the bullshit minutia of my current everyday. And all I can do is smile and daydream about my 2 nights of freedom.

Yes, I believe this will be a wedding that I remember. Almost as much as the last wedding I attended...

The Barber of Devil-le

Thanks to our earlier haircut traumas and suggestions from the peanut gallery in our comment section, Deviant Dad and I decided that it would be wise to invest in a trimmer and cut Captain Kid's hair ourselves. Kiss it up to the gods of "it seemed like a good idea at the time," but I can now attest to the fact that the Captain looks like he gave himself a haircut.

It wasn't so bad at first. Nice even buzz all around. But I suppose we got cocky and decided to clean up the edges. And of course he struggled and bucked . So now the edge are a mangled mess, colored by patches that are buzzed and some that are not, and, of course, the random stray hair just poking out of bald patches. And it just kept getting worse. Every time we'd go too far and even it up it seemed to look more and more ridiculous. Now he has no sideburns and a hairline that is about even with his forehead all around.

With the first day of school only a couple of weeks away, I'm praying for a miracle...or perhaps some chia hair.

Note to self...get a job and then get a new camera.

I feel that ever since my camera broke en route from France back to Spain that I am missing out on both documenting and sharing my most mediocre of moments. Tonight's mediocre highlight? Childproofing the cabinets. This one goes to the Dad.

Now, we've never had to do this before. Back in Spain the kitchen was in lock down mode and we had all the confidence that he couldn't bust in there, what with the broken doorknob and all. So I grant you, we are in new territory here. But today, after the Captain reached into a drawer and grabbed the items nestled next to the steak knives; I knew it was time.

I should mention that our house is old. Dirt old. And the cabinet work? To describe it as piecemeal would be charitable. In fact, it is actually hanging by a thread. Which is exactly why as Deviant Dad pulled on that thread the entire cabinet began to unravel. There were many swear words uttered and lots of loud noises. To be sure, the best part was the "oh fuck" that came after a bit of drilling. Not only do we now have a broken piecemeal, piece of shit cabinet, we have a counter top with a hole in it from the Dad's drilling.

Oh, it's all good fun. And honestly, we do need new cabinets. But we are a long away from redoing the kitchen, so all I can do is admire my punctured Formica and look at kitchen and bath magazines like they are porn. Amend that note to self...get a job, get a camera, get a new kitchen. Crud.

McShit

A couple of articles I read today reminded me of how powerful marketing can be and why I got the hell out of that line of business so that I could become a lawyer and have influence on...no one. Oops, sorry, that's why I became a Mediocre Mama.

It turns that not only do those McDonald's trans fatty acids make the food taste oh so good, the paper does too. Or at least that's according to the average toddler. If I am reading this article correctly, even vegetables taste better if there's a golden arch around it. It got me and the Dad thinking that as soon as the Captain becomes aware of McDonald's, I'm going to go get myself a big stack of McDonald's wrappers. As for McDonald's reaction to the study? Well, they claim that they are going to be improving marketing to children under 12, only promoting Happy Meals with fruit. Seems like it's hardly charitable, but considering some of their older marketing techniques, I suppose it's an improvement...




And in another shocking revelation, the Baby Einstein videos, the most irritating videos on the market, which from my understanding of the title are supposed to have your kid figuring out the theory of relativity by the time they are 18 months, actually make your kid dumber. I have long suspected this but lacked the data or patience to sit my kid in front of these videos to test the theory (hey, it's all in the name of science). I am, however, contemplating launching my own study...is there a correlation between how irritating a video is and your kid's stupidity? I submit, for your contemplation, that the generation I babysat for, that grew up on Barney and The Power Rangers, seems to have produced a slew of Einsteins. You know, like Lindsay Lohan and the Olsen twins.

Every sperm is sacred, every sperm is good.

"I'm not getting shot out of that thing. What if he's masturbating?

I'm liable to end up on the ceiling."

Someone please tell me why I can't handle my 1 kid and this saucy bitch is so happy about pushing #17 out of her cooter that she just can't wait to have another? And for that matter, what would a cooter look like after 17 goes?

Hey, to each their own, but it did make me curious about what sort of people want that many kids. I didn't have to look far, as there was a nice little article on the wikipedia. All of which pointed me to the source of some of their beliefs, Quiverfull. So according to this movement, even the rhythm method is a sin. Holy shit.

But is it wrong that the most fascinating part about this couple is that all 17 of their kids have names that start with J? My personal favorite? Jinger.

And in another state, another mother lets her 2 year old daughter munch on some LSD coated Sweet Tarts. Other than the fact that I'm having a horrible craving for Sweet Tarts now, I have decided to give her my 2nd MEMO award, for maintaining her cool and bringing her kid to the hospital, even while on an LSD trip of her own. Kudos, Mama!

Crappy Doo.

There was something utterly delicious about the vision of the Captain sitting inside his potty, flipped upside down, with a dirty diaper strapped to his body and a clean diaper wrapped around his waist. Yes, it's potty training time. Let the non-stop festival of shitorama begin. In fact, let me just get my moment of infantile behavior come out all at once:

Poop

Shit

Merde

Poopy roopy roo!

Alright, I'm back. It's me, the 32 year old woman attempting to get a professional job at a law firm who thinks of nothing but doodie. And if I had a functioning camera I would document these precious moments. Sadly I don't, so I'm left with this feeble attempt:

Now you might think we've engaged in this activity a bit early, but it's coming around the bend. School starts this month. And with that, the pressure begins. One year to get him sorted. And I must give him kudos for the strides he's made in a short time. Today he pooped and actually ran to get his potty. Hence, sitting inside of the upside down potty with a fresh diaper wrapped around his waist. But we do seem to be getting into a bit of confusion, I'll admit:

1. The other day I caught him scooting around on it like a riding toy;

2. He has been known to toss the whole thing at Dog;

3. Turns out the potty?...awesome for carrying small blocks and toys; and

4. He can dance quite a jig standing on top of that sucker.

All of which made me think...maybe the standard inside the box potty is just too boring for our Captain. I couldn't help but wonder and, naturally, I had to do some googling. For sure, it went from the very fancy to the completely practical. I suppose you just need some imagination.

Catch 22.

It would seem to in all ways defeat the purpose of being home with my child that it now seems I need full time help to watch him while I look for a job. Which, of course, is further complicated by the fact that we are sans 2 salaries and can't seem to afford hired help to watch the Captain while I look for a job. And naturally, this is the price that one pays for moving 200+ miles away from home. Sure you avoid the random Sunday morning drop-in from the in-laws and who doesn't love that? But I do find myself envying friends and family who have grandma up the road. Not that that isn't it's own catch 22.

It does seem that by moving away we have all but secured our privacy and we aren't as beholden to the grandparents as many of our friends find themselves. One such friend, I'll call her Dori, who's mother watches her wee-one whilst she and the dad are at work seems totally at the mercy of grandma. There is no question she and her husband get an invaluable service from her. But such is the way that grandzillas are born.

And then there is the position that Deviant Dad and I find ourselves in. All grandparents are safely tucked away in NY, lying in wait and enjoying those few weekends that we let them out of jail to visit with the Captain. But the conversation goes something like this...

They - We'd love to come down for a weekend.

Us - We'll have to see. Things are pretty busy.

They - You could go out for an evening and we'll watch the Captain.

Us - Well...hmm...that's mighty tempting.

And so it's baited. They throw the finest piece of sushi on the end of a fishhook and reel us in. They know our weakness. They count on it. And this is how grandparents play their game. The trouble is we love it. Free, dummy. But there are those irritating strings they attach. I know I'll do it to the Captain one day, and thus the vicious cycle continues. But given the many career appointments I need to attend to next week and the constant distractions the Captain is providing me with during my job search...it kills me. Can you taste the sushi? Mmmm. Wasabi.

And so, I leave you with the immortal words of the late great Sam Levenson, a humorist circa 1960's and actual distant relative of mine, who once wrote the following:

The reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is that they have a common enemy.

Sadly for me, I lost my remaining grandparents this last year. So now it's 5 against 2. The odds are stacked against us.

Job blows.

It dawned on me the other day that though I have Internet up and running and though I could probably squeeze in a few precious moments to blog it out most days that I am just not feeling the love. Perhaps it is the 700 channels of television that has distracted me. Maybe it's the vast number of English speakers surrounding me. Who am I kidding? It's the job search.

It's a funny sort of thing, but being a lawyer not only sucks the life out of you but searching for a job as a lawyer has a similar effect. I think in part that I've just been out of the game too long and, let's face it, a year of talking about shit and doorknobs hasn't made it any easier. No, I don't believe that parenting makes you inherently stupid. But I find myself reaching up my legal ass (as lawyers often do) and pulling such crap out for these cover letters and interviews; it seems like a lie.

But I think it's more than that. I've had more of my share of job missteps and mediocre career moves; I'm not eager to screw it up again. And then the real truth sets in: how do you find that career move that fills your purse, fulfills your soul and doesn't leave Captain Kid sans mediocre mama. When every decent job you look at is more than an hour's commute away, how can you contemplate a job with 50 hour work weeks?

So you will have to forgive this lapse of silence over the last month. It's not you, it's me.

But for the record, I can report that the Captain is doing just great in his new environs and that Dog is back in town, once again being harassed daily by her tormentor. His latest hobby is attempting to run her down with his little riding car and stabbing her with a fork; both incidents resulted in arrests for reckless driving and assault with a deadly weapon - possible possession of a controlled substance as well - his cheerios were confiscated at the scene and are being tested as we speak.

I'm about 10 cm's.

There's nothing like trying to check your e-mail/blogging when you've been fully dilated. In my case, I had to drive a good hour in this state, fully cognizant of the road signs yet not so certain about what my dashboard was displaying. This all after driving a full hour to my doctor's appointment in, I kid you not, a hail storm. No, I'm not so mediocre as to have done this with the Captain in the car. But I did leave him with an unassuming girlfriend who has a toddler of her own and managed one of the most dumb ass displays of my life in her presence. For the record, this did not occur while my pupils were dilated, which makes me feel like an even bigger dork for doing it. But long story short, I kicked the rocking horse, totally by accident, with the possible consequence of a broken toe. I don't know for sure yet, mostly because I need to wait for the throbbing to stop and, more importantly, tonight I guzzled down a bottle of this stuff to kill the pain:




.
There was a purpose to this story? Other than an utterly irresistible opportunity to squeeze a line in about being blinded with science. Oh wait, I remember. First, I think I owe my readers an apology:

1. I hope I haven't given any false expectations about my ability to blog. We have Internet, but no computer (still en route to the State's). Technically this is my husband's office computer. Which is also deeply cutting into my porn hobby, but such is life.
2. My blogging is going to be severely hindered by my job search, because any five seconds I get with a computer and an Internet connection must belong to my prospective income or lack thereof (naturally this ad seems tempting - ADULT NIGHTCLUB #1 Club in Maryland seeks Dancers up to $1000.00 Nightly. Flexible hrs, must be 18 yrs or older. Also need Announcers & Floor Staff. McDoogals 410-437-2834 - but honestly I am not that good a dancer).
3. Finally, I just want to state for the record that my ability to double shift should in no way be misconstrued as something you should rely on. My computer will be here shortly...please expect additional misplaced exclamation points soon.

So, the point of it is this...when one is so drunk, in pain, and so blind that a job search is not an option, blogging suddenly becomes feasible. I would suggest to all my loyal readers that you not try this at home, but hobbies and creativity can flourish in the most dire of circumstances. More blogging to come, I promise, but it may require a lost finger or partial-brain lobotomy to keep up my former pace. And I resent any insinuations that I've already had one; admit it, you were thinking it.