Packing heat.

Yes, we're packing and yes, it's hot, hence the title of an otherwise incoherent post. It's 1:15 am, the Captain's snoozing away in his travel crib, the Dad is packing like a fiend (last minute, naturally), and yours truly is backing up computers...do you know where your children are? So since I lose my Internet connection tomorrow and will likely only have sporadic coverage at best over the next 3 weeks, I want to get in some last licks as a just in case.

On moving. CK came to the realization that "something's up" today when he saw his crib disassembled and most of his toys packed up. In our defense, we have been doing this slowly...a couple more toys each day. But he's been as oblivious to the missing toys as he is to the missing Dog. So it was a bit of a shock when he had a "wait a moment" moment earlier this evening. I took him downstairs to shield him from the trauma, but he pretty much was flipping out and attempted to jump into the pool. He chilled out eventually and seemed amused by the flying nuts and bolts.

On Father's Day. I really should do a much bigger tribute here, but I'm tired and punchy, and have boxes all over the place. So I leave you with this amusing article sent by a half-crazed friend who is studying for the bar exam. It probably helps with your enjoyment to have this bit of information. .

On lead paint. Is it wrong that I find this whole Thomas Train recall so darn amusing? Probably because I don't own any. And don't get me wrong, I have many less than mediocre friends and relatives furiously going through their collections as I type this. But what I find to be such a kicker is that for such an insanely expensive item like Thomas trains they are (a) being produced in China and (b) covered in lead paint. I would kill to know the markup on this junk.

On other crap. I am sure that I will find a minute or two to ramble on some more tomorrow, but it's looking a bit grim. I'm not sure how all my readers will survive without my mediocrity (or at least sporadic slices of it) for the coming weeks, but if it helps you fill the time, I recommend taking up some mediocre activities of your own. Here are some suggestions, but this is by no means an exhaustive list. Feel free to post if you can think of some more, but please keep it absolutely half-assed:

1. Needlepoint;


2. Paint by numbers;


3. Watch seasons 1-8 of Charmed (pretty much what I did my first 6 months here);


4. Read The Bridges of Madison County;


5. Go see an Andrew Lloyd Webber tribute concert;


6. Eat at an Applebees;


7. Attend a Natalie Merchant concert;


8. Sort through, and watch, your VHS tapes;


9. Watch the Higglytown Heroes; or, if you're really feeling saucy


10. Start a crappy blog of your own.

Hopefully, one more blog tomorrow. But if not, have a mediocre Father's Day.

"Mediocre Mama"

In search of the great out side.

It was once really cute.

Captain, you want to get your shoes and socks? Answer: out side.

Captain, where do helicopters fly? Answer: out side.

Where do you want to go, sweetie? Answer: out side.

See? Adorable, huh? It's seemingly the answer to most questions and fits just fine. Yet, somewhere in the south of France it stopped being adorable.

In the Captain's mind, "out side" has taken on a grander meaning. It's in the car. It's out of the car. It's up a staircase. It's in the pool. It's in a closet. In fact, "out side" now means whatever it is he wishes to be doing. Which is why the Dad and I were utterly confused as he had a tantrum around dinner time the other night whilst we were chillin in southern France. Normally we wouldn't have been so indulgent to discover the true hidden meaning, but when he started pounding his fists and having yet another tantrum in the middle of a dinner party, we became determined to shut him up. Defeated and feeling completely mediocre, yet aware that the only way he would settle down would be with food in his tummy, we followed him all over the 9th century domaine to find out where the fuck out side was.

First it was by the pool. Then it was inside. Then it was out in front of the domaine. Then it was in the car, sitting in his car seat. Then it was out of the car for a brief moment, only to be quickly followed by it being inside the car. Then we went back into the house, climbed stairs. At times out side was at the top of the staircase. Then it was at the bottom. It was under a table. It was in Dad's arms. On and on and on, all the while chasing him with hamburger on a fork, praying for him to take one bite and stop crying.

Perhaps in a toddlers mind, out side is about what can be. I mean, we really do make it sound so great. It's the place where young dreams are made. It's where playgrounds live and fresh air is free. It's where you find bottle caps and other trash just lying on the ground like a prize to be claimed. But like Dorothy over the rainbow, the Captain always seems to be chasing his heart's desire, which is always moving, always someplace where he is not, always something out of reach, and never in the comfort of Mama and Dad's arms. Oh, I know that he won't spend every second of every day running to find out side and that eventually there will be days where he even enjoys the comfort of sitting still.

Then again, maybe toddlers aren't so different from grownups. I mean, who amongst us isn't still searching for out side?

Vive la toddler.

As anyone might have guessed by the eerie silence and cobwebs collecting on my blog, yes we did make it to Southern France. It's true, there are times where I believed you might be hearing from me sooner as we had many conversations about cutting out early, but I'm glad we stayed and now we can tick it off the Captain's "you never take me anywhere" list. He even has a new t-shirt to prove it.

I suppose I should back up a minute, however. By the day we left, I was aching and miserable and the Captain had broken out in a full body rash. The road trip, which began at noon and ended at around 7pm, was pretty much what we expected. Dad grumpily driving the whole trip because I never developed the love for the standard transmission, the Captain only conking out for about a 50 minute nap, Mediocre Mama whaling out choruses of "William Wants a Doll" and "Doe a Deer." Probably about 2 hours of serious whining total. We actually felt lucky.

We arrive at the domaine and it is exactly as explained, a beautiful 9th century domaine with former monastery and all the death traps you could desire for your toddler. You can check out the vitals here with photos. The Dad and I were given a cozy little room with single beds we shoved together with blankets in between for the inevitable hopping into bed the young Captain would be doing. Of all the travel missteps, sleeping fell #1 on the list.

As a rule, the Dad and I do not let Captain Kid sleep in our bed. We've seen the pitfalls and though we know many who swear by it, it's just not our style. The one and only exception to said rule is during travel, mostly because he ALWAYS wakes up in the middle of the night and enjoys the novelty of going, "Hey, isn't that Mediocre Mama and Deviant Dad lying there? Perhaps I'll scream my head off and they will feel embarrassed enough by the noise to let me into bed." And so, we felt doubly embarrassed when he did it in the middle of the night with our gracious hosts next door, so he slept with us for much of the trip. All of which wouldn't matter so much, except his sleep habits are looking more and more like the WWF these days, complete with jumping on top of us, lunging off the bed, and full on kicking that I'm not even sure he's awake for. Thus, I ended the trip with bruises up my rib cage and on my chin.

What's worse, of course, is that his usual 11-12 hours of sleep a night was looking more like 6 or 7 in his strange environs, making him crabby and more surly than usual. Which wouldn't be a problem, but for the fact that the word "no" sent him into perpetual tantrums, a little bit more dangerous in a 9th century domaine with lots of stone floors and rough edges. One morning we declared it was breakfast time, cooked for him, and he decreed that he wanted to go "out side" (more on that in tomorrow's exciting post). So we obliged, went outside for his breakfast when he re-affirmed "out side" and pointed to the grass and pool." We said, "No, breakfast first." And so began the hour and a half long temper tantrum that only ended when we shoved him back into bed and he passed out for the next 3 hours. As it turns out, other locations in a 9th century domaine that, as a rule, are not good for toddler tantrums include treacherous staircases with a sundial strategically placed at the bottom of the staircase, sort of acting like a spear if you had a really bad fall, next to a pool with no fence, on the ledge overlooking the vineyards with about a 10 foot drop off, and generally in close proximity to gracious friends who are attempting to relax on vacation.

Sigh. Que sera.

Fever in the morning, fever all through the night.

"...and while you're at the store, see Cookie Puss and more."

You say it's your birthday? It's my birthday too, yeah. And nothing says birthday like a toddler with 102.3 fever. That's right, for my birthday this year the Captain decided to surprise me with a virus. Amazing, I didn't even have to put it on my amazon wish list.

Yesterday morning he woke up a bit warm and I gave him some Tylenol. But by the afternoon he was poking at his ear and running 101 (We play your favorite oldies, CBS-FM). So we ran him to the doctor, where he had his usual fit, and turns out no infection, just a virus, which is worse than an infection, as far as I'm concerned because there ain't nothing we can do and we're supposed to be leaving for France, um, tomorrow.

So now my birthday dinner plans are canceled and I've left a message with the Satalians that we may be delaying travel a day (at this point I'm hoping to get the trip in at all). Plus I just had the worst night's sleep. Really, he only got up once and I gave him more Tylenol. But it's that weird sensation buzzing in your head that you better not fall too deeply into sleep because he'll have you hopping any minute now. And so another year goes by.

More good readin'.

This is one the Dad pulled out this morning on the effects of praising effort rather than ability in children, among other things. It's from New York Magazine - "How Not to Talk to Your Kids." I started practicing with the Captain:

Captain, good effort stacking those blocks.

Good try using the fork, I'm sure you'll soon be able to stop poking yourself in the eye.

Nice attempt at stealing my bracelet. Better luck next time, ya little bugger.

This one's an article on too much television - "TV or not TV." Of course, this article doesn't account for when your dinner table is in your TV room and the little brat knows how to turn on and off the TV, which means he's constantly hopping off his chair and turning it on during meal time and will obsess over it if you say, unplug the fucking thing altogether.

Kindergarten Cops.

This is a fascinating and well written article from The Times Magazine called "When should a kid start kindergarten?" I found it particularly of interest because Captain Kid has an October birthday and this is definitely a question we will have to ask in just a few years.

A few items of note:

• I was really fascinated, though not surprised, by the long term effects of high stakes testing on this issue. This is an area of public policy that I studied in the high school arena during my scholarly law school years; it's interesting to note the trickle down effect;
• I'm glad that the author addressed the economic disparity issue. It does seem that so-called redshirting is much more a privilege of the wealthy; and
• I can only hope that Maryland does in fact change their laws by the time the Captain is 4, because I certainly will have a hard time swallowing an extra $10K in private school tuition if he is "ready" for public school kindergarten. The arguments towards the end of the article on the long range investment of that 10k are compelling, though difficult to contemplate in an immediate sense.

I'm sure some of my Montessori-lovin' peeps could have some interesting input on this issue. Long article, but well worth it.

I see grownup people.

It seems to me that Captain Kid has a sixth sense whenever we, his parents, become complacent or let our guard down. Which is why the snowball (or poopball, if you will) of yesterday's disasters seemed that much more sinister, somehow.

First, to set the stage:

• The Dad "conveniently" had to be out of town for a "business meeting" - oddly, somehow this meeting inovolved sailing. Weird.
• The Captain had a case of the runs on Saturday, so we went through two changing pads, had none left, and had a load of laundry on deck. We left the changing pad naked. And just to review, we live in Spain, land of the washer and dryer, hold the dryer.
• We had also changed the sheets on Saturday and Dad decided to pack up all the rest of the bedding. So we had two sets of sheets, one dirty and one on his bed.

Okay, the scene is set. So it must be time for the Captain to show me just how stupid and mediocre I am. Mediocre Mama is blogging away during the Captain's nap and suddenly hears crying. I take a few minutes to follow up and when I get there the Captain is covered head to toe in poop. I move him to naked changing table and this stuff has been stuck on him a good long while because it will not come off, except when it sticks in the grooves of the naked changing pad. I remove my good white shorts and jump in with both hands. It's bad. His legs, his back, his hands, around his mouth (which brings up other horrifying images). I ultimately dunk him in the tub and he's going mental (can't say as I blame him).

So now, in addition to packing, thanks to the Captain's 6th sense and my general overzealousness in packing up his room, I can add to my list of chores for the day cleaning the bedding, his clothing, my clothing, scrubbing down the changing pad and crib, cleaning out the funkified diaper pail, washing out the poop laden tub, all with the Dad at his "business meeting" and me with a cracked toenail.

Maybe the Captain is just smarter than I am. Or maybe it just highlights that for all the control I try to exercise the truth is I have no control. Even if I weren't such a Mediocre Mama, you can think life through on a worst case scenario basis, pack everything under the sun on a road trip, you can be prepared for anything, but shit happens - again and again.

So, I leave you with this - mostly because I can't think of a good way to end this entry, but partially because I'm just cute like that. Just a few song lyrics from one of my favorites by Tom Lehrer -

Be prepared! That's the Boy Scout's marching song,

Be prepared! As through life you march along.

Be prepared to hold your liquor pretty well,

Don't write naughty words on walls if you can't spell.

Be prepared! To hide that pack of cigarettes,

Don't make book if you cannot cover bets.

Keep those reefers hidden where you're sure

That they will not be found

And be careful not to smoke them

When the scoutmaster's around

For he only will insist that it be shared.

Be prepared!

Be prepared! That's the Boy Scouts' solemn creed,

Be prepared! And be clean in word and deed.

Don't solicit for your sister, that's not nice,

Unless you get a good percentage of her price.

Be prepared! And be careful not to do

Your good deeds when there's no one watching you.

If you're looking for adventure of a new and different kind,

And you come across a Girl Scout who is similarly inclined,

Don't be nervous, don't be flustered, don't be scared.

Be prepared!

Crack.

Is the noise my toenail made when it broke half-way down, only half-way through, as I stubbed it on Deviant Dad's flip flop while walking behind him at a local mall. I'm sure you are wondering how one cracks a toenail on a flip flop, but naturally he has the most rigid bottomed flip flops so as to support a bottle opener on the bottom of the sole:

It does beg the question, why on earth would someone use a bottle opener on the bottom of a shoe? And after seeing all the dog shit on the sidewalks in Valencia, I'm pretty sure I'd have to be pretty drunk and desperate to open a bottle with the bottom of a shoe.

In the meantime, we've taped up my toe because it was bleeding pretty badly and there is no way this toe nail is coming off easily. The Captain seems to think the bandaging is a toy and wants to pull it off. I'm more depressed at having to put off shopping for a new pair of Campers for my birthday. I'm considering getting extremely drunk so that I'll have the courage to rip the rest of the nail off. Maybe I'll need the Dad's flip flop after all...

Crash test dummy.

I don't get what the big deal is about being diapered. I mean, he knows he's uncomfortable, he asks to be changed. So why is it that the Captain can struggle so hard that he and the changing pad nearly went careening off the table today?

From the tender age of about, oh, 3 weeks, we've been forced to use the safety straps on the changing pad. As evidenced by other tales of his restlessness, clearly this kid doesn't like to sit still for much of anything. So I'm not quite sure how this happened but it somehow involved pushing his foot off the wall whilst I held his other foot for changing him and thank goodness I was holding it because the next second he's just dangling there by his foot. It begs the question...is it illegal to duct tape a toddler to a changing table? It made me ponder the possibilities...

It also presents another issue. Should I lug his changing pad with me around Spain and France over the next month? Diapering him freestyle is nearly impossible and requires the power of 2. We are driving, so it's not out of the question. But it is bulky and a pain in the arse to pack. Our latest travel plans have changed and now we're flying back from Seville to Valencia (saving us about 8 hours of driving - yipee), but I don't know that I have room in the luggage and I really hate to pitch it on the way home because it cost us $40. Not to mention there does come a time where you have to say enough is enough on crap you lug with you. Right now our packing list for the Captain looks like this:

• 1 pack n play



• 1 bath seat (because it's like giving a bath to a cat otherwise)



• clothes



• regular diapers and wipes



• swim gear (including swim diapers, floaties and additional floatation devices)



• beach accouterments (pale, shovel and whatnot)



• books



• toys (soft ones that he can't make too much trouble with, so therefore they are plusher and bigger than regular toys)



• baby pillow



• baby blankets



• stroller



• folding highchair (because restaurants don't have their own)



• harness backpack (why do we even bother?)



• car seat

All this is fine and good for driving, but I feel like we're pushing that 20 kilo limit for air travel hard and fast. If I were back in the states I probably wouldn't be pushing it with everything I'm bringing, but I (a) don't want to pay to use a travel crib at 10 euros a night in some places and (b) don't want to rely that their equipment is in good condition, what with our experiences on various sleeping deathtraps throughout Italy. See my Top Ten list for a brief refresher.

Yes, I realize this all seems rather "alpha mom" of me, but my hands are tied. This is why I had a fabulous idea months ago about a baby supply rental place that will never come to fruition because I'm too much of a slacker to get off my ass and start a company. Maybe the more practical idea would be to bring all the baby stuff and ship the baby.