Mediocre Mama

Mamia Wars

2010-05-23T17:47:00.006-04:00

It has been a long enduring pastime of mine to pick apart my discourse with seemingly well-meaning friends, comrades and fellow parents. We all know of the battle between the Alphas and the Betas of this world and of course my beef with the evil Momtourage. In my 4-1/2 years working this Mommy gig, I never truly developed my own Momtourage, for which my own disdain for hypocrisy is ever thankful. I have a group of friends that are Mom's and yes, we ditch our broods semi-quarterly for a bit of a piss up or piss on our husbands, childcare providers, and kids, should it strike our fancy. Would I classify them as a Momtourage? For sure not, since I recall having similar nights out with the same pack BC (Before Children). No, to be a true Momtourage, I feel that the common thread must be the kids and the kids alone. In my case, naval architecture seems to have brought me to these women. Hardly qualifies as a Momtourage.

I am turning 35 in just two weeks and, call it age or indifference, I have both softened my Momtourage stance a bit and found that I am friends with many many women who play Alpha to my Beta. Maybe it's just that, as previously indicated, I've run out of time to worry about such bullshit. Instead, I have waived the white flag on this issue. I know that there are women out there who aren't struggling with after school activities and who have plenty of time for playdates and other fulfilling pre-k hjinks. I confess, in my world weekend fun and activities seem to mostly involve dragging a 4 year old around for household errands. And I do look with envy at friends and loved ones who can squeeze it all in, in the most effortless fashion, and still enjoy a nice cocktail or glass of vino tinto with their lovable friend and Mediocre Mama, yours truly. These folks I both endure and cherish, without judgment or conflict

It makes it all the more challenging, that it's not seemingly the Momtourage or Alpha Moms that irk me the most. Rather, it is the most apparently innocent friends and FB bud's who fill me with ire. Sometimes, it's those I've known the longest. But it comes down to this...It always shocks me when, no matter how dreary or self-deprecating my average FB status can be, some Mom or Dad-Peer insists on coming by to gawk and kick dirt in my eyes. These are the "with friends like mine" of my circle of friends. These are the worst offenders of all, the One Uppers. And no matter how challenging my scenario, or however best my efforts, I assure you that they both have it harder or do it better. And they always seem to have more than one kid, which apparently gives you card-carrying license to boast and brag or grimace and complain louder.

Before anyone starts in with me, yes, I recognize the difference between a helpful, "Have you tried X? It always worked with our little Darling," and a less than helpful, "Well this is why we ALWAYS do X." I furthermore know that this is not a problem specific to FB. Shit, I remember my Mom's yente friends bitching that their kids were only breaking A-minuses at Cornell while my sister and I were busting our asses to make B's at decidedly more mediocre institutions. But it seems like there's more of these individuals out there than I recall and with just a click of a button, they can remind me how much better they are or how much worse off they have it.

Did I miss something or did social networking turn an assortment of Mom's and Dad's into virtual Svengali's? Or were they always so and they just seem louder and bitchier? Maybe turning 35 is making me wiser and more tolerant of others, just less tolerant of shitheads?

Mothers and other strangers...

2010-05-02T09:36:00.004-04:00

I realize that I have not maintained the best track record of blogging. Hell, I'm utterly convinced that any attempts to reach out to my adoring public might be met with nothingness. I might as well jot this all down in a diary instead of divulging to the silence of the internet. I predict an audience of crickets may be responding.

I haven't had the time, constitution, head, heart or soul to emote on my failures or shortcomings in parenting. I lack pathos, ethos and whatever other kind of "os" it takes to make a good go of blogging. Forgive me blogger, for I have sinned.

I can attest that I haven't been sitting on my hands since last July. As a rundown of extreme events, I survived one and a half soccer seasons, a somewhat failed attempt at T-Ball, an adenoidectomy, an episode of head staples, a trip to Disney World, a busted well, approximately 60-someodd inches of snowfall, and my job, oh did I mention my job, which seems to have dominated all things and has made me feel like both a success and a failure at times. For all the extra time I had in 2007 that led me to start blogging, I've gone far to the other side. And not to take any air out of blogging, but facebook is easier, faster, and requires a hell of a lot less soul bearing. I appreciate it for giving me the ability to zing with a one liner and then run like a bat out of hell with little explanation or follow through. It's my cyber hit-and-run.

I am the mother of a 4 year old now and Captain Kid has grown to a larger than life version of the baby he once was. I look at some of my earlier posts and realize that I probably could have written what was to come. In so many ways it's easier. Yet if I were to write what a 12 year old Captain would look like I'm sure I'd come back to read it with little to no surprise.

There's a full realization that being a mother is like an exercise in bipolar disorder. You realize just how low the lows can be, but the highs are euphoric. And if I had one wish, it would be to feel less rushed. It would be to take more time and give more time. More time for mothering. More time for Dog. More time for the Dad. More time for me. I look at others with envy of their time and organization and wish I could make my home and garden as beautiful and as finished looking. I see well behaved children who aren't throwing their baseball gloves in the air while dancing around the outfield. I see close friends and couples taking the time and money to get babysitters and commit to date nights. How on earth did I get so tied up?

Time. I just can't hack it, can't find it, can't make it. Even as I sit here typing I'm engaged in an extremely deep conversation about which water system to put on my house to remove all the damn iron from the water, while the Captain hands me cups of imaginary hot chocolate to drink, all the while the dog starring woefully and the clock ticking away for a child's birthday party followed by a soccer match and a spreadsheet to update for my boss for a big Monday meeting. Unique problem? No. My problem? Always.

I somehow took a left turn while blogging because I had a whole pet peeve to get off my ample chest about Mommy Wars, but I guess it will have to keep for another day. I'd finish it now, but I just have no time.

Sucker Mom, Redux.

2009-07-23T21:38:00.003-04:00

Minor update to dilemmas of yesterday. There is in fact a Saturday soccer program for the Captain's age group. It is also, in fact, a good 25 minutes from my house. All of which leads to the next big question...

Do I want to enroll him in soccer so badly that I'm willing to forego my sleep-in morning for a solid 2 months?

I'm a really shitty soccer mom.

Sucker Mom

2009-07-22T22:19:00.007-04:00

We all know that as moms go, I have never per se fit the mold of what a good mother should be. As past posts and ramblings have proven, stepping out in a world of playdates and over-scheduled parenting have not been my strong suit. I frankly have to work pretty damn hard to keep up.

Every once in a while, even this Mediocre Mama can't push back on what is so painfully in my face. It occurs to me that the Captain can only successfully maintain friendships with people over the age of 16. And that when I watch his only interaction with other 4 year olds amounting to him stealing a ball from another child on the playground, just to run away with it and play by himself, that it might be a cry for help. The desire to fit in, or more importantly have him fit in, somehow overcomes me. I succumb to the pressures; I decide it's time to transform into what would otherwise be the Bizarro Mama - I become Soccer Mom.

Yep, that's me. Able to drive a small sized SUV and juggle my job, over-scheduled kids, and still have dinner on the table by 7. What's more, I can singlehandedly shuttle the Captain between gymnastics, tennis and swim practice, all within the course of an afternoon. You'll never see me sweat. And I've got a bladder the size of a canyon, so I never need to take care of myself. Ha cha cha.

Frankly, save for the small sized SUV, I do absolutely none of the items in the aforementioned paragraph. So when inspiration hit me yesterday I felt desperately on a mission to enroll the Captain in soccer for the fall. Truth be told, I am not a sporty girl. And unless it involves a large vessel floating on the water the Dad isn't much better. So unless one of us steps up to the plate, this kid is doomed to be as spastic as we are, and worse yet no more social than he already is.

So after 2 days of searching, I finally found a local area soccer club for 3-4 year olds. Delighted, I began to log in and fill out the registration. This thing is 25 minutes from my house, but I didn't give a shit. I'm a soccer mom so get out of my way, bitch. I'll drive anywhere I need to go. And as I pulled out my credit card, I thought to read the fine print:

September 8 - October 13, Tuesdays 11-12, 1-2 or 2-3.

TUESDAY!!! Who the fuck can take their 3 year old on a Tuesday? Does no one work in this town? Or are they all such awesome parents that they say, screw it, I'll just put in for PTO on Tuesdays from 11-12.

And so dear friends and faithful readers (all 5 of you), this Soccer Mom is going back to her Mediocre Mama post. No soccer for you, Captain Kid. Methinks I'll go back to doing what I do best...

Star charting.

2009-07-02T18:14:00.005-04:00

It took a bit of creativity and energy, but it seems that when things are at their worst, sometimes you just need to look at the problem from a different angle. That or you just need one of these:

The day after our dreaded Father's Day, things went from bad to worse. An out of control Captain head butted me in the pelvis and this Mediocre Mama was ready to throw in the towel.

And so I spent much of the next day contemplating a new system, perhaps a different approach to our behavior woes; thus was born the star chart. The star chart utilizes the simplest of joys, namely stickers and ice cream. Five stars in a row means a trip to 31 flavors, lose even one star in between and he has to start all over again.

Sounds simple, but naturally since the Captain's Mediocre Mama is a lawyer and the Deviant Dad is an engineer, it couldn't be as basic as good day/bad day. There is a complex system of laws in place so that we, the wayward parents, don't lose our way on the road to discipline. Here's the 411:

A timeout for hitting, failing to listen, 2nd degree toddler malfeasance - he loses a star

Subsection A - if said timeout is given early in the day, said Captain can earn his star back for a stellar performance throughout the rest of the day;
Subsection B - if said timeout is given late in the day after an otherwise stellar day, he loses his star;
Subsection C - if the Captain is otherwise excellent around the house but gets a bad report from daycare, he loses a star; and finally
Subsection D - if the Captain is horrible throughout the day, from start to finish, but ends his day by doing something remarkable, such as rescuing a dog from a burning building, being a whistle blower at a major corporation for false reporting of profits, successfully landing an airplane on water, finding the cure to cancer, or similar, he earns his star back.

I hit the local Michael's and loaded up on every manner of sticker, created a chart using Word and came home with an agenda. And then, on the most basic of levels, I explained the concept to a 3 year old. With every step of the process, his eyes widened and I was met with a gasp and a "Wow" from the young Captain. Because in truth, it was a win all around. As he excitedly explained to me afterward, "I like star stickers. And I like ice cream." I knew I had this kid right where I wanted him.

On day one of our star charting, he did great. He was in the thumbs up column from daycare and was all around well behaved. Day 2, not so much. And so it went for a week, every other day he got one, he lost one. It seemed like it was going nowhere. Until one day when I picked him up from daycare and instead of being in the "bad" column his name was under the "so so" column. His daycare teacher explained that his name started out under the bad column and he quickly snapped to exclaiming, "I don't want to lose my star." She had no idea what he was talking about, but all of a sudden he started helping her. And he was polite. And he started napping and not complaining. And so it has gone now, for 5 days in a row. And my Captain is finally getting his trip to the ice cream shop.

Have I won the war? Not really. Maybe just this battle. But if for the price of a scoop of ice cream I can help this child, it seems a small price to pay. Because the Save the Children foundation is really all about saving the child from the wrath of mom, isn't it? And now, back to your regularly scheduled program.

Fodder's Day

2009-06-21T17:55:00.011-04:00

From Webster:

1: something fed to domestic animals ; especially : coarse food for cattle, horses, or sheep2: inferior or readily available material used to supply a heavy demand <fodder for tabloids>

— fodder transitive verb

Perhaps the second entry is less applicable (outside of being "fodder" for my blogging), but that pretty much sums up our Father's Day. What started out as a well intentioned family fun ended up as cattle feed, and we all know where cattle feed ends up coming out...you guessed it, Father's Day 2009.

I am at a bit of a loss to describe the behavioral phase we've entered. Call it forceful determination, early on-set defiance, surges of testosterone, a precursor to what our teenage years will look like, you name it. Whatever it is, there isn't a moment of a second of a day that starts with the sentence or thought, "Okay, Mommy." Mostly it goes something like, "I want to do it," "I don't want to," "Screeeeech," "Shriek," "NOOOOOO!" And I find it ever more painful, if not impossible, to use a system of positive rewards when the rewards never get associated with the positive behavior. We're in the land of time outs and privileges being curtailed, which makes everyone around here decidedly grumpy and eager for our favorite time of day, sleep time.

And so with our first break in weeks from this monsoon we've been having, the Dad thought it would be a nice change of pace to check out the local Irish Festival downtown (editors note, this would be the same Irish festival we were forced to bail out of last summer because he was having a meltdown - hypothesis - could it be that Captain Kid hates the Irish???). I had some bad feelings going into the whole experience but we decided to lunch at the local pub, which seemed to be at the center of the whole hubbub. And let's just say that after an hour long (excruciating) sit-down lunch where both the Captain and the Dad barely sat down, the whole debacle ended with someone being forcibly removed from the premises, sobbing like a baby; and no, I'm not talking about some drunk Irishman. Much grumbling ensued and the Kid was brought home and unceremoniously tossed into his room for a 2 hour long "nap," which consisted of shoutouts every 3 minutes or so of, "Did I rest, Daddy?

We have always had behavior problems where the Captain's been concerned, as I am sure you will find documented under tags of "oh behave" and "tantrums." But we seem to have hit a funk and are increasingly unable to break the cycle. I've tried it the Montessori way and I've tried it my way and guess what, neither one works. And with the first report card documenting "Needs Improvement" on every aspect of his social skills, I'm somehow thinking that no one is nominating us for parent of the year. And things aren't getting much better at his new summer daycare (I've already been called out for his behavior), as evidenced by my conversations with the Captain about his daily activities:

MM - Did you make any friends today?

CK - Ummm, yes.

MM - That's great! What are their names?

CK - Umm, I don't know. I'll tell you tomorrow.

Gumph. It's tomorrow.

An open letter to the Captain's adenoids.

2009-04-17T18:24:00.003-04:00

Dear Captain's Adenoids:

Good evening. I hope this letter finds you well. Oh, wait, you must not be well given that you just willfully and deliberately gave the Captain another ear infection. So that makes 5 ear infections, 5 sinus infections, and a case of the croup, all since November. If this is how you treat your friends, I hate to see how you treat your enemies.

I realize that we haven't always gotten along, but your constant defiance and contempt for the rules I set down is more than appalling. Never forget, I created you, gave you a nice warm home to live in, and plenty of good food and singalongs to entertain you. While I feel that you should be ashamed of your behavior, much to my dismay you persevere.

So let's get down to it. I realize there is not much I can do right now to fight you, but I am working on evicting you. I don't care what it costs or how difficult you intend to be, I will have you forcibly removed from the premises. Start packing your bags; your days are numbered.

Signed,

Mediocre Mama
President & CEO

Where did I go?

2009-04-14T19:51:00.004-04:00

In a nutshell, I went to work. And I kept working. And I worked nights. And I worked weekends. And the Lord said, you shall work for 40 days and 40 nights, and at the end of such forty nights, Moses said, you shall suffer in the desert for 40 years, with a child in need of a tonsillectomy and a husband in need of a job. And so I went to the Seder and drank with Elijah and forgot my cares in a glass of Baron Herzog (Kosher for Pesach).

Alright, minus the desert part, it soooo all happened that way. After a massive blitz at my office with little end in sight to the work (thank goodness), and a chronically sick Captain Kid who is seemingly en route to the operating room, my family became a national statistic with a 30 days notice along with a bunch of other people from his office. Such are the times we live in. And so my family goes. And so this Mediocre Mama shifts to breadwinner, if only for a little while.

And so began my first week of brown-bagging my lunches and contemplating consignment sales and hand-me-downs. Maybe it's all for the best. In this wasteful society, I have been heartened by the trend of reusing and recycling. Let's face it, how far behind is the trend of regifting so I can get rid of some of that ugly crap I registered for when I got married a mere 8 years ago? It's all in vogue and I am embracing it, along with my new status and all the uncertainty that lies ahead.

So begins the next phase of this journey of family and motherhood. Less than 2 years ago it was I who pondered my future and the things that lie ahead. Now it's someone else's turn.

And so it goes, and so it goes...

And the least that I can do? Blog it.

The dog ate his dinner.

2008-12-02T22:34:00.007-05:00

Yep, and I fed it to her. I'm proud to say that last night the Captain called my bluff and lost.

It started just like any other night. He complained woefully that he didn't want dinner, he just wanted a snack. This seems to be a recurring theme in my household. Organized mealtime=bad, haphazard snacking=good. So I finally convinced him that mac and cheese would be a good idea, which he happily helped me mix and cook. But when the time came for him to eat it, he screamed, "I want fish sticks" and proceeded to push away the bowl of mac and cheese, whining and crying as he made his proclamation. I tried patience. I tried encouragement. And finally, I tried fear. I used our usual threat, that Dog would be glad to finish his meal, a technique that usually makes him snap to. But once again he shoved the bowl away. Over and over again. And then he hit the bowl and something snapped in this mediocre mama's head.

I grabbed the bowl away from him and placed it on the floor before Dog, who gulped down half in 6 seconds flat and the Captain shrieked. I'd decided the Captain had enough and picked up the bowl to give him what was left. And wouldn't you know it? The little bugger hit the bowl again. The dog was then treated to the 2nd half of the Captain's dinner. He screamed and cried. And after about 6 tissues, some deep breathing and a couple of hugs, I finally got an "I'm sorry, Mommy," and with that we made a fresh bowl of mac & cheese, which he ate entirely, no complaints.

Captain Kid - 0, Mediocre Mama - 1, Dog - 1

Mediocre Marketing

2008-11-30T15:32:00.014-05:00

I'm always both impressed and horrified when I find a medium to out-mediocre me. Which is why I was in bliss today when I went shopping at our new local market. Now I resisted those kiddie car shopping carts for a long long time, fearing the tantrum that would ensue should none be available. But on one fabulous trip to market, a grandparent who shall remain nameless went the easy path and so the Captain's days of cruising around in one of these bad boys began:

And so too did my laziness begin. If I am to tell the truth, these things have zero steering. And I'm not going to pretend that I've never knocked over a display or two trying to maneuver one of these puppies. But what's a mediocre mama to do? If it helps keep the hostility out of my shopping experience then I'll play ball. And so it came to pass, baby you can drive my car. No harm done, though probably a nasty cold picked up or passed in these horrible germ mobiles.

BUT...

Then some supermarket that shall remain named (Safeway) decided to take shitty parenting to a new level. So behold, now with on-demand:

Yes, for less than the price of a cup of coffee, you too can entertain your child with Thomas, Bob or Barney as you idle about, impulse shopping and viewing lovely advertisements from your video console. And boy did we ever, dropping nearly $200 in one shot. Whoever thought it up is both genius and devil, as it seems they are usually one and the same. Yep, this mediocre mama fell victim once again. Between that and the free sample stations, I'm contemplating just moving in.

Riddle of the sphinx

2008-11-09T18:26:00.006-05:00

I was always one of these skeptics who thought Freud spent a little too much time with a bottle in his hand and had one too many trips to the opium den. Beyond a drug induced frenzy, it seemed a little implausible that the average 3 year old boy would want to kill his father and marry his mother. But after a recent growing infatuation, lets just say that we are hiding the sharp objects and locking the door at night.

To call it textbook would be...well...spot on. At bedtime the Captain says that the Deviant Dad gives a bad kiss; the Mediocre Mama gives a good kiss. Of late he's pitted us against each other more times then I care to admit to. And then there's the exhausting list of daily activities that cause fits and meltdowns if Dad does it instead of Mom. Like turning the light on in the bathroom, cutting up his food, or working a simple toy - no matter the task, it's "No, Mommy can do it."

The reality is that it puts me in a perplexing and delicate situation. Not wanting to trample over the Dad, but loving the affection. Not wanting the responsibility of handling all the daily little tasks, but not caring much for the meltdowns either. And then there are the war cries that pit us against each other, from "You're my best friend, Mommy" to "I don't wike, Daddy." And I know exactly how we got here.

My back surgery was exactly 11 months ago as of next weekend. And to date I still can't lift the little bugger and I still don't throw myself into the lion's den when offering up a physical punishment. When he's misbehaving, I have to call to the Dad to take care of it. Nothing I do can be handled with my body, and so my parenting tool is my voice. Is it any wonder that the Dad gained the reputation as the disciplinarian in my house? And I'm sure, being the Deviant that he is, he never envisioned that he'd have to play the bad-cop parent; in his head he's not only the good-cop, he's still the misbehaving child himself.

I know it's frustrating to the Dad and creates some difficult tension, but at the same time I actually think it's made me less of a Mediocre Mama, despite my usual pride in the contrary. Ever since the Kid was 2, I have had him climbing into my SUV, getting into his car seat by himself and handling any physical tasks on his own. And since I couldn't afford to have a kid thrashing about or lying in the middle of the street in protest, I had to learn to use my words more carefully. I had to make him want to do things the right way. And now, I'm his woman. As his teachers recently observed, there's a real love affair going on here. To sum it up, he's smitten.

I know this phase won't last forever. And I walk the line between head in my hands or head-over-heels myself. I just wish it hadn't set up such a twisted love triangle in the process.

Three's a crowd.

2008-11-02T15:21:00.003-05:00

It seemed like we were passed the worst of it when the Captain turned 3 last month. Fully potty trained, totally indoctrinated into the Montessori fold and a fierce streak of independence beginning to unfold, the Mediocre Mama and Deviant Dad were finally starting to enjoy some gulp-free moments in our routine. Our function had finally begun to shift from constant kid-appendage to separate and detached. Perhaps we became too comfortable.

Last night after a particularly ornery day for the Captain, he announced that he was going to the potty. He disappeared into his "office" to do his business and moments later came out to announce that he had peed in the shower. We thought it was some kind of weird joke, but knowing him as we do we took the bait. Sure enough there was a big yellow puddle in the middle of the shower.

The logic of a 3 year old is always something to behold, truly you cannot argue with it.

Why did you pee in the shower?

I peed in the shower because I did.

That the subsequent time out and forced cleaup that followed didn't even seem to phase him was troubling at best. He took his medicine, no complaints, and a very insincere, "Oh, sorry," was all that we got. To say that I was pissed off doesn't really get to the heart of the matter.

And a mere minutes later, I noticed the other act of defiance before my eyes. The dog bowl, which was the Captain's responsibility to fill, was half full - the other half of the dog's dinner was floating in the water dish.

Is 3 just about testing limits or is there something much more sinister going on?

To new moms.

2008-09-10T22:40:00.005-04:00

A girlfriend poked me on facebook today and asked the burning question that all new mother's to-be ask. Daunted and perplexed as they walk into the baby shop, it's always the same - "what in the hell do I register for?"

I'll never forget my first trip into that dark place. I invited my mother and sister to town, already mother's themselves, to guide me through this dark maze. All the "must haves" and "essentials," the cart filled as my brain emptied. And $200+ later, I was clearly prepared to take on the thing that knew nothing, the little monster who'd never seen a diaper, a diaper bag, a baby swing or a bouncy chair. I was prepared because I had stuff. And stuff prepares you for any emergency. Ha cha cha, you're a mom and you have tons of shit! It's all you, girl. You're locked and loaded.

And then it comes. And you go a little crazy. And you realize the stuff isn't helping. The stuff isn't stopping the crying. The stuff doesn't protect the shit from leaking out the diaper. The stuff doesn't magically put the little bugger to bed. Even worse, you've got so much stuff that as you're sleepily stumbling your way to find the little monster in the wee hours of the morning you trip over the stuff, which you clumsily dropped on your way back to bed. The stuff is your enemy. The stuff doesn't work. You worshipped the golden calf and now, like the ten commandments thrown in your face, it hits you that you're on your own to figure it out.

When it comes to new babies, someone else's stuff is meaningless

"Buy a pump, get the expensive one, you won't regret..."

The Captain didn't make it 4 days on the breast and that very expensive pump spent the next 5 weeks attached to my very sore breast, only to be cast aside.

"Swaddling works like a charm, it will settle him right down. You must get a swaddler..."

The Captain was miserable when swaddled and the only thing that got him to sleep was when he wasn't snug as a bug.

The list goes on. And I'm not saying' it's all useless advice, it's just that none of it prepares you for anything and the investments you'll make, looking for that golden nugget, that miracle that will shut your baby the hell up...it only exists in hindsight.

And so what's MY list of musts? The Mediocre Mama's golden nugget? I could lead new mother's down my own path of comforts and enumerate the things that worked for the Captain, but if my tips work as well as some of the advice I received when expecting, then I'd sooner hold my tongue. Therefore, I guess all I can offer is the practical and not the cure:

Bibs, and lots of them.

Politically not correct.

2008-09-04T16:59:00.007-04:00

I, along with the rest of America it seems, have had one lady on my mind for the last week. As a self-proclaimed "average hockey mom," it would seem that Ms. Palin would be perfect fodder for this blog. And seeing as how my blog is about mothering (mediocre at that) and not politics, it seems to me that there is no better place to discuss an average hockey mom. So anyone tempted to call me out for being anti-republican or sexist for sorting this out here, bugger off. Yes, let's note it now. I'm not talking about Obama, Biden or McCain. Why not? Because none of them are placing their credentials on their ability to parent. They just do it, like the rest of us, and don't seem to have the delusion that doing so somehow makes them Presidential. You know who the author is and why you read her ponderings. So let's just roll up our sleeves, sit back and enjoy the musings. It's my blog so if you don't like it, take your ball and go home.

At the core of Ms. Palin's spin is the notion that she's just like me. Just an average mom. A PTA mom who shoots caribou. To speak plainly? The anti-Mediocre Mama.

If Ms. Palin were like me she'd hate hockey and dread the wasted days at soccer games that are to come. If Ms. Palin were like me she wouldn't have mustered up the courage to have 2 kids, let alone 5. If Ms. Palin were like me she would have ruffled the feathers of a few PTA members a mere 2 weeks into the start of school. She wouldn't have time to even go to PTA meetings because she'd be too busy at work, trying to squeeze in time to actually play with the 1 kid she has, and riffling through the freezer for leftovers to find something decent to put in front of that kid to eat.

If Ms. Palin were like me she would have taught her daughter about condoms, how they protect against pregnancy and STD's. She'd have taken her to the gynecologist, no questions asked, to get her birth control if she asked for it. You question that I would do that for my daughter? I learned it by watching my mother; she must have been a mediocre mama, too.

She'd have shown her daughter stretch marks and told her about the hemorrhoids associated with pregnancy, not to mention the gas, bloating and six months without sex (now that's abstinence). She'd have awakened her daughter every hour-and-a-half an kept her awake for the next hour and then sent her to school the following morning to spend a full day awake, you know...just to get the message across. She'd show have shown her that there are options and what a great country we live in that we have such freedom. She'd have shown her how shitty a 9 month pregnant girl would look in a cheerleader's outfit.

If Ms. Palin were like me, when her daughter announced her pregnancy, she might have laid low. If offered a highly visible job she might have waited, figuring that she's only 44 and such offers might come again in the future. And no, she would not have turned down the nomination out of her own embarrassment about her daughter, but because she'd have been too worried about how the press might embarrass her daughter.

But Ms. Palin is not like me. Let's face it, she's just not a Mediocre Mama. She's a hockey mom, and can obviously stomach sitting through an entire match. Not only does she not ruffle feathers at the PTA, she's the PTA President. She doesn't have just 1 child, she has 5, one of them with special needs. She's not only against sex-education, she believes that teaching abstinence leads to fewer pregnancies and is against a woman's right to choose. And to boot, Ms. Palin is a strong disciplinarian. What kind of a mediocre mama could have come up with a punishment as good as parading her pregnant teenage daughter before the world stage to be blogged about by assholes such as myself?

No, Ms. Palin is not like me. And perhaps that's why I can't relate to her.

Ms. Palin is no Mediocre Mama, to be sure. But given my contempt and disdain for Momtourage Moms she was never likely to capture my vote. So she shouldn't feel bad. I wouldn't vote for any of those bitches either.

The audacity of hope.

2008-08-25T20:57:00.003-04:00

As we crept into his room this morning, and lightly awakened him, we smiled and the Deviant Dad softly said, "[Captain], guess what very special day today is."

He thinks hard. And suddenly the light comes over his face.

"It's my Birthday!"

We smile and laugh.

"No, it's the first day of school!"

And so begins another 19 years of disappointing first days of school, none of which will add up to the bliss of a birthday. Although, I must say that the disappointment was probably our fault. I suppose we should have said, "Guess what very special day this is for Mom and Dad." You know, for clarity's sake.

"Looks like we made it..."

2008-08-15T21:49:00.002-04:00

Yes, I'm here, I'm queer and I'm blogging. Alright, perhaps not the middle section, but I am for sure feeling quite gay at the moment. Why, you ask? What makes a mediocre mama so chipper at 10:00 on on Friday night? Well (a) the wine, (b) it's Friday night after a long-ass couple of weeks, and (c) the Captain Kid has completed stint with the hellacious babysitter. Yes friends, he's done, I'm done, and from hereon in it's a full day (8:25-6:00) at one school.

Let the good times roll...

But before normal life begins, a little interlude. On Tuesday the Dad drives the Kid up to Grandparent Land and I meet up with the Dad on Wednesday night, kid-free, work-free, ready to play, ready to sleep. Quite a treat for the mediocre mama. Especially seeing as how I'm still negative on personal time off, still trying to fill the hole from my little back surgery stint.

Calgon, take me away...

Because someone complained...

2008-07-17T19:03:00.002-04:00

A picture of the Captain and his friends on his new swingset. We couldn't keep them off. Enjoy.

Adieu, mine spider.

2008-07-03T21:57:00.002-04:00

I will confess to the most blatantly mediocre parenting in my arsenal...tonight, we are finally taking away the Pacifier (affectionately called Spider). Yes, he's nearly 3 and we're just quitting now.

If I tell you there isn't a bit of heartache in it for us I'd be lying. Though we only use it for overnights and naps these days, we've come to rely on and love our spider. How could we not? It was the automatic off switch we so desperately needed. It got us through hours of plane, train and automobile travel over thousands of miles. It's given him (and us) many a sound night's sleep. And so, tonight I raise a glass to the Spider. Goodbye, old friend. You gave us peace and we will miss you so.

Au contraire, mon Capitán.

2008-07-02T22:03:00.007-04:00

We've entered the universe of reverse psychology. I never imagined when such a transition might occur, but as it turns out the Captain has entered his contrary phase. As a point of reference, any sentence we begin with, "Do you want to..." meets a resounding response of, "NO, I didn't want to right now." We are patiently waiting it out, to be sure, but it's led to some rather dizzying conversations and scenarios.

Tonight was Captain Kid's first batter-batter baseball game up in Baltimore.

Not only was it a test of his ability to sit through one whole inning, it was a social test for me, with a party hosted beforehand by my company. I can tell you that he was the only kid there running around and raising a ruckus. He's also the only kid who had the pleasure of a big foam hand, which he insisted he get, only to be followed by a declaration that he never wanted it, only to be followed by tears because we took it off his hand, only to be followed by a suggestion that we just put it back where we found it, okay? He then declared that he didn't want a hot dog until I said he couldn't have one, at which time he seemed shocked and dismayed that I would deny him a hot dog. I'm never sure which side of the argument I'm supposed to be on, further frustrated by the fact that there's just no rational reason for us to be in conflict, and my brain is starting to explode with each dizzying level of argument.

I just keep thinking that nothing I studied in law school could possibly prepare me to lose each and every argument with a tenacious toddler. How can one use logic against the illogical?

Yes, I realize this isn't uncommon and I know he's just asserting himself. You could tell me all about your kid and how he/she went through the same thing. Yes, I know that we're in another one of those "phases." But I keep thinking, when do those fucking phases just end?

Ah, bugger.

2008-06-28T13:26:00.001-04:00

There's nothing like being called out by a long time reader, first time caller on your blogging or lack thereof. My brain has not yet begun to synthesize all the reasons why I haven't been posting. I wish I could confess to one overriding reason. But I can't. The truth is it's just things, many things, that are clouding my writing, my vision and my mediocrity.

I think in great part it's that my working-mom self of now and my stay-at-home-mom self of last year are simply incompatible. Last year I spent a great deal of my time observing and absorbing. Right now I spend my time doing and taking in little. I have no fewer than 4 partially drafted posts that just never made it to the blog from the last few months. I started and then scratched them, deeming them to be un-blogworthy. It's not that they weren't subjects of interest, I just couldn't craft my way around the heart of them. No kidding, though, it was some funny shit.

It must all mean that things are going well for me professionally. Or perhaps it means that I'm screwing up this parenting thing less and less. Even, dare I say, perhaps some of my cynicism has softened since I was put in medical peril back in December.

All in all, my new found successes are making me far too competent at life and far less competent at creativity. My failed attempts at writing remind me of the old poem. I don't know who penned it originally, but it goes a little something like this:

Here I sit broken hearted, tried to shit but only farted.

Sigh. I'll try to do better.

Important mediocre parenting tip.

2008-05-24T12:51:00.001-04:00

Alright, repeat after me. Even if you sometimes have the urge to put your child for sale on eBay, actually doing it is probably a bad idea and definitely a good way to get some unwanted attention.

Just one of those days.

2008-05-10T08:18:00.005-04:00

I had anticipated doing my annual and hilarious Mother's Day tribute today, pointing out things like the hilarity of Dina Lohan receiving the Mother of the Year Award. Unfortunately, we're having a bad day.

Between the Captain contracting his first case of strep throat and the Deviant Dad's Grandma passing away yesterday afternoon, the only thing we're doing this Mother's Day weekend is going to New York for her funeral, which is tomorrow morning. Consequently, I'm not feeling much like coming up with my usual hilarious observations. Rest in Peace, Grandma Pearl.

That being said, I don't want to let the tradition die. So I will leave this year's photo essay of mother's that make our lives more entertaining...

Note to self...

2008-05-06T22:26:00.004-04:00

Memo - the next time I'm tempted to let the Deviant Dad cut the Captain's hair, please reference previous posts on how bad the Dad is at giving haircuts. Should previous posts be unavailable, look outside at the freshly cut, uneven lawn with long sprouts sticking out here and there and none of the edging work done.

--Mediocre Mama

Mediocre Drama

2008-05-04T15:28:00.006-04:00

I am starting to believe that the only thing more mediocre than my mothering skills are the mothering skills of the people I hire to watch the Captain. I have been at the end of my rope with the babysitter for some time and am counting the days til late-August when I can finally say hasta la vista (insert "Baby" if you must for emphasis).

Clearly, the real problem is that I've only been picking the Captain up from her place on Fridays, which leaves me wide open for attack. As I've mentioned before, she has a Neanderthal view of parenting and seems to save up her pent up bullshit for days when I'm on pickup duty. If it's a Friday, all the better; she gives me a tongue lashing for everything that happened all week. So, here, for your mild amusement, are my last two Fridays in a two Act mini-Opera. PS - I envision the whole thing sung in Spanish...

La niñera es un cunt

Act I - The Potty

Now, just a little setting of the stage, the Captain has had absolutely no potty problems for months. Not only will he go in strange settings, he's mastering standing up when a proper step stool is present and even made an entire road trip to New York without any accidents. And it, therefore, perplexed us, that the only place he seems to be having "issues" is at the babysitter's house.

Me - How is he doing on the potty?

Babysitter - He doesn't want to go.

Me - Well, does he ask to go?

Babysitter - No. Never.

Me - That's so strange, because he always asks, not just us and his teachers but friends too.

Babysitter - (in a snarky tone) You know, I'm not one to tell someone how to raise their children (the audience laughs) but I know this woman who used to force her child to go on the potty and the child turned out strange.

Me - (aghast) Well, how can I be forcing him if he's asking to go?

Babysitter - (in disbelief) Oh, I wasn't saying YOU were forcing him.

Me - Well, it seems to me that if he's going at home, at school, and everywhere else, that it's simply a game he's started with YOU.

Babysitter - Oh.

Me - I'll show you how good he is. Captain (to the Captain)? Do you want to go to the potty.

CK - OK

Enter potty stage right

Me - Okay, Captain, where's the potty seat.

Babysitter - Oh, I don't have one.

The curtain falls.

Editors analysis - now, could it be that back in February when we started potty training and we took the time to go out and buy her a potty seat and dropped him off at her house with it, only to have her hand it right back to us with her exclaiming, "Oh, I don't need one I already have one," that she may have been...lying? And what's more, WHY?????? Is she so hung up on her old Italian ways of doing it her way that she can't for one second contemplate that an early potty trainer (under 2-1/2) might be a bit intimidated by the big bowl and if it doesn't mean any extra cleanup or drama that it couldn't hurt just to put him on the mother fucking seat?

Act II - Your child hits.

Our background for this blog entry is that every time the Babysitter wants to make me feel like a shitty parent she tells me that the Captain sometimes goes over and hits other kids and that she's never seen a child behave like that. He really should be put in a petri dish and studied.

Babysitter - The Captain sometimes goes over and hits other kids and I've never seen a child behave like that.

Me - Well, you've mentioned this before. Did you punish him?

Babysitter - Oh no. I won't do that. I'm just telling you so that you can take care of it at home.

Me - (defensively) Well, Babysitter, I'm not really sure what to tell you. You've mentioned this before and since I don't have other children around the house it's difficult to correct behavior that I'm not seeing. They correct him at school when it happens...

Babysitter - Well, obviously they're not doing a good job if he's still doing it (yes, apparently she believes it is their job to fix and not hers)!

Me - ...and he's no longer hitting at school because of it. And if I'm ever around it I correct it, but if you aren't going to punish him when it happens here I don't see what else you want me to do.

Babysitter - Well, I never would have told you I knew you were going to get upset.

Me - (raising my voice) You told me and I'm telling you what you should do. If he lashes out at another child he has to sit out and not play because playing is a privilege.

Babysitter - Well, I tried punishing him a couple of times in the beginning (Editors note - ummm...the beginning was 7 months ago) and it didn't work so I don't punish him.

(changing the topic)

So, Mediocre Mama, have you lost some weight?

Curtain Closes. The end.

This woman is killing me every time I see her. I feel like I'm running from the living dead when I see her (Editor's Note - Zombie movies rock, fyi), like if I let her speak one word to me she's going to suck my brain out.

3-1/2 more months. Holy crap I might not make it.

Blogophobic.

2008-04-27T15:29:00.004-04:00

I seem to have developed a bizarre and inexplicable fear of my blog. I have some theories going as to why this is the case, mostly I'm thinking it's similar to someone who avoids going to their shrink for fear of opening a can of worms.

We've been pretty lucky with the Captain over the last month. The potty training sorted (though still problems with the crazy nanny on this front, blog for another date), he's been invited to participate in the next level at school, despite earlier fears, and his speech is coming along smashingly (earlier today he asked if I could do him a favor and when I asked what favor he would like he responded, "Um, purple."). So all that being said, why fear the blog?

I think I'm on such overload between physical therapy and work and healing (or lack thereof) that I just don't know where to start when I get here. It's hard to detail all your mediocrity when your day is oozing over with it. Perhaps if you take time to address it you have to do something to fix it. Hmm. It hasn't stopped me before.

Maybe it's that I was a shut in for so long that I don't want to bog myself down with emoting my every hilarious move of my life. Although that hasn't stopped me from spending way too much time on facebook so I dispose of this theory as well.

I don't know why I stare blankly at it. Maybe it's that fucking muse who checked out on me again. But all things considered, I'd ask you to hang in there with me. I sort of feel like I'm getting going on a diet (which is why I'm blogging this bullshit right now). Sometimes you just need to start doing it, whether it's good or not, until it becomes routine again. So forgive this boring entry. I'm working on it.

Mediocre Mediator

2008-03-23T11:32:00.005-04:00

You know that something has gone wonky when you are blissfully enjoying a shower and hear the Dad yell upstairs, "The Captain's tricycle is going to good will!" Ah shit. Nothing can destroy a perfectly good Saturday quite like a proclamation that involves good will, sales to gypsies, something about underprivileged kids in Africa, or anything involving eBay. All made the worse by the fact that you have that terrible reminder that your Dad's words are falling out of your mouth. Intersperse with that the sound of wailing and screaming and the visual effect of your kid lying on the porch with his head in dirty crushed leaves and a somewhat ailing Mediocre Mama trying to hold everyone together in the background. Boom, now that's a weekend.

I tried to intervene and had him and the Dad calm for a good 10 minutes, only to have it explode in my face when the Kid threw a plate of slice up grilled cheese sandwich so that it landed butter side down on the table. Fortunately we put him down for a nap, a parent's ctrl-alt-delete button for kids, and upon waking up he was a new kid and has been all weekend.

I never understood why parents went all crazy when their kids had off from school. But holy underwear, with the Captain hold up at the babysitter's place all week and some less than forthcoming information about how he did from the sitter, I think I'm coming to appreciate the dilemma. He gets so messed up when school is off on holiday and the Dread Pirate Captain Kid seems to come out in full force. So much so that I'm pretty ready to sign on board with all these school advocates who want year-round schooling, having absolutely nothing to do with the quality of the Captain's education. In my book, "no child left behind" means putting safeguards in place (like a regular school day environment year-round) so that I'm not tempted to leave my child behind somewhere when he's being awful. Is it just me?

Peeing on the hottie.

2008-03-12T21:32:00.002-04:00

In case you thought it eerily silent on the subject of potty training, yes it was intentional. For me it was a case of this is too good to be true and it won't last why jinx it. But I think we're far enough along to declare it. So here goes...

Captain Kid is officially daytime potty trained.

There, it's out. Now any future failures will come back to haunt me and I will declare that I jinxed it, but the time has come to rejoice (instead of my usual swearing and bitching). Though I wish I could take credit for this one, this was entirely the Captain's Everest. Much to our shock, some earlier anal retentive behaviors came out in our favor. He figured out that, no, he doesn't enjoy being dirty and yes, there is a quick and easy solution. Every day it goes a little bit further, with the Captain relieving himself in strange and exotic places. Where last week he would only perform in the comfort of his own home, this week he has transported his skills to friends' houses and school. And then tonight his potty experience took him to Lebanon as he gave up Number 1 sidesaddle in the bathroom of the exotic Lebanese Taverna. Fancy stuff.

The Captain loves going to the bathroom, so much so that instead of peeing on the potty he now declares that he's "peeing on the hottie." A bit crude for sure, but who am I to undercut his enthusiasm?

Dog day afternoon.

2008-03-05T20:37:00.008-05:00

Sometime in the last few months, Captain Kid declared a new enemy threatened his domain. Whether real or imaginary, our boy is out for vengeance and every day it gets darker and more sinister. Unfortunately, there isn't much we can do to shield him from this contentious relationship. It's none other than Dog.

Whether it's an age thing or a jealousy thing dictating these new circumstances, I am not certain of the genesis. Until a couple of months ago, the Captain was up to his usual tricks, walking over her like road kill and finding her to be a handy place to store his toys.

But something must have happened between then and now. Because for reasons only known to him, Captain Kid has declared war on the Dog. In many ways, the dramas he creates in his head are hilarious. Some of his more popular admonishments include:

Go Away, Doggy.

It's MY train table doggy.

It's MY dinner.

It's MY Mommy/Daddy.

It's MY floor.

In other words, it's a seamless rambling of paranoia that comes out of his mouth every time she walks by, sniffs for food or simply sniffs her butt. What makes it even more irritating is that as he stands there shrieking his head off every time she approaches, she gets worried that something is wrong and goes to check on him. It's a vicious cycle.

I'm not certain how we got ourselves into this predicament, especially after such a love affair in the beginning, but it's created an excessive amount of stress and has brought all of the Captain's worst attributes to the center stage. And this poor animal, who would sooner be trampled on than hurt him, has seemingly been labeled the annoying sister by the Kid and the Dad and I are banging our heads against the wall with all the high pitched screaming and hitting.

I don't know what the solution is because we're a family and he'd better get used to it. But in the meantime this neurotic behavior when he's with her is just too much. Perhaps she's just too big a dog for a toddler to be around. Maybe she's just a bit too eager for his style. But If I had to guess, I think this was the start to all the problems...

And I thought I had problems...

2008-02-25T22:15:00.003-05:00

Oh, the joys of triplets...

Potty-911

2008-02-24T21:11:00.002-05:00

I just pose one simple question in tonight's post. And I know that I'm spending a whole lot of time on this subject but, yes, you can expect more.

Why has no one invented a 24-hour hotline for parents on the edge of insanity in the never ending battle of the bowl? I mean, they've got every manner of support line, yet for something like this that can drive you to drink, wouldn't it be prudent and in the best interest of...society? I'm just thinking of the children. Just saying.

Potty training, it's total bullshit.

2008-02-21T22:13:00.004-05:00

When does this fucking training end? It's getting to a level of panic. He wants to go in the potty, but he doesn't want to go in the potty, but he wants a diaper on, but he doesn't want to go in the diaper. Hours will pass with no activity and then a sudden utterance of "Oh, no" and a frenzied run to the bathroom only to just stop short of doing anything there. Tonight he stood in the bathroom hysterical crying, desperate to pee, screaming "diaper diaper" and with every little desperate jag a drop of pee hit the floor.

I can report to date he's successfully done everything on the potty. And I can also report that he's developing the bladder of a full grown man because he's exercising that muscle a whole lot. Not to mention the fact that he's constipating the hell out of himself.

Holy hell, when does the drama end? If he were wetting or messing and didn't care it would be annoying but at least I wouldn't have to deal with his obvious neurosis. He's paranoid beyond reason and after a long day it only gets worse. As it stands, he's potty training his way to OCD.

Shake n' Bake.

2008-02-18T17:12:00.010-05:00

A friend sent me this link a few months ago and I never got around to posting it. This lady makes homemade bento lunchboxes every day, which makes me feel decidedly half-assed when I toss the mac-n-cheese in the microwave or slap together some PB&J. To be sure, if it takes me more than 5 minutes to pull together a lunch for the Captain then I feel I have wasted my time on what could otherwise been valuable websurfing or blogging. I hate that this crazy bitch is giving people the impression that one should be slaving over a hot stove every day so that their loved ones can eat well. The only thing more annoying than her is all the people who comment on her blog and follow her mantra. I wonder what her momtourage looks like...Yes, I mock because I'm inferior.

And let me just say as a sidebar, feel free to shoot me if I ever start cutting the Captain's sandwiches in dinosaur shapes. To me it's wrong on two levels: (1) it seriously fails on the Too Cutsey scale; and (2) it's decidedly a waste of food. Knowing me those extra bits of unusued sandwich would end up in just one place, my ass.

The boy who pooped.

2008-02-16T15:27:00.007-05:00

Remember when the Captain took off his diaper and ran around the house creating skid marks wherever he went?

Or how about the time he pooped in the tub?

And then my personal favorite, the time he pooped in his crib and I did a bad cleanup job and walked around an expensive department store with it smeared all over my shirt? I heart my life.

Well today, despite the odds (he's had a case of the runs since Wednesday) Captain the Kid dropped it like it's hot and actually pooped in the right place, the potty, three times already today.

It all went down as such because we put him in underpants today with no diaper parachute. Shockingly he took to it like a pig in shit. How long can we keep this up? Dunno. And with the babysitter threatening to diaper him despite our wishes I'm not confident that this is the end of this subject.

But I guess I'll worry about all that later. For today it's stickers and cookies, celebrations in the street, and kisses a plenty for Captain Kid, the boy who pooped.

You English are SO superior, aren't you?

2008-02-14T21:26:00.003-05:00

It's all so clear now. The Captain would be way cuter if when he misbehaved he did it with a sweet little British accent.

The Babysitter's Club

2008-02-06T16:56:00.001-05:00

I somehow feel as though I've been knocked over the head with a club, dragged around by my hair, and thrown into a cave to watch the children while Fred Flintstone goes out to do the hunting. No, not by the Deviant Dad, but by the woman who watches the Captain in the afternoon, who clearly comes from the school of the man is responsible for earning the money, the mother is responsible for taking all blame related to the rearing of the child.

Truth be told, she comes from a different era, a very traditional Italian background and, well, a different political persuasion from myself. One day she complained to me that her aunt has a couple of "Spanish girls" caring for her and they don't speak any English and don't know CPR. When I suggested that her aunt pay to send the girls for a CPR course she exclaimed, "How can they learn CPR? They don't speak English!"

Anyway.

Perhaps it's this discord that creates friction. But you would think that I would be immune from friction or confrontation, given that I haven't been to her house since my back went out nearly 2 months ago. Yet, somehow she manages it.

Yesterday, after our flogging in the principal's office, the Deviant Dad dropped the Captain off for his afternoon care and made an inquiry to get an overview of his behavior at her house, a synopsis of how he spends his afternoons with her, and just a general yet more specific sense of how his day at her home looks. The point being, if we are to change his "behavior issues" we need to have everyone on board. She politely answered his questions and then proceeded to call me on my cell phone five minutes after he left. What I listened to was a 10 minute rant of defensiveness and indignation, not to mention a lecture on the nature of children and how they all hit and throw things from time to time. I politely tried to get off the phone twice as I was driving on the Beltway and finally told her that the Dad would call her back. He did and she gave him two minutes of lovely and all was well.

From where I'm sitting, my guess is that she has a crush on my husband and just won't confront him. That or it's that Neanderthal perspective on the mother-father/woman-man dynamic and who should be held accountable for transgressions and malfeasance. Boys will be boys. Oh, men. ;-)

I was fuming. And not just because I was once again getting the back of her hand while the Dad got the batting eyelashes.

And once I got beyond the anger, the bigger questions started popping up. What if she doesn't want to work with us on this? What are we going to do about the fact that she refuses to help with potty training? Actually, when we brought up potty training she exclaimed that it could be done in a day and suggested we go to Dr.Phil.com. (Anyway.) And then the even harder question...do I need to, once again, torture myself into finding him a new nanny? As I'm sure you remember from the Nannycide episode, going through a transition to another daycare situation is less than desirable. But if it's a matter of helping to curtail his behavior and working with his teachers, who I know have his best interest at heart, well...how can I not make a change?

One of the most difficult decisions parents have to make is who will care for their child. When you find someone you trust, someone you know who isn't a deviant or molester and who has a generally good nature, it becomes too easy to stay with what is comfortable.

Moreover, the Captain loves her. So in that sense, contemplating firing her feels a bit like if Florence Henderson thought about firing Alice. Only an overbearing bigoted Alice who can't imagine that CPR classes are also administered in Spanish.

Mediocre Blogger

2008-02-05T22:11:00.001-05:00

Yep, busted. By all accounts I should have been blogging every day of my 6 week recovery. But really, there are so many blogs out there detailing the minutia of "Project Runway," I figured my readers didn't need another.

I also didn't think my bout with stomach flu was worth rehashing. Nor was my sinus infection and irritating cough. In short, my 6th week of recovery was as much about getting worse as it was about recovering. By the time I returned to work last week I was worse than I'd been the week before. Fortunately this week is better than last week, physical therapy is starting next week, and my most recent discovery, I once again have sensation in my toes. That's about the best that can be said for the highlights of these past 8 weeks.

The Deviant Dad and I were marveling tonight that there's very little that we aren't mediocre at right now. Here are a few highlights of our recent mediocrity:

Last weekend, the Deviant Dad hit another car while backing out of the driveway...my car;
Between doctor's runs for me, taking care of Captain Kid's school and daycare drop offs, 2 stomach flu's and a double ear infection, neither of us feels we're doing a particularly good job at our careers;
The house is a mess;
The dog is ignored;
We've still only managed to rake up about half the autumn leaves;
We are stuck on renovation projects all over the house because I can't be responsible for watching the Captain whilst the Dad tears apart the house; and, the really big kicker...
Today we were called in to the principal's office to discuss the Captain Kid's "behavior issues."

About the most that can be said for our lives right now is that we're keeping our heads above water. And of course being called in to the principal's office was just a lowlight in a distinct period of lowlights. It turns out that being called to the principal's office is as demoralizing when you're 32 as when you were a kid. Then again, I was NEVER sent to the principal's office as a kid. That's the Captain's OTHER genetic legacy.

I just feel like I want to commit myself to doing something really really well but I don't know where to begin. It's obviously not parenting. It's not my dieting. It's not my health or my job. And it for sure as shit isn't this blog. I'm searching for my Muse. If you've seen that crazy bitch, please tell her where I live.

Dog food.

2008-01-17T17:58:00.001-05:00

One of the tougher aspects of back surgery is that when you drop shit it just has to sit on the floor until someone comes home to pick it up. As I type this I await the return of my husband so that he can get the lid from the jam, which is now sitting butter side down on the kitchen floor.

This has caused the greatest consternation for me since on bed rest, namely that I would manage to drop something rather important (such as a percocet) and the Dog or Captain might happen upon it before I was able to have the Deviant Dad collect the offending item. In most instances I've kicked the matter to the side of the room or under the kitchen cabinet so as to avoid any mishaps.

Then there was the other thought, which was what if something important fell on the floor that I couldn't just kick under the counter. And that is just what happened yesterday when the dog walked to the middle of the room and started wretching. My first instinct was to chase her off the rug and my second instinct was to chase her into the garage, where she stayed until the Dad got home. But I was left with the more pressing problem, namely, a pile of dog puke in my living room. Talk about helpless.

I did all that I could do, which in this case involved dropping paper towels over the nastiness. In truth, it was sort of a fun little game. But it was a few more hours until the Dad returned from work, which meant that I had to live with a pile of this stuff in my living room until his return.

Since being on bed rest I've become acquainted with all manner of handicapped accouterments, but as it happens they do not have a device for cleaning up puke. Where in the hell is Ron Popeil when you need him?

Business casual.

2008-01-10T21:26:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow a good friend is driving me to my office to play a little catch-up and bring some work home that I can do horizontally (no, not that kind of work, I don't think I'll be doing that kind of horizontal work for some time). I'm a consultant and the work environment is fairly casual, but not so casual that I can wear the drawstring sweats I've been living in for the last month. I can wear nice jeans to work, but my doctor reprimanded me for wearing them when last I saw him; my incision is exactly at waistband level.

So until I'm all healed I'm somewhat at a loss for what to do with my wardrobe. Apparently, they do not make drawstring business casual slacks or jeans. And as for wearing a skirt...well, with the Deviant Dad as my designated leg shaver let's just say I'm not eager to show off my legs (not to mention the big orthopedic shoes I'm sporting these days). So all of this has led me to the dark place. Yes, I'm hitting the maternity clothes.

There is something vaguely demoralizing about throwing maternity clothes back on again. I remember about 4 weeks after I had the Captain I pulled out my most comfy maternity t-shirt, contemplated putting it on, and had to say enough is enough. But this back surgery has led me into fashion depths that I have not previously known. Even when I was pregnant I was wearing shoes that were somewhat uncomfortable and likely inappropriate. I have walked miles in heels (probably how I got myself in this mess to begin with) and worn wool in the spring. Yes, my fashion owns me and I love it.

At the moment, however, my options are few. I concede that I don't want to invest in a pair of pants for the sole purpose of waiting for my incision to close up. Of course I worry, too, that by just throwing on maternity clothes I'm tempting myself down the dark path once again. I have too many friends that are pregnant or trying to conceive for me to take just a nibble without desiring the entire cake. Let's just say it's a good thing I'll be laid up for so long. And in all likelihood any temptation will be quashed by a few more bad episodes with the Captain. At least for the time being.

Sexual Harassment - it's not just for grownups anymore.

2008-01-08T17:32:00.000-05:00

I married something of a self-proclaimed cad. Let's face it, you don't get a name like Deviant Dad if you're not at least a little bit of a cad. So I don't know why I was surprised yesterday when Captain Kid demonstrated what is likely the first of many such odes to his genetic legacy.

We decided to go out for a change of scenery and hopefully to find some non-sweats drawstring pants for me to go into my office for a brief meeting later this week. On the way we decided to stop off at our local burger joint for a quick bite.

So our waitress is a very cute and very blonde 16 or 17 year old girl. Long hair, skinny, the kind of girl you hated in high school. Well, apparently the Captain takes note of this, too, because when she comes over to take his order he smiles sheepishly and introduces himself:

"Hi, Baby," he coos in his sweetest and most flirtatious voice.

I don't know who was more shocked and amused, the 16 year old stick or Mom and Dad. I quickly grilled the Dad, did he teach him this behavior? The Dad quips back, I only wish I had.

How does the word baby, which we've only every used to describe a child smaller than himself, suddenly become descriptive of a cute cheerleader? It led me to one conclusion, some behavior is just innate. That or I'm now paying for all the Sex in the City I watched when he was a baby.

Hit me baby one more time.

2008-01-05T16:09:00.000-05:00

I held my breath as the Captain returned to school this week, hoping upon hope that his new fabulous behavioral idiosyncrasies (euphemism for bad toddler, no cookie) would stay closeted. Day one was perfecto. Day two he apparently whacked another kid. He followed it up today by knocking over my neighbor's 1 year old. Who knows what deviant behavior lies ahead.

And so I'm sure I can add this to the parent-teacher itinerary for the spring. I know that this is really typical tot behavior, but I'm also convinced that this is all coming out as an homage to his frustration with his Mediocre Mama.

I generally feel useless in the disciplinary department right now. Since I can't lift him I can't throw him in time out. And what's worse is that he's learned to work the system. It used to be that when he was bad he was only eligible for parole by promising to be a "good boy." Those words were the height of humiliation to him so if I managed to drag them out I knew it was lesson learned. Well, he has since learned the lesson...the lesson that the words "good boy" get you out of a punishment. So that effectively went out the window. Next, we moved the lesson to the word "sorry." At first he resisted this one, too. It didn't take long, but now he puts on the biggest shit-eating grin I've ever seen and loudly declares, "Sorry, Mommy," "Sorry, Daddy," "Sorry, Doggy." He may even give a kiss or a hug to boot. This is generally followed by returning to the horrible behavior within mere seconds.

So without an arsenal of physical punishments I can impose, the verbal punishments have become somewhat useless. Truthfully, he's just too smart for me and has become the master of verbal manipulations himself; I'm once again losing my edge. There's something almost sinister and adult about how he does it, too. And it all comes down to this - my Kid can manage to get us to fork over a cookie like no other. I'm sure you'll think we're pushovers, but I assure you that we are not the only ones to fall victim. He's just too darn good at it.

It goes something like this:

Captain Kid - I want cookie.

Me - You want a cookie?

CK - Cookie? Okay!

Basically, he brings up the item he desires (generally in a somewhat garbled voice so that you have to confirm what he's saying), gets you to repeat it, and then pretends it was your idea all along. Like, what a nice thought, eating a cookie. I'll do it Mom!

Okay, he's either aiming to be a politician or a lawyer because I've never seen a kid his age twist words like this. But I figure if he's capable of doing this at the tender age of 2 that the Dad and I are ultimately screwed; I think in the game of terrible 2's we're losing 2-0. And I'm beginning to think that all I've got left over him is spelling words to the Deviant Dad (is it time to give him a B-A-T-H?). But what with the fact that he's going to this fancy school and all, I'm sure they're bound to teach him to read any day now and then I'm totally fucked.

Hopefully my back will improve soon so that I will once again be able to grab him and throw him in his room against his will as a punishment. But for the moment, the back situation is going nowhere. My doctor put me on 3 more weeks of bed rest (major thanks to all those who've e-mailed, dropped by, sent-food). Until I am well, all I can do is try to rationalize with him. Why do I think I'd have an easier time getting Britney into rehab?

Gimmee More

2008-01-03T12:11:00.004-05:00

Awesome.

Happy Poo Year.

2008-01-01T14:33:00.000-05:00

I somehow turned around and the clock turned to 2008. The many weeks I've spent convalescing gave me loads of time to reflect on 2007, flip through my old blogs, and watch full seasons of "Project Runway" and "The Biggest Loser" (thank you Bravo TV and the Writer's Strike).

I started this blog back in April, when the Deviant Dad was working 30-40 days straight, during a period of boredom, loneliness and a general feeling that motherhood had gotten the best of me. Ironically I've ended 2007 during a period of boredom, loneliness and probably some of the best mediocre mothering I've ever performed. Back in April I punctuated long days of boredom with the Captain with trips to the park, walks to the market, some trolling for lousy babysitters, and an occasional trip to the chiropractor. Now I just watch, let him come to me, and try to stay awake to pay attention to him between the pain and percocet, which I've charmingly begun to refer to as my Pez (frankly, I would fill a Pez dispenser with percocet if only I could find one with Britney's head on top).

For the first few weeks of my recovery the Captain was just great. But after several weeks of having surrogate parents around, no school, and a very overextended Dad (playing the role of caretaker, chauffeur, father, mother and breadwinner), I fear at times he's had enough of me (yes, both the Captain and the Dad). I can't say as I blame him; last week was the breaking point when he entertained himself by dumping milk on my coat and jumping up and down on my bad leg as I lay on the sofa. Throw on top of that the 8 days of Hanukkah, a Christmas Day Celebration, grandparents and family in town spoiling him with toys and affection, and his Mediocre Mama spoiling him with TV and meals in the family room, he for sure hit the height of bad-ass toddler behavior. In happier news he's spending time on the potty these days and speaking in full sentences. But I can't help but worry about some of his other behavior issues that have cropped up from all this mediocre mothering and how they will play out when he goes back to school; Teacher is not going to tolerate this bullshit with hitting and pushing.

As for me, it's just all been so...isolating. I missed every holiday party this season and spent both New Years and Christmas curled up on a friend's sofa. I've been out of work for a month and with all my doping it's been kind of hard to focus on anything more substantial than a magazine. I walk with a limp, cannot bend or lift, have numbness all over my foot and terrible nerve pain in my leg, and lets just say I've got some junk in the trunk from sedentary living and comfort eating. Add to that some grim facts, such as the fact that I've burned through all my vacation time for the next year and that I just don't know when the pain will subside, going into 2008 doesn't give me that "starting anew" feeling that one hopes for come January 1. This January 1st is starting off with a lot of baggage.

As I enter 2008, the only resolution I can make is to get well because it's the only thing in my sight. As for the rest of the year ahead? My Magic 8 ball is pointing to "Outlook hazy. Ask again later."

Back in the saddle again.

2007-12-20T09:04:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-12-16T10:14:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-12-06T20:49:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-12-01T10:17:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-11-20T16:20:00.000-05:00

"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

2007-11-10T21:38:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-11-04T12:42:00.000-05:00

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.

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;
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
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.

2007-10-10T13:55:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-08T14:33:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-06T10:19:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-05T16:07:00.001-04:00

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.

2007-10-04T18:40:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-03T13:38:00.001-04:00

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...

2007-09-26T22:12:00.000-04:00

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

Punk rock.

2007-09-24T15:52:00.000-04:00

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:

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

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

When I grow up...

2007-09-22T13:19:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-21T13:18:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-09-19T08:35:00.000-04:00

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:

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;
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;
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
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.

2007-08-31T10:29:00.000-04:00

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."

2007-08-28T22:12:00.000-04:00

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."

2007-08-27T14:41:00.000-04:00

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....

2007-08-24T14:12:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-08-23T13:08:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-08-14T20:49:00.000-04:00

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...

Will the Captain sleep through the night?

What if he gets scared while I'm gone?

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

2007-08-13T10:11:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-08-09T23:12:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-07T21:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-08-03T21:33:00.000-04:00

"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.

2007-08-01T22:05:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-07-26T13:12:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-07-25T11:17:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-07-10T21:33:00.000-04:00

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:

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.
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).
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.

Holy internet, Batman.

2007-07-06T21:24:00.000-04:00

Son of a bitch, I love the Internet. Who knew in this day and age that it would be so friggin' impossible to have access. As it would happen, the south of Spain hates the Internet even more than the French and Italians do, and at 1 euro for 12 minutes to access the hotel lobby Internet, I decided that I could not put that kind of premium on my Muse (she's a crazy little bitch).

Which all would have been fine, but for the fact that we moved back into our house on Monday and Verizon didn't install the FIOS until this afternoon. Not to mention the fact that my computer is currently sitting somewhere in a box in DC, awaiting customs clearance (I assure you, they have top men looking into it).

So here I sit, with a list of blog topics about 20 items long just not knowing where to start. I can offer a few previews, just to wet your appetite, but I do need to wrap my brain around it all in a more calm and less humid fashion. It might take me a couple of weeks to catch my breath. But as promised, a preview:

The Captain loses his best friend, the television;

Headbanging - it's not just for teenagers anymore;

Luggage carts - they're not just for luggage anymore;

From Germany to NY - Sprechen Sie Noisy Toddler?;

Like a bull in a china shop - aka, like a Captain in a cheesy tourist shop;

A day at the water park, or, the Captain's 18 euro trip to stand in a puddle;

Sevilla - "To drive the undrivable streets;"

On returning home - house woes, daycare woes, job woes...welcome back Kotter;

More fabulous places where strollers suck; and

A Spaniard in America...the Captain meets the fast food nation.

Alright, chew on that for a night. Must go watch 700 channels of television, all broadcast in English! My head is spinning. Nighty.

Packing heat.

2007-06-14T19:09:00.000-04:00

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:

Needlepoint;

Paint by numbers;

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

Read The Bridges of Madison County;

Go see an Andrew Lloyd Webber tribute concert;

Eat at an Applebees;

Attend a Natalie Merchant concert;

Sort through, and watch, your VHS tapes;

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

Start a crappy blog of your own.

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

"Mediocre Mama"

2007-06-14T09:00:00.000-04:00

In search of the great out side.

2007-06-13T19:23:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-06-13T04:43:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-06-06T06:08:00.000-04:00

"...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.

Kindergarten Cops.

2007-06-05T05:07:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-06-04T06:49:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-06-03T06:39:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-06-01T06:52:00.000-04:00

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.

Food for Thought.

2007-05-30T11:26:00.000-04:00

A good article in The New York Times regarding kid's menus. Give it a read - Don't Point That Menu at my Child, Please.

Ode to a Non-Mediocre Mother

2007-05-30T09:34:00.000-04:00

This was just so good I had to share.

I got a call from my big sister yesterday, Jomama, and she had a wopper of a story. While spending a lovely afternoon on the beach with her 1 year old, nephew Number 2, she watched him dancing around the beach, picking up seashells and bottle caps. Oh, and a big ass knife. Did Jomama let him explore his universe and pick up the pretty object? Hell no. Like the un-mediocre mother she is, she ran toward the big ass knife and picked it up before he got there first. Good thinking, Jo. Despite Number 2's protests, Jomama chucked the item in her bucket and trotted up to the front desk at her beach club to complain about all the knives lying around on the beach.

Apparently her second good call of the day.

Jomama says - Look what I found lying on the beach.

Front desk lady says - Oh my god, the cops have been out with metal detectors and looking for that bad boy all day!

Turns out there was a little stabbing in the dark of night. Nice beach club. Jomama turns over the knife and is fully expecting to be contacted by the police.

I know that shit happens and naturally violent thugs are not going to keep our environment any safer, but it does make it that much harder to be a mediocre parent when folks are leaving knives around and screwing it up for the rest of us. Therefore, Jomama gets my first ever MeMo award, for getting off her ass in the nick of time to save Number 2. Kudos, babe.

Riding in cars with noise.

2007-05-29T06:29:00.000-04:00

Given all I've had to say about the Captain's high energy levels, you would think that the Dad and I would, say, avoid things like 30 hours worth of road tripping within a 3 week period. But since I am (a) mediocre at this job and (b) a glutton for punishment it should come as no surprise that I am doing just that. So next week begins

The Mediocre Family's Epoch Battle to Travel (once again)

This time, it's personal.

First stop, southern France.

Now this should be fun. My very good friends, I'll call them the Scottish-Argentinian-Italians or the Satalian family for short, have been kind enough to open their luxurious French countryside rental to us. Now, I must be careful, as they are reading this, but I will admit that I have one or two worries. First, it is a rental villa with, um, nice stuff in it. In fact, the website describes it as a "superbly imposing 9th century domaine." If there's one thing the Captain could easily wipe out with one swift hand, it's a superbly imposing 9th century domaine. Not sure that childproofing is a big factor when designing a domaine. Second, the Satalian's are contemplating parenthood, and though the sweet Captain of last summer who visited them in Scotland and convinced them that parenting is the bee's knees is still at times good, I have great fears that he's liable to put them off parenting permanently. For more information, see my cousin's comment in yesterday's post. But for real, they were hooked when they spent time with him last summer and by all accounts will be as good at parenting as we are, as evidenced by this photo of them making him pound Scottish Whiskey.

I guess I just don't want to do anything to ruin that enthusiasm.

Now, our second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth stop will be a few days later when we tour southern Spain. This is where we've clearly gone crazy.

The Dad planned a fairly aggressive itinerary which includes Granada, Marbella, Gibraltar, Seville, Cordoba and Garrucha. This is a trip he has wanted for some time, despite my constant worries that it's too much for the Captain, and therefore us. So yesterday we came up with a compromise - we dropped Cordoba from the itinerary. Woo hoo, 2 less hours of driving. So all said we're going to be doing about 16 or 17 hours of driving on this trip, including days of touring hilly cities where the Captain will be trapped in the stroller. Thinking about getting one of those Hannibal Lecter devices. I'm not so worried about the beach days we've planned, it's the rest of it that scares me. First, I'm still suffering from Post Traumatic Chunk Syndrome from our little mishap a few weeks ago. Second, not exactly the comfort-mobile...it's a Ford. Third, we're trying to figure out what would be more irritating - listening to him scream for a 4 hour stretch or listening to kids music for a 4 hour stretch. I'm deeply conflicted.

Which brings me totally off the topic (as usual)...why is kids music so friggin irritating and why does it always pop into your brain at the wrongest of times? It is supremely hard to mourn at a funeral when you've got "Bob the Builder" title music running through your brain. Even worse is during sex. I assure you, nothing can ruin a sexy "moment" like suddenly hearing Goofy in your head singing out "Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggidy dog."

But alas, I do believe it's going to be a 4 hour loop of "Free to Be, You and Me" in the car. Which isn't all bad. Except when you're trying to make it with your man and you keep singing "William wants a Doll" in your head.

Hyper-drive.

2007-05-28T13:05:00.000-04:00

Today I actually got off the bus two stops early because I was so mortified by the Captain’s kicking, bucking, ranting, screaming tantrum that I was happier to walk the extra distance than endure the uncomfortable glances from well-meaning Spaniards. Well, it was a combination of factors: (a) he was behaving satanically and (b) some helpful grandmother had a bag from a local toy company in her hand and naturally he was reaching for, and so she thought it would be cute to dangle it in front of his face and wag her finger saying, “no no no!” I wish I was so cruel as to taunt other people’s kids when they were acting up. Of course, if you thought I had trouble with the Momtourage before

So this is actually my second act of desperation in the last week on the subject of the Captain’s tantrums. Last Friday after weeks of visitors, sleepless nights, Dad at work for weeks on end, I finally lost it. Having spent two and a half hours chasing him at an aquarium, followed by 3 sessions of fighting his shoes on while he bucked in my lap and smacked me in the head, followed by 3 hours of chasing him around Dad's office event, followed by 2 glasses of red wine and a glass of champagne, it finally dawned on me...I am in over my head. I thought I might be when I started this blog, but I’m really now convinced of it. I have now come to understand that managing the Captain is akin to performing in the biathlon. Sure, I don't have to shoot at a target after running cross country to chase CK, but I feel there should be some points earned for finally catching him and then wrestling him into his stroller.

Incidentally, who the fuck came up with that kooky sport? I’m going to invent a sport where you have to chug two liters of scotch and then shoot at a moving target like a pickup truck or something…oh wait, I think such a sport might already exist in Alabama. What’s that called, a regular Saturday night?

So, as I was saying, my little Friday night act of desperation resembled any other Friday night act of desperation. No, I didn’t drunk dial anyone; but I did do some creative googling. Did you know that if you google hyper kids over one-and-a-half-million hits come up? Which is all very comforting in the abstract, but not terribly reassuring when you are the mediocre parent of a very hyper child. And so I did find some sites and poured over those parenting manuals that I so handily tossed to the back of a closet. No, after all that I don’t think he’s ADHD (more likely I was just PMS) and I would hate to label him even if he did present such signs, and furthermore I do think Ritalin is the devil's tool. However, I think I do understand why so many parents, teachers, doctors and strangers on the bus get tempted down that path.

Now of course the whole thing seemed worse because in addition to the Captain’s insanity on Friday my cousin and I were chit chatting about kids and he said that personal exposure to several nameless kids have made him less keen on the idea. Umm, you mean my kid? Guilty.

Don't you hate it when you're so drunk that...

2007-05-24T17:01:00.000-04:00

you forget what the hell it was that you wanted to say?

Wednesday night, while celebrating with a group of friends our pending homecoming (or commiserating perhaps?) I came up with a drunken stroke of brilliance for my next post. The next morning, all I could remember was maybe a conversation about shoes. Weird.

So my faithful readers will have to forgive both my absentmindedness and my lack o' posting. First, it's rather irritating typing without this shift key. For the sake of clarity and posterity I am going back through and shifting/editing where I need to. Second, I'm on week 10 of nonstop house guests and have run out of steam for cleaning, typing, touring, planning, cooking, restaurants, the Captain...

So since I have painfully forgotten my fabulous post topic, I now present, for your amusement...

Doorknob, Part Trois

Payback's a bitch, bitch.

How much would you pay for this doorknob? $25? Maybe $50? Well, apparently with the current exchange rate, I would pay $135. Anyone else recall that I'm up to officially 4 broken doorknobs? So with simple math, 4 x 5 is 20, carry the 2, hit my broken shift key and return 4 times....Yep, I spent $1,000 on new doorknobs! Did I mention I was mediocre in math, too?

So, I finally got the call from the doorknob repair mechanic guy and he says he's downstairs, comes up and does a lousy installation job and demands cash payment, then and there. Did I mention that because he showed up without warning I was still in my PJ's? He installed 2 and I managed to beg borrow and steal 200 euros from my cousin, but it still wasn't enough. To make matters even more fun the guy said that unless I gave full payment (214 euros) he wouldn't give me a receipt. I call the property managers and I'm absolutely going nuts and we work something out, blah blah blah. Although now obnoxious useless doorknob installation guy refuses 5 of my euros because it's in change. I say, "but it's money?!" Apparently my money is no good here?

Well, I told the management company that I refuse to pay for their extravagant doorknobs and they told me I could come to the office with my receipt for reimbursement. Today I drag a moody and exhausted Captain to the management company and their response was, "Well, we need to submit it to the owner." Excuse me? Didn't you tell me to drag my ass down here and get reimbursed?

So then the conversation goes like this...

Me - Maica told me to come down.

Them - Well, we're not responsible and we're not the owner.

Me - You hired a guy who did a horrible job, was a complete jerk, and who wouldn't leave my apartment without money, even though he showed up with absolutely no notice.

Them - Well, we're not responsible that the doorknob repairman was a jerk.

Me - You hired the guy.

Them - We are not the owners of the property so we can't pay.

Me - Funny, I'm not the owner of the property either and, amazingly, I did have to pay.

Then, the Captain starts to pull out some rather nudgy and irritated behavior, which was just about perfect timing, because, much like the asshole doorknob repairman, I was not leaving without my 195 euros. Finally they cough it up.

So now we're faced with the following question...should we even bother paying the last month's rent or let them keep the security deposit? If I were in the State's I'd be less likely to take the risk, but I'm in Spain and living on Spanish time and I understand it takes about 6 months to evict someone and so they're probably too lazy to go after us for the money. Based on all the dinks and doohickeys around the apartment that the Captain left I am certain they're going to take the security deposit...maybe I should just make this easier on all of us. Plus, with $300 more dollars worth of doorknobs to install, anyone else think they'll find a way to make us pay for it?

Ah well, I suppose I could always hock some doorknobs to make up for the loss.

shift happens.

2007-05-22T03:46:00.000-04:00

today we're going to talk about capital letters and punctuation. why is that, oh mediocre teacher? because without two shift keys it is hard to make many of your capital letters and equally a pain in the arse to make particular punctuation.

Observe...

the girl exclaimed loudly, "what an asshole1"

My e-mail address is meciocremama2hotmail.com.

I've lost 35 of my total body fat.

You see. definitely reduces clarity. which is why I was so pissed that the captain felt the need to swipe it off my machine in a desperate fit of...boredom. every time the little bugger doesn't get my attention right away he runs over to the computer and makes a point. such is the problem with the dog being gone and, therefore, the dog crate being gone where my computer cleverly sat, protected from swiping fingers and other unnecessary assaults on my machine. Not the first time he's busted a key off, but the first time he's busted it off permanently. Now we've got a large tv box tied to the tv stand, the new home of my computer, but it seems to have some lacking anti-child qualities.

I was fine yesterday, but the little green nub that's left which allows me to still shift has now fallen off too. the end result is that I CAN'T TYPE A MOTHERFUCKING EXCLAMATION POINT1

Mama if that's moving up then I'm...

2007-05-21T03:53:00.000-04:00

Moving out.

As I sit here typing (minus one shift key thanks to a mild temper tantrum the Captain had yesterday), I can't believe I've lived in Spain almost a year to the date and that, sadly, I'll be back stateside in a little more than a month. The Captain was just a wee-Private when we left home and had literally just started to crawl.

Why is that, by the way? Is that the Murphy's Law of toddlers...if you are packing up your entire house and not baby proofed then your toddler is certain to start crawling? It was fabulous.

Anyway, though our departure will be soon, I am certain that our next adventure will give me mucho to blog about (assuming we can get Internet connections where we're heading). This is how the plan is shaking down if we can swing it...

Dad works for the next couple of weeks;
We attempt a meet up with friends in the south of France for about 5 days;
Back to Valencia to pack up, rest up, work and chill;
Two weeks traveling around southern Spain by car;
Fly home or possibly to my parents house a few hours from home to steal their automobile in the night, seeing as how we sold all our worldly possessions when we moved;
Move back into house (which is rented out until June 30th);
Dad goes back to his home office; and finally
The Mediocre Mama finds a job.

Eek.

My Country Western Day.

2007-05-19T08:13:00.000-04:00

I lost my dog, lost my race, might have to move soon. Therefore, instead of whining and moaning, I'll just hang out a sign until I'm feeling the posting love again...

Play-doh!

2007-05-17T07:55:00.000-04:00

As I said before, I don't do play dates, playgroups and have an overwhelming fear of too much regularity at one playground. This may come as a shock to many, particularly those who always say to me, "why don't you and the Captain join a class or something? You'll meet people. It will be fun!" Humbug. I know what fun is and unless I’m playing scrabble or seeing a play, the word play shouldn’t even be in the equation.

Captain Kid can be a really remarkable child. Naturally he's mine, so he's remarkable, but honestly, there are some kick ass awesome things about the Captain. So as much as I spend this blog grumbling, I feel I should focus on the positives. Sort of like a performance review of the Captain (Here are the areas I feel you’ve excelled as a kid…yet, there are many areas in which I feel you could improve…). So here they are, in no particular order, my favorite things about Captain Kid:

He was sleeping through the night at 6 weeks and has rarely given me a bad night’s sleep since;
He's always been rather precocious. Whether walking (9-1/2 months), eating grown up food, sorting by shapes (around 15 months) or climbing stairs he's always taking things on a little early and with full force; you have to admire his resourcefulness;
He's a hugger. Me, Dad, random stranger's in the park, small animals, trees. You name it he's hugged it;
He has a healthy fear of plants. Huh? I assure you, particularly around Christmas, a healthy fear of plants is not a bad thing; and
The funniest noises come out of him. Sort of those intangible things that you have to be there for, but among his best impersonations are Mediocre Mama yelling and Marlon Brando.

So I've done it? Woo hoo. I love my kid, I'm a good Mama. La dee da, la dee da.

Now I dish.

The basic reason I don't do play dates, playgroups and vary up my playgrounds is that I'm deathly afraid of being mortified. The Captain can't sit still to save his life. The more open the space, the more likely he'll go nuts. The smaller the space, the more bored he gets. He pushes ahead of other kids at the park. If a child won't back away from the steps up to the slide, he'll step on the other child to get passed. He runs away, all the time, to the street or to the hills. We tried one of those harness things; he just sort of dangles off the end of it like a worm on a hook. He steals toys; he throws tantrums when you take the items away. He steals food. He steals mothers from unsuspecting kids and then gets shoved for being so impertinent.

But there’s another, and possibly more substantive reason why I don’t do play dates, playgroups and vary up my playgrounds. I don’t like other mothers! Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like my friends who already are mothers or who are future mothers. And I certainly don’t mind meeting women independent of having kids, hitting it off and then saying, oh goodie, we both have kids…let’s disco. But I have a block against forming a friendship with other women simply on the basis of having kids. I mean, really, what do we have in common? We both have kids? Bullshit, anyone can have a kid. That’s not a commonality, that’s a basic life function. Sort of like saying I’ll get along with another woman because we both have a nose and two eyes.

Example. I’ll never forget this one time I was studying for one of my law classes; I decided to take a friend to one of our local coffee bars for a little liquid brain power. Whilst there, a mommy group decided to pop in. I eavesdropped on this group (it was sort of hard not to) and for 15 minutes they discussed bleeding nipples. Now I had no problem with loudly discussing bleeding nipples in a cafe (let’s face it, I passed “inappropriate” sometime between getting pregnant and starting this blog), but to me I just couldn’t fathom paying a group to meet and discuss the status of my nipples. My nipples, despite evidence to the contrary, are not what I am about.

The end result is that I’ve made a small handful of friends while in Spain versus the mass mother-entourage I see some of these women with at the playground (thus, my fear of spending too much time at the same playgrounds). It does seem, in a sense, a bit like high school because Momtourage seems very good at putting up a road block to any Mama, particularly a Mediocre Mama, who is outside of the social schema. Hence, I feel this big around Momtourage and it would seem that when Momtourage's toddler thumps the Captain, there is very little intervention.

Maybe that’s the other thing that I don’t like about the play dates, playgroups and playgrounds…there’s too much damn pressure. All it takes is one bad move by CK or by their children and too soft a hand in correcting behavior for it all to go to hell. Maybe it’s that I feel judged (and subsequently I judge) by Momtourage.

And let’s face it, the thought of loosening up and joining in on play dates, playgroups or the Momtourage bandwagon is akin to discussing my bleeding nipples because I’ve noticed that Momtourage has nipples too…

Enemy, thy name is Doorknob.

2007-05-16T07:16:00.000-04:00

I realize that oh but a few weeks ago I was espousing the virtues and wonders of the doorknob. But a few days ago, it all changed...

I honestly don't know how to feel about this. Betrayed, bewildered? The very object I had come to count on is now laughing in my face. At this point my only saving grace is that he can't quite do it with shoes off, so we've instituted a strict barefoot policy...

But let's face it, how long will it take him to grow that extra half inch, a week maybe? It's a wonder that something that was once so implausible, that he could possibly reach the door knob before we moved out of the apartment, is now a reality.

That's the thing about raising a baby. Yesterday's saving grace is tomorrow's death trap. One day he's happily sitting in a bouncing chair and the next day he's lying there with the thing tipped over, clawing his way out like he's in a coyote trap. Which leads me all to a bigger problem - how can I possibly justify buying gates when I'll probably be moving in the next month? That is why I am grateful that the doorknob repair guy has yet to show up ("Mañana, mañana!"). And better yet, two more doorknobs have broken since the last incident, which means that you have to turn the knobs up instead of down. So tonight we'll be swapping our knobs around, making sure that the real death traps are protected (i.e., the kitchen, my bedroom, the bathroom, and of course, Deviant Dad's Office of Death).

In the meantime, we're putting the Captain on a strict diet of cigarettes and coffee to stave off anymore growth.

Buzzed

2007-05-15T07:46:00.000-04:00

It has come to pass that the Captain, in addition to being afraid of doctors, nurses, chiropractors and bearded men, is now also afraid of the barber. He had always been a bit wary, which is both why I waited 3-1/2 months to get him a trim and why we were contemplating getting him an audition for a baby Beatles tribute band…

So when the Dad finally got a day off last week, we decided it was time. We brought him to the local mall, plopped him in the little kid’s haircut seat and then faked my way through the most painful conversation in Spanish that I have ever had.

Just cut it short, I tried to explain in broken Spanish.

The hairdresser was afraid. Suddenly he disappears and pops back with style books.

No no no. He’s a baby, just short, don’t worry about style, I whined in English, all the while noticing the Captain was getting antsy.

This guy must have thought I didn’t like the style, so he brought out another book.

Now the Captain was getting crazed, so I just belt out Cut it Now!

He does. Gets perhaps 3 snips into it when the Captain goes ballistic. I take him on my lap and just keep telling the guy to cut.

So he gets in maybe 4 more snips and the Captain is completely hysterical. Dad and I look at each other, knowing full well what’s inevitable. Dad points at the electric trimmer and that’s how the Captain joined the army.

It does bring up some logistical issues. First of all, the Captain was so hysterical that he couldn't even finish the haircut, so it's sort of like a crew cut with long strands around the edges. Second, the Captain refuses to wear a hat and in this hot Spanish sun I’m not exactly sure how to handle it. I bought a spray on lotion and tried to spray it on his head, but pretty much all it did was stick to his hair, giving him a grayish sort of hue. Third, the bigger problem is that as scared as he was before of the barber, he’s now got barber phobia and I think it will easily be another 6 months before I have the courage to get him in the chair again. The Dad wanted to buy a flowbee, but seeing as how he’s as afraid of the vacuum as he is of the electric trimmer I’m just not sure that it’s a good solution. That and every time I vacuum the floor he’s going to go running the other way. …

Ah well. There's always that baby Beatles tribute band.

Food fights.

2007-05-14T07:25:00.000-04:00

I've never understood the big fuss over food. Oh, I admit I was initially one of those Mama's who read the guidebooks and fed the Captain exactly as the food nazis dictated. But when I moved here to Spain I decided that Americans are nuts and that I should embrace the Mediocre me. Baby food in Spain is interesting. No single pureed fruits or veggies, meat is introduced to the diet pretty early, fish is recommended from 8 months onward. The baby food labels included ingredients of salt, sugar, olive oil, etc. Bland baby food is simply not an option. So why are Americans so stringent on their food guidelines?

It's the same thing with pregnancy. As a girlfriend of mine, I'll call her "J," has repeatedly pointed out, it is impossible to get a consensus on what you're allowed to do. Go to any European cafe and you're likely to see a pregnant woman having a glass of beer. Consider having pate in some places and you're killing your fetus.

As J has also queried, why is it that we're so freaked out about feeding our baby spices and herbs? I mean, Indian babies must get Indian seasoning in their diet, so why shouldn't American babies? I couldn't agree more. Which is why I took a page from J's book and took the Captain for Indian food last night.

And guess what. He loved it! Not the only interesting food he loves, too. He's had foods with curry, turmeric, cinnamon, nutmeg; he likes garlic, ginger and onion seasoning in his food. In fact, he pretty much eats everything we do, save extremely spicy bits. I know, he's likely to change his ways in the future. But won't it be fun, as he's begging for chicken nuggets, to hang over his head that he used to love tepanyaki, chicken curry and hummus

As for me, the best part isn't just that he's getting a well-rounded culinary experience. It's that I'm getting a well-rounded culinary experience.