Libby Logic

Color and Race

2012-01-19T07:34:00.001-07:00

I bungled my first conversation with Meg about race. To be fair though, I wasn't expecting it -- especially not in the middle of watching "Toy Story 3."

We were watching the movie the other night when Meg asked me if Woody's hat is black. No, I said, it's brown. Then she asked about Mr. Potato Head, was he black? Nope, I told her, he's brown. She asked about slinky dog next, and Mrs. Potato Head, and about Buster (the dog in the film). I told her none of them were black, they were all brown.

Then it dawned on me what was going on.

Somewhere Meg had picked up that she is black, and that it has to do with the color of her skin. Being the smart kid she is, who knows her colors, including the difference between black and brown, there was now some confusion. And I was doing nothing to help the situation.

I paused the movie and looked at Meg.

"Baby," I said, "your skin is the color brown. People may call it black, but it's color is brown. And no matter what color it is it is wonderful skin, and I love you very much."
"Is your skin brown," she asked.
"No, it's pink," I said. I figured that would be easier than explaining "pasty."
"Is Daddy's skin brown?"
"No, his is pink too, but we are your Mommy and Daddy and we love you."

Then she asked me to turn the movie back on and snuggled in.

After she went to bed I laid awake for about two hours after that wondering how I could have better handled it. Her skin isn't black, but she is. That black really has nothing to do with color and more with racial construct. That there are some people that have much darker skin than hers that will never be identified as black.

I started wondering if I should have brought up Dr. King. Then I remembered she is two.

I am hoping the next time I am better prepared. I am also hoping the next time is as innocent, and doesn't involve her feelings being hurt because of racism, or feelings of rejection due to a realization about the differences in our colors and what they mean.

I know those conversations are coming, I am just hoping that I am better at this when they do.

Oh, and that she still wants to snuggle with me after we are done talking.

It's NOT for Dinner

2012-01-17T19:16:00.004-07:00

One of the New Year's resolutions made in this household is to not eat out as often. We are doing it for all the normal reasons: to save money and cut calories -- in addition to the fact that restaurants currently seem to turn Meg into a Tasmanian devil type creature bent on destruction and visiting the bathroom at least a half dozen times.

Things have been going pretty well. We only ate out once in the past seven days, and that was with my parents, so among the four of us we each only had to take Meg to the bathroom twice. I had this week planned out perfectly too. Not only had I bought all of the food for (some of it with coupons!) but I had made a menu plan using items we already had in the freezer and the pantry.

It all went to shit tonight.

I had made Cholent before. Barley, beans, brisket -- beautiful and basic. Of course, before I had just let it cook on high in the crock pot for four hours. Today I had a meeting so I thought it would be okay to leave it on low for nine.

When I got home there really was no sign there was anything wrong. The house was still standing, and there was a lovely smell of beef and garlic in the air.

And that's when I looked in the crock pot.

What I found can best be described as cremains. Cremains covered in beef fat. All of the liquid was gone. The beans and barley had formed a crust around the pot that I am still trying to soak off four hours later. The beef was more than jerkified. I took a bite, thinking maybe it just looked bad, only to find it tasted worse.

All of that work. All of that planning. All of that not admitting I hate cooking at home, and smilingly making grocery lists and menu plans. All of it was now laughing at me, and filling my nose with the smell of ruined dinner.

I almost threw the damned thing through the plate glass window.

Ryan walked in during the middle of all of this and saw what was going on. With few words he scooped Meg up and took her to eat and see the bathroom at the burrito place down the block. I took the crock pot to the garbage outside and emptied the sludge, then went inside to make some pasta. Then I called my Mom and ugly cried about the whole thing.

And now?

Now I am just hoping the crock pot is clean by tomorrow so I can make chicken and noodles.

After all, a resolution is not a resolution if it only lasts until January 17th.

Unnecessary Qualifier

2012-01-13T06:19:00.000-07:00

I have a new pet peeve: pointing out when a child is adopted in any form of media.

Why do we have to mention that a child is adopted? We don't point out when they are born c-section, or conceived via IVF, or delivered by surrogate (except perhaps at birth in People magazine), so why is it so important to point out that adopted children came into a family that way? What is added to the story by knowing that detail?

I find it particularly disturbing because in most cases where adoption is mentioned, it is seemingly excusing the bad behavior of a parent, or trying to deify them for "saving" a child. For instance, in the past two months I covered two stories involving children that were very pointedly described as being adopted. In one case a father had raped several of them repeatedly. In the other the mother had killed her child, but now was begging to get out of prison to take care of her "biological" kids.

My daughter is adopted. However, I never think of her as my adopted daughter. I don't think of her adoption when I comb her hair in the morning. I don't think of it when we are driving in the car singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" at the top of our lungs together. I don't think of it when she has a nightmare and crawls into bed with me, rubbing the peach fuzz on my cheek to go back to sleep.

That is not to say I don't acknowledge and appreciate her adoption. I do every day. I see her birth mom in her all the time, and we talk about her "Mama" (I am Mommy). However, the fact Meg is adopted does not affect how I care for her, or my hopes for her, or how much I love her. I definitely would never use it as a justification for ways I failed her, or hurt her, nor would I ever use it to try and make myself seem like a better person.

No one else should either.

So, here's my thought: unless it is absolutely pertinent to the story, adoption status should not be mentioned. Oh, unless the adoptee themselves wants it so. After all, most of them had no say in the adoption, so they should have a say in how it is perceived now.

Deal?

Itsy Bitsy WHA?

2012-01-08T20:20:00.001-07:00

Meg has become a voracious reader. Luckily, ever since the day she was born the people in our lives have given her tons of books. Unluckily, I think some of them didn't read them before they passed them our way. Or maybe they did, and thought we would find them quaint. Or maybe they didn't, and it was a regift. Hell, whatever the reason, we ended up with the most bizarre collection of books of children's songs ever.

From the outside they look normal, even kinda cute. But it's inside that things go wrong. I first noticed it when I heard Ryan reading Meg "Wheels on the Bus." The bus driver doesn't say "move on back," but rather "beep, beep, beep"; and the bus doesn't go "all through the town" but instead "all day long." I pointed it out to Ryan, and he said it was probably just a regional difference, and that maybe in Delaware that's how they sang it. I told him I had been to Delaware. He gave me that look that let me know I am slowly driving him insane.

I was going to leave it alone, until I heard him reading Meg the book containing "row, row, row your boat." The end of that one was enough that I went in to examine the page, and even took a picture.

That's right, life is not a dream in this version of the song. Instead it is a place where carnivorous reptiles can pop up at any moment and you have to scream your lungs out and pray to God that someone can hear you.

Oh, and that's not even the most bizarre one. That comes to us from "the animals marching two by two." First of all, I didn't know this was a "beloved" children's song, and second of all, I had no idea it ended like this...

Apparently the rain is so bad the singer lost all grasp of the English language. Never happened to me, but maybe I've just never seen that type of rain.

Thank God for "Good Night Moon." And thank God we own at least four copies of it. Maybe ten.

Have Fun

2012-01-04T20:09:00.002-07:00

There is an amusement park near my house, and on every ride, right before you take off, the 12-year old running it tells you to "have fun." It doesn't matter how terrifying it is supposed to be, or vomit inducing, the last instruction you receive is to "have fun."

I always hated that.

I mean, of course we were all going to at least try to have fun, weren't we? After all, we had come to an amusement park, hadn't we? It wasn't like we had come to "root canal land," or "tax audit town." I always wondered why the forced merriment. Now, though, I have figured it out, largely because I have stared saying it too.

It started as a joke. When a reporter would head out the door to cover a particularly gruesome, or mind numbingly boring story, I would tell them to "have fun." Depending on their religion they would flip me off, or groan. Over the years though it moved from being a joke, to just being how I say good-bye -- and I have found it annoys some people almost as much as it did me at the amusement park.

My husband in particular isn't fond of it. When he has a meeting he doesn't want to deal with or is heading back from a school break it makes him especially grumpy. I try to tell him I'm not mocking him, that it's just something I say, but he doesn't buy it. Once I tried to tell him that it was just my way of reminding everyone that life is precious, and that we should look for the fun in every moment. He looked at me like body snatchers had taken his wife and replaced her with an automaton.

So, now I need to find a new good-bye. I want something catchy, but not too "slick." Maybe something with an ironic twist, like "hello, or is it?" That seems to wordy though. Maybe I could stick with the amusement park thing and tell people to "hold on tight" or "please don't puke."

So many possibilities.

Until a new one is found though -- have fun.

I mean that.

New Post, Just Not Here

2012-01-03T11:40:00.002-07:00

So, I have some news, but it's not here... It's over at Tired and Stuck.

Hope you all are enjoying 2012. I mean, since it is the year the world will end and everything...

Holi-dazed (See What I Did There? I KNOW! Super Clever!)

2011-12-20T17:30:00.005-07:00

I am sitting here at my dining room table, surrounded by a holly, jolly mess. I have more than a dozen Christmas cards that still need to be written and addressed to the right of me, and a pile of presents that have to be wrapped from Santa to my left; in front of me I have two half finished blankets I am crocheting, and on the counter behind me I have neighbor gifts that need to be assembled, and have witty notes attached to them.

So which one am I focusing on right now? The computer in the middle of it all, and the glass of wine in my lap.

You were expecting something different?

I don't know why I am overwhelmed and surprised by this predicament. Every year, it doesn't matter how early I start, how organized I am, or how good my intentions are, I always end the season in a holiday frenzy. There is always one gift I have forgotten, or one gift I can't find that I know I have bought, but hidden somewhere in the house so well that not even I can remember where it is. Christmas cards ALWAYS seem to run out long before the list of recipients does, even though I swear we haven't made any new friends in at least three years, and the number of cards we order increases. Oh, and don't even get me started on figuring out the logistics for seeing Ryan's family, my family, and friends and relatives who happen to be in town.

I'm actually starting to think it's my starting early and feeling organized that gets me into this jiggle hell each December. It gives me a false sense of security, and makes me think I'm ahead of the game. When the cards came in mid-November I thought "I have plenty of time, I don't want to get them out too early." Now I am just hoping my signature is legible and I don't write "fuck" in any of them accidentally -- or at least not the ones going to Ryan's family.

Same thing with gifts. Amazon and I had it all figured out long ago. Of course, Amazon forgot to remind me that Meg has two teachers at her play group, and that two of our friends have new babies in addition to the older kids I am used to buying for. Oh, and it also said nothing about stocking stuffers or the fact I have co-workers. Stupid Internet jerk. I just hope babies and TV news people alike appreciate the glory of holiday M&Ms. After all, they were two for 3 bucks today at the grocery store. I had to growl at some people, but I think I got enough.

As for the family arrangements? I am really thinking next year I am going to hire people who look almost exactly like us and send them out while we go to Fiji.

Actually, I might hire them to do the whole damn thing.

Happy Holidays!

Princess Proliferation

2011-12-12T07:04:00.002-07:00

I used to think that Disney Princesses were evil because they give the wrong message to little girls: that you're looks and catching a man are the most important things in the world.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Now, I am not saying the Princesses don't give that message, they most definitely do. I am just saying that is not the real reason they are evil.

The real reason? Because they are on EVERYTHING, and are out to bankrupt the parents of little girls everywhere.

These were add ons. The Princess Nativity is not available -- yet.

Really, the next time you are in the store, ANY store, take a look around. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a product with a princess on it (you shouldn't be swinging dead cats anyway, but that's another post). They are on clothes, shoes, toys, make-up, band- aids, vitamins, books, diapers, cookies, tooth brushes, fruit snacks, and pretty much anything else you can imagine.

Little girls are trained to track them down, too. I swear Disney has a subliminal message in every one of it's movies showing them every princess and the products she is on. Sounds crazy, right? Then how can Meg identify every princess, even though she's only seen two of the movies. Yes, it could be that we went to Disneyland and I pointed them all out, or it could be an evil plot. I think we all know which explanation is more plausible.

It's getting to the point where I am just resigned to see the princesses everywhere, and fork my money over to Disney. We are in the process of buying new tires for our car. My husband and I were discussing options and I asked him if he thought "Tangled" was a better option than "Princess and the Frog." Luckily, Tiana does not have her own brand of steel belted radials -- yet.

If only feminism was still my only concern... After all, it doesn't have a friend named "Toy Story."

Ocupado

2011-12-05T06:47:00.001-07:00

When we had a daughter I knew there would come a time when it would be impossible to get her out of the bathroom. I just thought it would start around the age 12 and would be because she was obsessing over her hair, her skin, and her make-up. I had no idea it would start at age two and a half and be because she is (in her words) trying to be "snuggly warm."

Caught in the act...

We live in an old house. It's drafty. We know that. Winter is a time of undershirts, socks, slippers, and more blankets on the bed. Meg, though, apparently needs a little something extra. Not necessarily because she's cold, but because she doesn't have that "fresh from the dryer" feeling. The only place you can get that feeling in our house? The bathroom.

I mean, I guess you could get it in the dryer, but that would be dangerous.

Our bathroom is especially warm for many reasons. It is the smallest room in the house, with the biggest heat vent. It has stone tile that absorbs heat. Oh, and because we have jerky cats who like to destroy toilet paper, the door is always closed. It creates an atmosphere that could be used for raising chicks -- or Meg.

Now, whenever the heat goes on, we hear Meg's little feet running, and the bathroom door closing. When we go in to find her she is always wrapped in the robes that hang on the back of the door, her back to the vent. She is always "snugly warm."

She has even tried to improve the situation, dragging all of the blankets from her bed with her as she heads in there, or bringing a book or two to keep her occupied. We drew the line at the iPad though, at least for right now. After all, we don't want to spend the whole winter with the entire family in the bathroom.

Although that does sound cozy... And clean.

Thank You

2011-12-01T18:33:00.007-07:00

First of all, thank you for all of your kind words. Thank God for the Internet, because if you knew what a bitch I am in real life you never would have said them. Kidding. Just kidding.

I am thankful not only for all of you though, strangers scattered throughout the globe who have my back, but also the person who created my back: my Mom.

When all of this was going on my Mom sent me an email and told me to "LIGHTEN UP." I, of course, took this the wrong way, and called her to tell her just how little she knows about me. She, in turn, reminded me about just how much she knows.

My Mom and (baby) Meg. they have the same good heart.

She told me that I need to stop thinking that if I don't do something miraculous and life changing immediately that I should destroy myself. She told me to look at the little things that are actually big. She told me that in telling myself I am a failure that I am missing out on my successes. She told me I am loved, and that sometimes just truly accepting that could be the real key to unlocking happiness and potential.

I guess we never really finish being our parents' children.

I just hope I can be half the Mom to Meg that Ellen has been to me.

Reason

2011-11-29T06:58:00.001-07:00

I do not want to be the depressed mom.

Last night, when I was writing my latest "depression and I are fighting again" post, I was sitting across from Meg as she played with her new hand me down princess make-up kit, and watched "Toy Story 3."

I started crying. I didn't mean to, and I don't like to cry in front of Meg, but the tears just started.

She looked at me and said "don't be sad." I said I wasn't, that I was okay. She said "I'm getting down for you," and hopped out of her chair. She walked around the table and took my hand. "C'mere," she said, and led me back to her side of the table. "Sit down," she said, and I did. She climbed up on my lap, put her head on my chest, and we watched the movie together.

I was really touched. I felt so loved, and so safe. I was going to blog about how wonderful she is, and how we take care of each other. Then, this morning, I woke up and I felt so angry. Not at Meg, but at me. No 2-year old should have to comfort their parent. I mean, maybe in a bruised knuckle situation, but nothing like this.

She deserves better. The dog? Maybe not...

So, now I have another reason to make changes. Actually, I have the biggest reason to make changes. My child will not grow up wondering when Mom's next crying fit might come, or if it's one of those "crazy" days. She will not have to feel like she is my emotional support, but will know I am hers. She will be the child, and the most loved child, at that.

It's been easy in the past to let myself down. After all, I thought I was a failure to begin with. Now, though, I am not going to let Meg down. She deserves more.

Operation better attitude starts now.

Attitude Adjustment

2011-11-28T06:15:00.000-07:00

My attitude, as of late, sucks.

There is no other way to say it. No way to sugar coat it, or chalk it up to "low self esteem" or "seasonal malaise." It isn't a funny, crumudgeonly "you kids get off my lawn" type, or a snarky "what is Ann Curry wearing today" kind. It's a dark, and bitter attitude; one that wallows in defeat, and sees little hope in the future. It laughs at motivational techniques, or looking on the bright side. It's demanding too. It will wake me up in the middle of the night just to remind me what a failure I am, how I have let all of my potential go by, how it is too late to do anything about it, and how it is all my fault.

I told you: it just totally sucks.

And you were wondering why I haven't been blogging more often. I figured you could just read some Bukowski.

I would love to say this is just depression, but this doesn't feel the depression of the past. With that it feels like something outside of me. Something that I could alter with my medications or with therapy. This feels different. It feels organic, and deep rooted. However, unlike the regular depression, this doesn't feel like something I have to treat with drugs, or therapy. This feels like something I can take action to change. Actually, I think the only way to fix it is to make changes. To do something.

I just need to figure out what that something is.

Running?

Writing? If so, about what?

Erotic French Cooking Classes? No, I'm afraid of the oil burns. I don't think a trip to the ER would give me the sense of accomplishment and well being I seek.

Learn how to play an instrument? Do people still appreciate the Sousaphone?

Maybe saying one nice thing a day about my life, and concentrating on that? Could it be that simple?

Well, that would at least be slightly less sucky... I guess that's something.

Wallet Woes

2011-11-22T07:47:00.001-07:00

I am considering having my wallet surgically implanted in my arm. I think it's the only way I can guarantee I have it when I need it. You know, like when I need to pay for something.

I never used to have a problem remembering my wallet. It was always in my purse, right where I needed it. However, with a toddler, the number of things I have in my purse has grown, and the frequency of my taking those things in and out has increased, meaning that sometimes something gets left behind. When it's my sunglasses? No problem. Tic Tacs? Still not a problem, as long as we can avoid tantrums. The wallet though, that's a problem.

You would think that after the first, or fifth time getting up to the cash register and realizing I have no way to pay I would just get in the habit of making sure my wallet is in my purse before I leave the house or enter a store. Or, maybe the fact that on several occasions it has lead to me technically shoplifting because I leave the store with Meg eating a treat we haven't yet paid for would do it instead. Yeah, I would think that too. Apparently though, I like lugging a toddler in and out of stores, wasting time rerunning errands too much, and risking being the target of dicky store security to start giving myself little reminders.

Luckily, it appears I am not the only idiot in the world. Pretty much every time I have forgotten my wallet the clerk has just put my stuff aside, and then continued the transaction when I return. Either that, or I am the only idiot in the world, and they take pity on me because I look so pathetic.

They won't pity me though once I have my awesome arm wallet though...

"Something" in the Way She Moves

2011-11-17T15:30:00.000-07:00

There are four words that can now send me sprinting to Meg, to matter where I am, or what I am doing. Those words? "I'm just doing something." They seem harmless enough, just an update on daily life, but coming from Meg's mouth they mean she is just doing something she shouldn't.

In the past two weeks "doing something" has meant emptying an entire bottle of shampoo into the (empty) tub, climbing up onto the table to reach the iPad, emptying my purse to find Tic Tacs, and munching on a half a stick of butter she found in the fridge.

Eating a handful of whipped cream is definitely "something."

Most of the time when Meg is caught she's very happy to stop what she was doing and avoid a confrontation. I guess she figures she got away with it long enough, and there's more fun to bed had later. Of course, once in a while she decides to push it a bit further. She doesn't scream or throw herself to the floor (at least not right away), instead she just puts on her sweetest face, flashes her dimples and says "just a little bit."

There are obvious times when I have to say no to the "little bit" plea, and brace for the potential tantrum: knife fights and poison drinking for example. Kidding. We all know those things will toughen her up...

Now, that time I was really kidding.

Obviously, if she is up on a table, or touching something dangerous, the answer is no. If it's just one more lick of butter, or the last squirt of shampoo into an already massive mess though, I usually give in. After all, I am learning very quickly that parenting means picking your battles. I figure if I battle every thing, I will never win anything.

Of course, I could be wrong. In that case I just hope I don't "doing something" doesn't end up being stealing cars...

The Time of His Life

2011-11-14T09:23:00.002-07:00

In the past week Ryan and I have discovered that Netflix has many of our 1980's favorites on demand. We've watched "Lost Boys," and "St. Elmo's Fire" and Saturday night (date night) I had the perfect film picked out -- "Dirty Dancing."

Ryan was NOT excited. Not even in a "nostalgic, wow we were young when this movie came out isn't it corny to watch it now" kind of way. He suggested a compromise, but "Point Break" isn't available for streaming. Besides, I wanted something romantic, not bromantic.

I made him a deal.

If he would sit through a 30 minute, fast forwarding to all of my favorite parts "Dirty Dancing" viewing without any snide comments or eye rolling, then he could decide what we would do with the rest of the time until we had to go pick up Meg from my parents -- maybe even a little dirty dancing of our own.

He almost made it.

In the last scene, where Johnny Castle and Baby are dancing together for all the world to see, Ryan just couldn't help himself. A huge sigh escaped his lips, and he said "oh, just kiss him, he's so dreamy." His eyes were rolling so hard in his head I could hear them.

Poor guy. A deal is a deal though.

I might give him another chance though. I just found out "Strictly Ballroom" is available for streaming...

This Makes Sense

2011-11-09T08:11:00.001-07:00

I only like to wash my hair on Wednesdays and Sundays, which is why I am thankful for "PSSSSST!"

Don't look at me like that. It makes perfect sense.

No, really stop it. I am NOT crazy. Did my husband tell you I was crazy? Because there are plenty of things I could tell you about him.

Okay, I'll explain.

Since my hair has gotten longer (epically long in my opinion, but that's another story), I have cut down on how often I wash it so it doesn't become a static cling nightmare. I have figured out that if I wash it every three days then I don't look like Yahoo Serious, or an oil slick. Because I work at the crack of dawn, I prefer if only one of these days falls on a weekday.

My plan would be perfect if there were only six days a week. Damn Saturday.

In my previous world Saturday meant either washing, and then washing again on Sunday to set the schedule right, and the static balance of my hair wrong; or NOT washing, and looking like a walking rendition of the gulf coast following the BP spill.

Then, I discovered "PSSSST!"

No, it's not a spy firm, or a porn firm, or a compressed air firm. It's a dry shampoo. Several sprays on Saturday means I don't have to wash my hair, and no one thinks I am going to ask them for money. Oh, and my schedule stays in tact.

See? It makes sense. Right? When I told my husband about it he asked me if I also like to drive slow on the driveway and if I buy my underwear at K-Mart. You don't think that though, do you?

Do you?

Oh, god, you do.

The Toddler Diet

2011-11-07T08:54:00.003-07:00

Meg is becoming a picky eater. Wait, no that's not right. She's not picky about what she eats, she's just picky about when she eats it. So, I guess you could say Meg is becoming a sporadic eater.

There are days that all she will eat are a few blueberries and maybe a glass of milk. It doesn't matter what I offer her, how I offer it, she won't eat anything else. She will drink water, but only if it's sparkly water, or maybe mixed with a little bit of apple juice. Not too much apple juice though, she doesn't "yike it" when it actually may deliver some nutrients and calories to her body.

Nope, not eating the candy. Just looking at it.

There are also days when Meg seems to be hollow inside and will eat everything in site. Actually, "days" is being too hopeful. There are hours, or meals when she will devour everything. She will eat her entire plate of food, and then ask for seconds while starting in on mine or Ryan's. She will eat banana after banana after apple and then want string cheese and pasta.

We've tried to alter Meg's dietary habits. We've done the "take three bites" stuff. We've tried to supplement her diet on non-eating days with Ensure. We've tried offering treats and incentives. Nothing has worked. Apparently our efforts aren't really necessary, because her energy level doesn't seem to waver no matter if she's eaten a full meal, or two saltines and a pat of butter. Actually, in Meg's case it would be three pats of butter, hold the saltine. Butter is the one food that is always welcome in Meg's world.

Now we are just letting Meg be Meg. If she doesn't want to eat, we don't make her. When she does, we are at her beck and call. I know some people might think that's being indulgent, but I would rather do that than force her to eat, and have her develop some weird love/hate relationship with food. She still knows that we all sit together to eat, and that not wanting to eat doesn't mean she's excused. Of course, she also knows that if she decides to eat later we can always pull out leftovers.

I just wonder how long it will be until she is joining me for my midnight snacks...

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2011-11-06T10:41:00.002-07:00

If you visited my blog in the past four days you may have noticed a theme. Or actually, several different themes. That's right, the changing of the seasons inspired me to do a little blog sprucing up. Since I have no html skills, and no web designer friends, that meant trawling the Interwebs for a blog template. Now, I like to think I have seen a lot of blogs, and that I know what bloggers like in a look. However, I must have been wrong, because blog template designers think they like crap. Really, if I saw one more misty, swirly, kind of disco, but with a Precious Moments touch template I was going to throw my laptop out the window.

I thought about making a bug change and adding a little more color, a little more whimsy, but in the end decided I wanted people to actually recognize the place. If you stumbled onto one of the "whimsical" try outs I am sure it was like walking into a bar, only to be greeted by a florist. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.

So, I hope you like the new look. If you don't, just wait until the spring...

How to Deal with Crazy

2011-11-03T16:03:00.010-06:00

I like to think I have experience with crazy. After all, I've been living with it for more than half my life. At times I have truly believed my biggest accomplishment is not letting anxiety and depression crush me into a cube like a cosmic garbage compactor.

Since I have had to live with crazy pretty much anyone who has wanted to be even a semi-permanent part of my life has had to deal with it too. I known people who have dealt with it well. I have known with people who couldn't deal with it at all. The best ones, though, are the ones who don't deal with it at all, but deal with me instead and help me come through it as unscathed as possible.

So, how does one do that, should one encounter someone suffering from crazy? After years and years of research I think I have come up with a short list that may help...

1. Never assume it is about you. It isn't. It's crazy. Even if the person in question is going on and on about how their life sucks, and you are a big part of that life, it STILL has nothing to do with you. Trying to determine what role you play in causing the crazy, or how it is affecting your relationship is for later, not in the moment. In the moment it will just make the crazy person crazier because they will assume they have hurt your feelings, or that you hate them. Both are rocket fuel for crazy.

2. Don't try to force them to stop being crazy. If they could stop the crazy, they would. Telling them are being embarrassing, or unreasonable, or ridiculous, or that they just need to "knock it off" will just reinforce the thoughts they are already having, and prolong the crazy.

3. If you are worried about saying the wrong thing, don't say anything. You never know what a person in the middle of crazy is going to take the wrong way. Sometimes just being there, and letting them know you aren't leaving is the best thing you can do.

4. Let them cry. Sometimes it is the best thing to wash all the crazy away.

5. Let them know you still see them through the crazy. This is the big one, and the best way to make crazy go away fast. Let them know, in any way you can, that this is temporary, that it is something they are dealing with, and not who they are.

There are other little things to do, like making sure they have taken their meds, telling stupid jokes, eating carbs, and making sure they are cool with the term "crazy" before using it (I, myself, have embraced it), but those are the big five.

Oh, and when all else fails, remember, this is someone you care for, crazy or not. Fall back on that to guide your actions, and everything should be okay.

An Open Letter to Disney (Costume Division)

2011-10-24T16:51:00.008-06:00

Dear Disney,

Please stop making your costumes so poorly.

Yes, yes, I know, they are "costumes" and only really supposed to stay together for one or two wearings, three at the most. However, I also know they are designed for children, and you should know that when a child likes something they usually REALLY like it.

Take, for example, my daughter Meg. It was just over two weeks that her grandmother bought her a Princess Tiana costume at Costco. Since that time it has rarely left her body. She has eaten in. She has slept in it. She has played in it. She has twirled in it. Oh, you would not believe the twirling. I have to give it to you that you make dresses that twirl well. They just slowly unravel during said twirls.

It's not like this garment has been treated poorly. I mean, other than the regular toddler wear and tear. Both my Mom and I have carefully hand washed it, treating the fabric (which is apparently made from tissue paper's weaker cousin) like it was spun gold. Despite that the fabric seems hell bent on disintegrating. And in the areas where the fabric is holding fast? The seams are giving up the ghost. Did Cinderella teach you nothing about tying off a knot at the end of stitches?

I won't even go into the fact that no self respecting princess would wear a broach with her own picture on it -- after all, this letter is about quality issues, not common sense. I will just say this: do you really think any little girl wouldn't know which princess dress she was wearing? Do you doubt the effectiveness of your brainwashing that much?

I don't even care if you charge more for the costume. Maybe you could make two different versions, the cheap one time junky costume, and the "you can wear this like clothes" version. I'm sure there are some weird adults who would appreciate it too.

Really, think of the children. Or at least, think of my child. My strange, princess dressed child.

Thanks,

Libby

P.S. I am really not thrilled about your treatment of Moms in movies. The ones who are dead actually come out the best. That's another letter though...

Maybe She's Born With It? Nah.

2011-10-18T17:30:00.007-06:00

I am not a fan of makeup. I don't like the way it feels on my face. I don't really know how to put it on. I don't think I look better with it. Oh, and I am allergic to most of it.

I've tried to like makeup, or at least tolerate it. Every three years, like clockwork, I convince myself cosmetic technology has advanced enough that I can put together an easy makeup routine that won't cause my skin to bubble and peel, or turn into an oil slick. I talk Tara or one of my sisters into taking me out and we buy a full set of whatever the latest and greatest is to replace the previous latest and greatest that has congealed, dehydrated, and broken in my bathroom drawer. Then I take the new stuff home, wear it once, hate it, and put it in the drawer to congeal, dehydrate, and break.

I might be pulling it out again though. The New York Times says I should.

Yep, that's right, according to the Times I may not appear as "competent" as my peers because I do not paint my face.

And I thought my incompetence was what actually was doing it.

Kidding.

When I first read the article I was, understandably, a little ticked. I pulled out my Helen Reddy 8-track and railed against the unfairness of the world. I wanted to pledge not only not to wear makeup, but to stop waxing my upper lip, and wearing deodorant. I was thisclose to buying one of those "anti smell crystals" the hippies love when I had another thought.

I do other things to make me look competent at work, that have nothing to do with how I do my job.

I wear nice, stain free clothes.

I make sure my fingernails are clean, and my hair is brushed.

I keep my desk neat, and display pictures of an adorable child.

None of these things should influence if people view me as competent, but they do. They let them know I am a functioning adult who understands how to behave in society, and who wants to working.

So how would a little lip gloss be any different?

I'm giving it a week, just to see if I notice any changes.

Oh, and I am not wearing foundation. I don't care if it makes me look like the Mayor of competent town. There are some things I just won't do.

Wish me luck.

At Least Her Breath is Fresh

2011-10-16T17:10:00.002-06:00

Meg is obsessed with Tic Tacs.

She loves the taste of them (as long as they aren't the white mint; she says those are "spicy").

She loves the way they crunch under her tiny teeth and color her tongue any number of neon shades.

She even loves the way they rattle in the box -- a sound kinds like a hard shelled insect -- letting her know she is just seconds from her favorite one and a half calorie treat.

I have taken stocking several boxes of Tic Tacs in my purse for Meg related incidents. A long line at the grocery store? Tic Tacs. Driving and don't want her to fall asleep? Tic Tacs. Her haircut? Brought to you by the letter T for Tic and/or Tac. Honestly, I now buy them three packs at a time, which I'm sure leaves the checkers wondering if I am a closet smoker or habitually twitchy.

Of course, Meg wants Tic Tacs outside of Megerencies. She wants them ALL THE TIME. Because she knows I am not gving out Tic Tacs willy nilly she has gotten tricky in her tactics. She'll make a blanket statement like "I need something in your purse" as she digs though, pretending she wants to balance the checkbook while scanning for her true desire. Once she saw me looking at the ingredients on the back of the box and I told her what I was doing. Now, sometimes she will ask to see the Tic Tacs to "see what's in there."

Thank God I didn't try bribing her with Snickers. She'd be 100 pounds.

I wonder if there is such a thing as breath mints anonymous. Oh, and if they take toddlers.

One Track Meg

2011-10-10T18:38:00.006-06:00

You may have noticed I haven't been blogging all that much lately.

It isn't that I haven't had anything to say. It isn't that things haven't been going on in my life that are funny, or interesting, or scream BLOGWORTHY. It's just that all of those things center around one topic, the topic that currently rules my life: Meg.

It's not that I dislike telling stories about Meg. Ask anyone who works with me, or is friends with me, or runs into me in the wine store, and they will tell you that it is impossible to say hello, or excuse me, or will you move your cart it's blocking the chardonnay, without hearing at least three Meg tales. And it's not that I think you don't like hearing about Meg, I know you do. I know that every last one of you waits with eager anticipation for the next story about the most perfect child in the world. RIGHT? Of course right.

I could fill pages right now with stories about my life with Meg. About how I love talking to her, and laughing with her, and singing along to "Bohemian Rhapsody" with her. About how I love butting heads with her over things like whether or not she can wear a necklace to bed, and just how many tic tacs she can have in one sitting. About how I love that when she says she wants "something" I can usually ascertain what it is immediately just by how she says it.

However, in order to do that I would have to admit to the world that my life is now controlled by a two year old.

That just seems so ordinary.

I mean, there are at least 50 blogs I think of right now where you can get that. I'm sure there are millions more too. They are, for the most part, very good blogs. They just aren't ever what I thought this blog would be. What I wanted it to be. What it is now.

I hope to get back to the other parts of myself. The die hard liberal (hi, George!). The diet challenged wanna be foodie who just can't pass up Kraft mac and cheese. The sarcastic cynic who wants to scream when she sees the current state of society (Courtney Stodden, what, not who the fuck is that?).

Until then though, I hope you all stick around. Oh, and that you really like pictures of an overlord disguised as a toddler.

Damn she's cute.

What Happens When You Spend Most of Your Time With a 2-Year Old

2011-09-28T17:10:00.007-06:00

I had a conversation last night about Mary Poppins nipples.

No, it wasn't with my husband. Or Tara -- although that really wouldn't shock me too much. It was with the household's resident expert on Poppins, who is also fast becoming the resident expert on body parts: Meg.

She was getting out of the tub, pointing out every wonderful part of herself when she noticed she has nipples. I agreed, yes those are nipples. She then asked if I had them, and I told her yes. We then went through a list of all the people who likely have nipples: Daddy, Grandma, Grandpa, Lucas. Each time I assured her none of them are bare chested.

And then she asked about Mary Poppins.

Just off hand I told Meg that of course Mary Poppins has nipples. Really, though, thinking about it now, I'm not sure. She definitely has breasts, or at least something that makes her chest stick out in a breast like way. Of course, she also has a carpet bag that can hold a plant, so maybe she's just smuggling fruit in there. Of course, even if she is just carrying around apples in her bra and is totally flat chested that doesn't rule out the possibility of nipples.

She's practically perfect in every way, which would suggest she isn't missing any of the normal body parts. However, the "practically" could also mean she's a nippleless wonder. That would explain why she never stays anywhere very long, lest someone walk in on her in the shower and discover her secret. Also, since she can fly wouldn't it be best to have as little extra weight as possible? Nipples must weigh at LEAST four ounces that could be jettisoned.

Maybe though, she actually NEEDS them to fly. Left one calculates wind speed, while the right one navigates. After all, if Poppins has magic in her fingertips that can pick up toys, her nipples have to be able to do something spectacular. I'm not magic at all and my nipples can at least get my husband to do the dishes.

Yeah. I can't believe I'm thinking about this either. Out loud. On the Internet.

I really hope Mary Poppins isn't reading this post. She probably wouldn't like it, and I really don't want her to come to my house and hit me with her parrot umbrella after calling me "cheeky."

Bert would probably love it though. He's probably the only person who really knows the answer to the mystery of Mary's nipples.

It will be a long time before I explain that to Meg though.

A long, long time.

Maybe never.

Not a Paid Endorsement

2011-09-19T17:24:00.002-06:00

If you have a child, and that child has a nose, chances are right now, or in the very near future, you will be dealing with snot.

Sorry. There's no way to sugar coat it.

Cold season is coming, or in our case, is already here. Meg's nose started running Saturday afternoon and by yesterday had turned into a full on faucet. I'm home with her today because she didn't sleep at all last night, waking up every hour to cough or just breathe, despite the Vicks Vaporub we smeared all over.

The one saving grace in all of this? Boogie Wipes.

Really, these things are magic. They say they are just saline and vitamin E, but there has to be some magic in there too. They probably just can't put it on the label because of the FDA.

My Mom found Boogie Wipes last year when Meg was in the throws of last year's cold season. At first I was not so sure. Actually, I was bitchy. I figured my Mom had been suckered by a nice package with a catchy name when a wet paper towel or a baby wipe could do the same thing.

I was wrong. The fact these wipes are so great though actually makes me okay with admitting it.

All Moms know the super crusty, after nap, so gross you want to run face. There were times when I saw it on Meg I thought the only answer was alcohol. Not to get the snot off, but just so I could look at her. Boogie wipes made short work of it.

Oh, and not only do they clean off the snot horror? They do it without leaving the dried chapped skin horror behind. I think we all know what baby wipes can do to a baby face. There was a point last winter when I really worried Meg would actually be scared for life. That was before Boogie Wipes.

And no, I am not being paid by Boogie Wipes. Really though, I 'm flattered you think that many people read my blog. I just figure I found something that works, so I would share -- even if it has a stupid name.

Really, you'll thank me. And if not you, your kids.

You know, the ones with the noses.

Where is She?

2011-09-18T16:35:00.009-06:00

I have a list of questions in the back of my head at all times. I call it my "St. Peter Questions."

These are the questions I would like answered in the event of my death, if heaven actually exists and I actually end up there. Most of them are garden variety: what is the meaning of life, what kind of joke is giving me non-functioning reproductive parts in a world where Duggars exist, and is there any way "Jurassic Park" could be scientifically accurate. Not surprisingly, there are also questions on the list that have to do with news; after all, I've been practically breathing it for 20 years. Deep throat's identity used to be on the list, until he outed

himself. What happened to Elizabeth Smart used to be on the list, what happened to Jon Benet Ramsey still is.

And then there is a question of Susan Powell.

For those of you not in Utah, or who don't have to watch the Today Show (lucky), Susan Powell disappeared from her home almost two years ago without a trace. The consensus is that that her husband killed her and buried her somewhere in the desert where he claimed he was "camping" at the time of her December 2009 disappearance. Of course, if that is the case, the mob might want to hire him because apparently he is a criminal mastermind. Cops have combed his house, and his car, and his father's house, and everywhere else they can think of and have turned up NOTHING. Oh, and we know they have found nothing because every time the police are about to find is they have called the media.

In the past month they have led three media goose chases, making sure camera were there when they went into caves, or dug in fields, or took items of out homes. So far, the biggest discovery has been some burned wood and a spot where cadaver dogs think they smell human remains. Either that or burned hot dogs someone buried after a camp fire. Dogs do like tube meat.

I will give you a dollar if you know where she is.

I really hope to take Susan off of my SPQ list soon. Not just because I'm worried I won't have time to ask St. Peter all my questions if she stays on the list either. Also, not because I feel like I should apologize to my viewers when I tell them we will bring them something new in the Susan Powell case and then report on burned wood. The reason I hope it comes off my list is because I am sure her family would also like the questions about her disappearance answered, and most likely before they are dead. Probably even more than the "Jurassic Park" question.

I said probably.

I mean, that is a really good question.

People Who Need People

2011-09-14T18:10:00.006-06:00

So, this is where I normally would tell you where I have been lately besides here. I would pretend I had been in jail, or fighting for the Missoni line at Target and you would all laugh and hopefully click the links.

This week though, there are people who need your love more than I do.

First of all, Heather, previously of HeathertyFeatherty fame, and now, unbelievably, of Talking to Neil. It's a story I can't even begin to tell, and don't feel it is my right to, so hop over there and check it out. Also, Erin of Musings of a Madwoman and Tired and Stuck would probably appreciate some support too. Or maybe some vodka. Take your pick.

If you do want to find me, I am at Tired and Stuck talking about a doctor that blows, and at Sprocket Ink talking about a presidential candidate that does as well. Surprisingly, they are not the same person.

Oh, and as always, get back here tomorrow. I'm making cookies.

Play Don't

2011-09-14T18:08:00.006-06:00

Dear God, I hate Play Dough.

Oh, I'm sorry, I meant Play-Doh. See, the way it's spelled is even annoying.

It doesn't matter how thorough I think I am cleaning it up. I can dab at the table, floor and play mat with rages, and sweep the floor thoroughly with a broom and vacuum. I will still find small, crumbly, petrified pieces of it everywhere. And those pieces are always the strange grayish

purple of used gum. It's the color all Play-Doh eventually turns after it has been smushed in with the other colors, which is unavoidable unless you're only interested in building monochromatic sculptures.

That's right, any time you try to put two colors of Play-Doh together, no matter how softly you do it, they will cling together as if holding on for dear life, until you finally just decide to combine them, hoping to get a cool color, but just getting some shade of that gray. It's like the color wheel is thrown out the window when it comes to Play-Doh. Blue and yellow? Gray. Red

and blue? Gray. Red and yellow? Orange, but only because the orange of Play-Doh is almost as bad as the gray.

Play-Doh doesn't just attract other Play-Doh either. It also attracts dog hair, dust, food, lint, and anything else that can give it a texture that can only be described as "crunch

y." You could be playing with it in a clean room, in a sterile suit (I know, that doesn't sound like much fun, but I'm trying to make a point) and SOMETHING would end up in the Play-Doh.

Oh, and things don't just stick it Play-Doh, it sticks to things, especially people. Touch it for a moment and it will coat your hands with a salty film. Play with it for longer than that and you will need a shower. The stuff that comes off in the shower? It will immediately become that gray gum dust I talked about earlier. Guaranteed.

You know the worst thing about Play-Doh, though? Kids love it, especially mine.

Damn.

I guess I am just going to have to put up with it.

After all, I think I even loved it as a kid. Actually, I know I did.

I loved molding it, and squishing it, and at times eating it. After all, there's nothing like that chemically salt taste to cap off an afternoon snack. I had a bunch of the little play sets that allowed me to feel like a sculptor when all I had really done was push clay through a sieve. It was the best sense of accomplishment a non-artistic child could feel.

I wonder if my Mom felt the same way about it I do now.

Maybe I should check the corners of her house for the remaining Play-Doh dust to make sure she isn't carrying a grudge.

And in the end...

2011-09-11T16:33:00.008-06:00

Warning: this post gets sappy.

In the past week I have been to a funeral and a wedding. I can't really decide which one I preferred.

The wedding, of course, should be the clear winner. It had a bar and dancing. The only tears that were shed were tears of joy. They gave out favors, took pictures, and served fancy cake. It was a party.

There was little party atmosphere at the funeral. Sure, there was food. Lots of it, all very carby, and fattening. There wasn't a bar though, and definitely no dancing. There was lots of crying, but most of it was that ugly crying with shaking shoulders, hiccuping, and running noses. No favors were handed out. No pictures were taken. The cake wasn't very good, and it was from the grocery store.

For all the differences though, both had one thing is common: they were both about love. I think the funeral even more so than the wedding.

No, I am not saying that the bride and groom don't love each other. I'm sure they do. However, I don't think it can yet compare to the love I saw at the funeral. The love my uncle had for my aunt, that led him to nurse her through five years of cancer. The love her family and friends have to support her husband and sons now that she is gone, the same way they supported them through her illness. The love everyone in the church had for those around them, realizing that in just a second, the most important things in your life can be taken away, and how they should be treasured at all times, even after they are gone. There was so much love there it had me thinking about it all week, and now has me writing this post.

I hope we are all lucky enough to have love like that in our lives. Oh, and that we are smart enough to recognize and cherish it.

See, I told you. Sappy.

Meg and Mary

2011-09-08T16:38:00.007-06:00

My child is in love with Mary. Last weekend we went to see "Mary Poppins: the Musical" and she has been smitten ever since.

Oh, except she does call her "Harry Poppins." I'm not going to split hairs though.

Do you love the pearls? She wanted to "dress up."

I really didn't think Meg would even make it through the first act. I had packed my purse with all kinds of books, and crayons, and snacks, and such to try and lengthen the time she would sit in the chair, and figured we would wander the lobby until the show was over when all of that got old.

I hardly had to use any of it. That is how much she loved this show.

Of course, I got out the gummy bears, but mainly because I wanted some. The books though? No interest. Meg was too busy looking down at the picture on the front of her program and then back up at the stage in wonder. The crayons? There were too many colors on the stage to worry about Crayolas.

Every song had Meg bouncing about in her seat like a jack in the box. And at the end of them? She clapped with all of her two year old might. I know she wasn't just clapping or pretending to

listen too, because ever since the show she has been singing the songs non-stop. No, really, I was forced to download the album from iTunes. I am now going Supercalfragacrazy. I kinda miss DJ Lance Rock. Kinda.

Really though, I would do it all again. The look on Meg's face was the best sort of magic. Eyes wide, mouth trying to sing along, body tense to see what happens next. I loved it all.

Well, maybe I wouldn't do it all again.

After all, Ryan hasn't seen it yet.

The Bed

2011-09-05T20:08:00.006-06:00

My family is bed bound.

We didn't mean to become this way. We are all healthy and able bodied. None of us have "the vapors" or some other 19th century mental illness. None of us are depressed. Little by little though, we've all come to congregate on the bed.

We used to all spend time together in the living room. You know, because it's where we lived. We would hang out with Meg reading books and playing with toys, and then Ryan and I would sit on the couch to catch up on the "Daily Show" or just talk.

This summer changed many things though. All of Meg's books and toys got moved into her room when I redid it. We got an iPad and discovered the joys of movies and shows on demand on Netflix. We got rid of cable. And we figured out the bed is a better place for all of us for cuddle when watching a show or reading a book. Oh, and it is much easier to keep track of puzzle pieces and toys with small pieces in a smaller space (it's a queen). Even if we can't find it at the end of play time Ryan or I will find it with our feet or backs when we go to sleep.

So, here we are. It's quite cozy. There's even room for Sally and the cats. They have to be on the floor in the living room.

I still go into the living room sometimes. Mostly to assess the dog hair on the sofa and blow the dust off the mantle. Or when I finish a book and need a new one. Then I take that book and read it in bed.

I think the living room actually prefers to be empty. I mean, if rooms can have preferences. It looks better than it has in years, despite the neglect. It's all about putting on appearances for people entering the house.

The bedroom, though? It's all about the party. Oh, and the cuddling. Lots and lots of cuddling.

Groundbreaking Post

2011-08-25T18:32:00.006-06:00

I hate the "I have nothing to say" blog posts.*

Don't you?

After all, if you have nothing to say, why are you saying something?

I mean, besides the fact that it's the American way.

If nothing else, when nothing else is working, can't they make up some fantastical story? Maybe something with snakes and a plane? Or a small man with big feet who has a magic ring? Perhaps a tale about a unicorn -- no, wait -- the LAST unicorn! I would rather read all of those.

Oh, and what about when they try to make up for the lack of substance with cute pictures?

Oooh! That reminds me! Look at this new pic of Meg!

OMG, she really needs to shave...

KIDDING! The moustache is fake. GOTCHA!

Don't even get me started about how they try to make it seem like they are showing you something new, but then pull out a video that has been EVERYWHERE that week.

Ladies and Gentlemen, THE MUPPETS!

Of course, there are those who try to "meta blog" about it. Those are the WORST! Trying to be all Smarty McSmartpants when really they are Nothing VanNadatosay.

Yeah, I hate those posts.

*This is one of those posts.

I'm a Bad Mom -- Like Everyone Else

2011-08-21T16:30:00.007-06:00

I can be a pretty judgmental person.

No, really, I can.

For instance, I never used to believe parents when they said they "just stepped away for a minute" when their kid got hurt. I figured it was just something they were saying to make themselves feel better, and not look like a horrible parents to other people. I not only thought they were horrible parents, but liars too.

I probably owe them all an apology now.

Friday night Meg fell out of the bathroom sink and onto the floor, giving her head a pretty good smack. At the time of her fall I was standing three feet away, and had turned my back on her for a total of six seconds. How do I know it was exactly six seconds? Because I walked it seven times after we were finally able to put her to sleep to see just how negligent a parent I was. The answer was six seconds worth.

I will never hear a worse sound in my life than the sound of Meg's head hitting that floor. Or at least I hope I never hear anything worse, because I don't think I could take it. That's how bad this sound was. The look on her face was also pretty bad. She didn't cry right away, and the look was just one of total shock and pain.

Ryan and I were both on her instantly like a rash, both trying to do the best we could to stay calm, and make sure she was okay. Ryan did a much better job of it than I did. He was holding her and rubbing her head, making her look back and forth to assess her pupils while I ran to the kitchen to get ice, frantically looked up the symptoms of a concussion on the Internet, and tried to call our friend Andrew to get medical advice (don't worry, he's a doctor). Oh, and the whole time I was crying.

Andrew finally (after like 45 seconds) called back and told us that if Meg hadn't lost consciousness, didn't seem to be nauseous, was acting normal, and had pupils of the same size, she was likely okay. He said to ice her head, keep her awake for an hour to make sure she wouldn't start throwing up or passing out, and let her sleep with us so we could monitor her breathing.

That's what we did. We watched two "Yo Gabba Gabba" episodes while holding frozen peas to Meg's head. Then she and Ryan fell asleep while I listened to her breathing and pictured all the horrible things that could have happened because of my bad parenting.

I finally started to forgive myself about 6 Saturday evening, after watching Meg eat three meals without throwing up, quizzing her relentlessly on everything she has ever learned to make sure there was no brain damage, and sitting next to her bed through two naps.

Well, at least most of me is forgiving myself. The judgmental part is still pretty pissed.

I really hate that part sometimes.

An Open Letter to the Gosselin 8*

2011-08-17T19:28:00.006-06:00

Hey Buddies!

How are ya? Okay? I know things aren't great right now. Do y'all want some otter pops?

Is that better? Try not to spill them on your shirts. Now that you aren't on TV you're gonna have to make those clothes last longer. After all, who do you think is going to wash them for you now that the PAs are gone -- your Mom?

See, I knew I could get you to laugh.

I know this whole "cancellation" thing has got to be hard on you. I'm sure camera crews and Teamsters are really the only parents you've ever known. Well, sure, there's your real parents, but let's not even go there. I mean, you're still children, and I really shouldn't swear around you.

I think the hardest part of this all though is the fact that now you all need to find jobs. Yeah, you do. Don't argue. No excuses. None of that "but we're children" crap. Your Mother and Father are accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and they are accustomed to you providing it. If you let them down now what kind of children are you? I'll tell you: not very good ones.

Ultimate fighting, maybe? Nah, Joel looks like a bleeder...

Okay, so we know we need to eliminate any job that requires you to be cute. After all, if you were still cute TLC wouldn't have booted you. We actually should forget any job TLC related unless any of you are old enough to get pregnant and not know it, or if you have any weird habits. Alexis, if you start eating your hair at a rate that it forms a giant ball in your stomach they might want to talk to you.

Maybe we could find something that requires tiny hands. Any of you interested in rug looming or jewelry making? What about pipe snaking or mine canarying? I know, I know, some of these sound dangerous, but really, can they be any worse than what you have been put through? And don't you owe it to your Mom? After all, she went on "Dancing with the Stars" for you and almost killed a man with her yelling. That's how much she loves herse -- I mean, you.

WAIT! I GOT IT! There are just enough of you to form a mangy, rag tag gang of dodgers, like in "Oliver." You might need your Mom for this one though. She can stand somewhere with a sign that says "formerly famous" and unwitting tourists can stop to take pictures. Then, when they aren't expecting it, you can swarm them like locusts and strip them of their fanny packs and digital cameras. You need to jump on this opportunity quickly though. You are entering the teenage years and soon will be seen as just another gang. Then you'll just have to wait until you're all old enough to be on "Celebrity Rehab" to make a decent living. And you KNOW that won't make your Mom happy.

I guess there is another route, but it's kind of crazy. Your Mom could put all the money she has made off you in a trust fund and start parenting. Then you could go to college and find real careers you love, and become your own people.

I know, crazy.

So, I guess you just need to remember that most tourists have a low center of gravity and will stop fighting if you yell "look, corn dog samples." I know I always do.

Best of luck,

Libby

*For my friend Sam

I Need to Move to Antarctica

2011-08-16T17:47:00.006-06:00

I am pretty sure I am melting. That is the only way to explain it. Utah is not humid enough for me to be sweating this much. Or at least it isn't supposed to be. Maybe I should blame global dampening.

Anyhoo, before I electrocute myself by touching my computer with wet hands I thought I would let you know where you can find me on the Interwebs today. Over at Sprocket Ink I have a piece about how you can rent friends, and they won't even care much you sweat. And at Tired and Stuck I wrote about going back to the pill container in the name of my uterus.

Come back tomorrow though. I'm sure I will have something witty to say. I mean, unless I melt.

Now, if you'll excuse me, Meg and I are going to lie on the lawn and eat popsicles under the sprinkler.

The Angriest Place on Earth

2011-08-11T08:22:00.000-06:00

The DMV truly is hell's waiting room.

Today, I went there to get my driver's license renewed, and spent a total of 27 minutes inside. During that time I witnessed seven fights, two of which almost got physical. And all but one of them were started by a DMV worker.

Let's just start with the fact that getting your driver's license renewed in Utah has become an epic task. They now have so many requirements it is unlikely that you will be able to get your license in just one visit. Every time you miss one of these requirements? There is a DMV worker standing there willing to tell you you have to start the whole process over again. And they are willing to tell it to you in a way that blends smug and nasty into a perfect evil cocktail.

Didn't print out your appointment confirmation sheet? You don't have an appointment.

Don't have your application completely filled out? I can't help you.

Don't have your birth certificate AND social security card AND passport? Don't argue sir, I'm just following the rules.

Don't have not one but two pieces of mail delivered to your home in the past month from an official source bearing your full name? You are just wasting your time.

Didn't find the hen's teeth and a four leaf clover on the scavenger hunt? You really shouldn't be driving any way.

Yes, those are all real responses I heard. Well, almost all of them.

Surprisingly, me, the person who regularly leaves my keys/wallet/sunglasses/baby behind managed to have all the things I needed to complete the process. I felt like I had completed an epic quest as I walked up to the desk for the final paperwork.

The guy helping me was not impressed. In fact, me having all my paperwork in order seemed to make him even angrier. My attempts to smile at him were met with glares, and the two times I asked questions (one being "how are you") he stopped everything he was doing to just stare at me as if I had just asked if I could pound nails through his hand.

When I left I told him to "have a nice day." His response? "It's unlikely, but I appreciate the sentiment."

Yeah.

I think my new driver's license picture sums up my experience.

This is temporary. The real one will be in Technicolor.

Actually, that's not a bad one. The lady next to me actually had fire coming out of her eyes.

Unfortunately that's against the rules, so she has to go back next week...

Room Improvement

2011-07-24T19:24:00.005-06:00

I have spent the last week turning Meg's room from a baby's room into a toddler's room. When I first started the project last Monday I thought it would only take me a couple of days. After all, I wasn't painting any of the walls, and I only had to put together one new piece of furniture.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Things I Learned While Re-Doing Meg's Room

1. Carpet hides a multitude of sins. Nope, not just bad wood or paint. In some cases, as I learned, carpet can be used to fill in gaps between the wall and the floor. Behold, our portal to hell, er, the basement:

For a second I was thinking I would just knock a little more out and put in a laundry chute, but Ryan convinced me it would probably be better to have it fixed instead. He's so fancy.

2. There is no such thing as "just refinishing a floor." Refinishing a floor is a brutal endeavor that tries a person's soul and destroys their faith in humanity -- especially if they have to deal with carpet staples. I had to pull up about a million of them. There were so many I actually considered calling the guy who sold us the house and suggesting he get on medication for OCD.

3. It is possible to punch yourself in the face. Once again with the carpet staples. I was pulling them out with a pair of needle nose pliers and one just wouldn't budge. So, I pulled harder, and harder -- and hit myself in the jaw. Up until that point I was sure I was a weakling, but damn, I can pack a wallop. I'm not starting a fight with myself any time soon.

4. Wet paint is a magnet for cats and toddlers. It does not matter how many doors are closed, or gates are set up, toddlers and cats will reach the wet paint and get into it. Oh, and if it is on the floor (as this was), they will then track it through the rest of the house.

5. IKEA is Swedish for "frustrating." That is the only way to explain the fact they expect you to build an entire bookcase with just your bare hands and a mutant allen wrench. Oh, and little wooden pegs. Let's not forget those.

6. There is always something more to do. Meg's room looks great now. It's a room she can play in and access all of the things she needs with ease, and without the possibility of hurting herself. Her bed is toddler ready, and the carpet that apparently had been used as a litter box by our old cat is no more. However, now all I can see are the walls that badly need to be re-plastered and painted, and the carpet in the other bedroom that needs to be replaced. Also, we should probably redo the hardwood floors in the front of the house.

Maybe we should just move.

Nah, Meg would miss her room too much. And packing would DEFINITELY take longer than just a week.

Two Years

2011-07-10T18:49:00.005-06:00

I don't know why they call this age terrible.

I mean, yes, Meg now has learned to throw fits, and has developed a scream that makes even banshees plug their ears and say "what was that noise." However, she hardly ever employs either. It's like, even at this young age, she knows you can get better results with sweetness than with shrieking. To that end when she wants to get out of her crib, or down from her chair, instead of demanding she simply looks at Ryan or me and says "I want to hold you." How can we resist that? Of course, the minute she's lifted down, it's just a quick "thanks, chump" squeeze, and then she's on her way. All we can do is chase after her and listen to her laugh.

Meg is now ridiculously verbal, to the point people think we're lying when we say she's just two. Full sentences just fall out her mouth now. It's not just mimicking either, because she uses them in proper context. Last night when Ryan was running her bath she came in, looked at the water, and said "Thank you so much. That's great." That's my pattern of speech, but she's adopted it as her own. The funniest moments though are when we are out at a restaurant. When the waitress asks how things are she always says "great, just great" -- which is what Ryan always says. When the bill comes she says "I'll get it." And then, when the credit slip comes she says "I'll sign it and we can go." One day we actually should make her pay.

Music is now a HUGE part of Meg's life. Any time we are in the car she says "I wanna listen to music." Not just any music though -- either hip hop, or They Might Be Giants. Oh, or Weird Al, thanks to her cousin. I guess I should just consider myself lucky it's not Justin Bieber.

Meg's eating habits are really the only thing "terrible" about her right now. There will be days when she eats so little I think she's protesting for India's independence. Then there are days she will only eat fruit, or goldfish crackers, or olives, or drink milk. Everything else gets pushed aside or dumped on the floor to the waiting dog.

Oh, she will always eat candy though. The other morning, right after she woke up she looked at me and said "I like candy." I guess she had been dreaming about it.

How we love our girl.

Whither Twitter?

2011-07-05T18:51:00.000-06:00

Can you picture yourself tweeting when you are 90 years old?

What about fifty?

What about five years from now?

Really, how long will the average normal person use Twitter? Until death? Until Ashton Kutcher's death?

Don't get me wrong, I like Twitter. I like seeing opinions from around the world, and knowing that a global community is at my fingertips. I like getting to know people I never would have known otherwise, and learning from them. I like feeling like I can tap into humanity at any time, day or night. I like all of that. I just don't know how I, or anyone for that matter, can sustain it.

I don't know what would make me stop though. Trolls? Dealt with them. Spam? Blocked them. Unwanted attention? I'm sorry, I'm not sure what that phrase means. Something bigger, better and cooler? Possibly.

Really though, I think there will just be a time when I tire of it. Maybe it will be because of ads. Or because of time constraints. Or because there are just too damn many kids on it.

Or maybe I'll just feel I've said all I have to say.

Oh, yeah, right. Like THAT will ever happen.

He Loves Libby

2011-06-28T23:32:00.002-06:00

Tonight I get to stay up late. No show tomorrow because of Wimbledon. I discovered that "I Love Lucy" is showing on one of the public T.V. channels. Two hours of shows. Ryan decided to go to bed.

"You don't want to watch 'I Love Lucy'" I called.

"If I want to watch it I just look at the pillow next to mine."

I love Ryan.

Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word

2011-06-27T17:50:00.001-06:00

Okay, so I think we all agree that the incident on Friday was most likely about racism.

Only one problem though. I can almost guarantee the man who thought he was being asked for money instead the time does not think of himself as a racist. I bet his friends don't think of him as a racist. I wouldn't be surprised if he spent the rest of his night trying to convince himself that the way he responded wasn't based on race, and that it was all just a misunderstanding. He probably reminded himself that he has plenty of friends of color.

That's the problem.

You can't start making changes until you admit there are changes to be made.

I've thought a lot about what I wish had happened Friday night. I mean, other than it not happening at all. The best case scenario? It would have ended with an apology. It would have ended with an acknowledgment of what happened, and a new resolve not to let it happen again.

That would have been uncomfortable though.

It would have required an admission that racism still exists, even among people who don't consider themselves racist.

And no one really wants to do that, do they?

The Time

2011-06-26T19:22:00.005-06:00

Friday night Ryan and I decided to go to the big annual arts festival in downtown Salt Lake. There were TONS of people there, and all over the surrounding streets. On one corner, right across from the festival, obviously waiting to be picked up, were a man, a woman, and three small children. Two of the kids were playing/fighting, and the third, a baby, was obviously getting fussy and didn't want to be put back in the stroller. I could see the frustration on the parents faces, and as we approached the father asked a man who was passing if he had the time.

Wait, I mean he tried to ask the man if he had the time. Before he got two words out the man said "no thank you, I can't help" and tried to hurry his wife along. The father's jaw dropped. My jaw dropped. Ryan looked at his watch and said "6:30." The man turned back around and started to give the time, but the father just looked at him and said "I don't need it from you."

Oh, I probably should have mentioned the family was black.

Thoughts?

I have some, but I really want to hear what you think first.

Multiplying

2011-06-19T20:39:00.004-06:00

The children next door are multiplying.

No, I don't mean that way. Gross. They're kids. This isn't an "After School Special."

I've already told you about Liza. She has two older brothers. So, when they moved in we were glad to learn about the family of five. The little family of five.

Then the two nephews moved in. One came because he wants to play football at the high school. The other obviously is trying to clean up his act and needs his uncle (who is a pretty imposing man) to help him out. Okay, so a family of seven. Still small by Utah standards. We could handle it. And only two of the kids were little, right? The rest are teenagers and young adults trying the best they can to be mature and responsible.

This weekend, the mother's daughter from her first marriage moved in -- with her two kids. So, now we have the parents, a young female adult, a young male adult, two teenage boys, a pre-teen boy, a six year old girl, a four year old girl, and a five month old baby living next door.

I am expecting a partridge in a pear tree to show up any day.

So far we haven't had any real problems. Ryan is getting the worst of it as the two little girls (Liza and the even chattier Channa) have decided to "keep him company" while he works in the yard. I don't think it helps that they know he likes to eat popsicles to cool off. And if Ryan isn't enough of a draw they have practically formed a fan club for our cat Olive. It's only been two days and I have already told them both at least a dozen times hissing does not mean happiness.

Meg is loving all the action. Every time we go outside now there is someone in the yard, and she happily shouts "kids." She used to shout "Liza" at all of them, but when they would correct her it got confusing, so now she just stays generic.

I just hope there aren't more coming. And that the parents don't feed any of them after midnight.

That's when it will really get ugly.

Stuck in the Mud

2011-06-15T17:14:00.003-06:00

I am in landscaping hell. No, really, I am. Check it out.

Yeah, so you will forgive me if I don't feel like a full post here today. I am other places though. Over at Sprocket Ink I've written about how I really want Samuel L. Jackson to tell me to "Go the Fuck to Sleep" (no, not like that, sicko). Oh, and at Tired and Stuck I am revealing how trying to make my body do what I want it to sent me to the emergency room.

Be back here tomorrow though. If I haven't been swallowed alive by my lawn I will give everyone mud facials from the copious piles of it in my yard.

Oooh, dirty.

Meg Takes a Tumble

2011-06-12T19:22:00.007-06:00

It was all because of the cupcakes.

Meg was riveted by them from the moment we arrived at the party. There seemed to be thousands of them to her small eyes, all green, and gorgeous, and brimming with sugary promise. She knew she would do anything to make one her own.

Never before was it so easy to feed her. Once she heard she would get a cupcake if she finished dinner she took it as a verbal contract, and ate as if going for a bonus. We could have made her eat liver wrapped in spinach dipped in Marmite and she would have gulped it down, knowing every bite was getting her one step closer to cupcake nirvana.

She didn't care about opening presents. The other kids oohed and ahhed over every thing that was opened, but Meg just sat next to our neighbor Erica, keeping up a steady patter about the cupcakes that sat just ten feet away. Erica tried to distract her, pointing out every new toy that piled up on the table in front of the oblivious one year old birthday boy, but Meg could not be distracted.

Finally, it was time for cake. She kneeled on one of the picnic benches, just inches from her goal. She listened and smiled as everyone sang "Happy Birthday." She put one hand on the table, and then brought the other hand up -- and missed.

She fell face first onto the concrete under the table.

Ryan and I sprinted the second we saw her start to fall. Eight feet has never felt farther. When we got to her she was a mess of tears and snot, but not obviously injured. We checked her teeth, and her head, and all of her appendages. Nothing broken, nothing bruised. Still, she couldn't stop crying. We both were sure there was something really wrong -- until she choked out a single word: "cupcake."

She was fine the second the frosting hit her lips. Her Dad even let her have half of his too.

I think if you asked her she would say it was totally worth it.

ARGH!

2011-06-09T19:56:00.008-06:00

I should be writing the "23 months" post tonight. I am not though, because tonight that certain 23 month old tried to kill me.

It was a pretty good day. She played with Grandma and Aunt Cate and Luke. She went to Little Gym. She ate fruit snacks and got stickers and hand stamps. She should have been happy!

Then? Just as we were pulling into the driveway at 5:00pm she fell asleep. When she awoke, the demon came out.

The dinosaur is scared of Meg.

First she wanted a snack. Not just any snack though, a rice krispie treat. I countered with fruit leather. She countered with throwing herself on the floor and kicking the fridge.

She wanted to draw. Then she wanted to eat the markers. I said she could draw, but not eat the markers. She threw herself out of her seat and onto the floor.

Realizing I could not make dinner without her lighting the house on fire I took her to the neighborhood Thai place. I ordered all her favorite stuff -- rice and pot stickers. When the food arrived I stuffed as much as I could in her mouth, and then tried to eat myself. She then UNBUCKLED the high chair and stood up. I put her in a chair. She got down. I put her on my lap. She tried to pull my shirt down. I put her on the floor. She tried to run out the door. Finally, holding her arm as she screamed and kicked in circles "Three Stooges" style on the floor, I signed the check and took the boxed up food.

Bath time was okay. I had wine and she pretended to be Mark Spitz. By that I mean she spit water at me.

After bath, I was putting lotion on her skin and hair. She asked for some, so I put it in her hand knowing she normally rubs it on her belly. She put it right in my eye. For a non-allergenic lotion Cetaphil burns like a motherfucker.

The worst part of all of this? Was every time she pissed me off, she would do something to make me laugh. At one point I actually said "stop making me laugh, I'm mad." Her response? "Laugh, Mama."

She does make me laugh.

I will tell you all about it in the "23 months" post this weekend. That is, if she lets me live.

I still love my girl.

There is Nothing Wrong With Me

2011-06-08T16:20:00.005-06:00

Want to know a surefire way to make sure a health complaint isn't something serious?

Go to a doctor and tell him you think it's something serious.

Or, if you really want to be sure? Go to the ER.

Works every time.

Take, for example, my recent stomach woes. They had been going on for about a month and slowly getting worse. I had tried a litany of medicines, and cutting a number of things from my diet, but nothing seemed to work. My stomach hurt, my back hurt, and it felt like nothing in my digestive tract was working properly. I walked around all day with a look on my face suggesting I had just smelled sour milk, or been told Sarah Palin was up for a Nobel Prize. If I ate, the pains got worse. If I drank, the pains got worse. If I moved around a lot, the pains got worse. Luckily, the moving thing doesn't happen that much, and slowly I stopped really taking anything in besides Pepto.

My Mom was convinced it was my gall bladder.

Ryan was worried it was my pancreas.

Tara said it was the crazies. Oh, and then she said I probably had a wheat allergy, because she's mean.

Meg just wanted to know why the milk was sour.

I called doctors. The earliest anyone could see me was July. I made an appointment and decided I could stick it out. Then the pain stopped being annoying to being disruptive. Yesterday I came home from work trying to convince myself I had a stomach bug Ryan had been carrying around. By mid-afternoon I knew it wasn't. By six last night I had agreed to go with my Mom to the ER this morning, and had called work to tell them I wasn't coming.

This morning I woke up feeling pretty good. Still a little sore, but better. I called my Mom to tell her I was not going. She reminded me that I had felt better before, and it had gotten worse.

So, I went.

Four different people asked me about my symptoms. They felt my stomach. They took my vitals. They drew blood. They took other fluids. They did an ultrasound.

They found nothing.

My blood work was fine.

My gall bladder looked "perfect."

I started to cry because nothing was wrong with me. I am still not sure if they were tears of joy, or frustration.

At least they didn't say it was the crazies.

The doctor thinks it could be all of the supplements I have been taking. Or maybe a bad reaction to a medication. He also says he can't be sure. I am supposed to stop taking everything not absolutely necessary and see what happens. He might have a point. When I woke up this morning, feeling better, I had taken a single pill in more than 48 hours.

Of course, he says if that doesn't work I can always go back.

After all, that seems to do the trick.

Wieners and the Truth

2011-06-06T16:39:00.009-06:00

I really hate it when Republicans do something better than Democrats -- even when it comes to embarrassing sex scandals.

Think of the last three big Democrat sex scandals: Clinton, Edwards, and now, the fortunately named, Weiner. All three engaged in varying degrees of sleazy behavior, all three lied about it, and all three really wouldn't have been in that much trouble if they told the truth in the first place. However, because they didn't (for whatever reasons: wives, cowardice, wanting to see his package on TV more) one faced impeachment, one is facing criminal charges, and one will likely face an ethics sanction. Not because of what they did with their dicks, but because they lied about it.

Now think about the latest Republican scandal. You know the name -- it's as big as his bicep. Arnold fathered a child with a household staff member, hid the child for more than a decade, and then just released a little four line message admitting to all of it and saying he was sorry.

All four of these men faced the wrath of the press, and their wives, and the public. All four of these men took (or will take) career hits because of their indiscretions. However, three of them tried to publicly deny their guilt, claimed to be victims, and then had to make very public admissions of mea culpas in front of a slobbering press corps. One of them just got to write a note.

Oh, and Arnold was smart enough to have his sex scandal surface after he was out of office! Score -- no criminal charges or ethics investigations. Think of how much money he saved the people of California.

If only the people of New York were so lucky.

Well, what do you expect from Democrats though? After all, we do love to spend.

Ugh.

Me 'n Ann

2011-06-01T19:38:00.004-06:00

I hate Ann Curry.

I can't help it.

I tried to appreciate her as a journalist, but then she slobbered all over Brad Pitt at Cannes one year, and all I could picture was her preparing a dungeon in her basement to "show him her love." Also, her "seriously, I care" eyebrows? Definitely more Sally Jessy than Barbara Walters.

I tried to appreciate her as a professional, but there have been just too many instances like this:

Yeah.

I tried to appreciate her as a woman, but really, if she is anything like the woman she is on air, she isn't a woman I can appreciate. I mean, between the too short skirts, the obvious need to prove she isn't growing older by pretending she knows everything about teen culture, and the fact she never actually starts a conversation peg, just agrees and follows along, I have a pretty fair idea that she and I wouldn't have a lot to talk about over coffee.

I even tried to appreciate her on the most basic level: as a human being. However, then I saw her Twitter bio is just "journalism is an act of faith in the future."

I guess "I am a self important douchebag" was already being used.

Still, despite the fact Ann Curry is not my cup of tea I still kind of was happy for her when she was named the new anchor of "Today." She's been passed over before, and I am sure this will be the high point of her career. I also know that she likely won't be anchor for more than two years, because that's when Matt Lauer will retire and they will retool the whole show replacing the entire anchor team rather than let Ann and Al try to headline. That makes me happy for me.

After all, if she succeeds, and then fades away from obscurity, I don't have to feel bad about hating her.

And she can use her early retirement stalking Brad Pitt.

Yogi Better Watch His Step

2011-05-30T20:17:00.008-06:00

When I grow up, I think I want to be my cousin Carissa.

Now, yes, I know that doesn't make a lot of sense, seeing that she is eight years younger than I am, but if it's possible that is what I want.

She's a Park Ranger. How cool is that? And she's not just one of the rangers who tells you how old Old Faithful is (hint, look at the first part of the name), she's one who gets to carry a gun and enforce "the law." Bear gets out of line? Pepper spray. Tourist gets out of line? She introduces them to the bear that just got pepper sprayed.

Nah, she is much too responsible to do that. When I am grown up like her I will be too.

She's in there somewhere...

Carissa doesn't even mind all of the stuff that goes along with being a park ranger that would send most people (me) running. For instance, she's spending the summer living in a cabin with no electricity. You know what that means right? No Internet. Carissa doesn't seem to mind that she won't immediately be able to learn if Lindsey Lohan has died, or who Perez Hilton hates, or what things funny babies and/or cats are doing. Nope, she just wants to make sure she has enough books to read.

I know, some of you are now starting to question if we are actually related.

Oh, and despite the fact that Carissa is outdoorsy, and doesn't abuse the authority given to her, she's actually fun to be around. She likes telling stories about all the dumb stuff she's seen people do in the parks, and doesn't go all "Smokey the Bear" on you. And the stories she tells? Better than any that I have about T.V. After all, I've never busted anyone walking naked in the newsroom.

I can hardly wait until I have stories like Carissa's to tell.

I just hope that when I'm grown up I get to ranger in a park with Internet.

The Girlie Battle

2011-05-26T10:16:00.000-06:00

I am considering an injunction against my Mother. Look what she did to Meg.

She claims Meg picked it out. That she tried to dissuade her from getting a headband with a planet attached. That she pointed out all kinds of tasteful, understated headbands, but that Meg wouldn't budge. That walking out of the store without that lavender abomination would have caused a fit that possibly would have ended with Meg exploding, and certainly would have ended with her mad at Grandma. That my Mother, the woman who is unswayable, was swayed.

I don't buy it.

I think this is just the opening salvo in my Mother's war of revenge.

I was not an easy teenager when it came to clothing. I wasn't my sister (that's a tale for another time -- a dark, Gothic tale) but I definitely didn't want to wear what my Mom picked out. I liked overalls with holes in them, and big baggy white t-shirts. For two whole years I only wore one earring: a silver female symbol. I liked bandannas. Hey, it was the early 90's. Lots of people were dressing this way. My Mother just couldn't believe I was one of them.

I can't believe she's been plotting for 20 years.

I can only picture what's coming next. Dresses with enormous bows! Patent leather shoes! Sparkly earrings! (gasp) TUTUS!

If Meg ends up a cheerleader I will know the war is lost.

I should probably call my lawyer now -- just to be safe.

O! The Pain!

2011-05-25T16:53:00.006-06:00

I wanted to post something really wonderful today, but I just can't. The looming world without "Oprah" is just too much for me. How will I live my best life now that there is no one who might randomly give me a car while yelling at me?

If you need something to read I have posted over at Tired and Stuck about how I just can't visualize doing visualization. At Sprocket Ink I have written about the strange turn of events that is turning out to be the life of Casey Anthony.

I think I'll be feeling better tomorrow though, so meet back here for some of my favorite things.

Favorite things. Oh, Oprah. Sob.

I Thought I Was Smart

2011-05-23T08:14:00.000-06:00

I am seriously getting my ass kicked at "Words with Friends."

For those of you who don't play Internet games, WWF is basically Scrabble only with two people, so the humiliation is on a personal level. You can play as many games as you want at a time though, so you can risk being humiliated by several people at once in the vain hope that you might, sweet baby Jesus please, beat at least one of them.

So far that strategy has not worked out for me.

Not only are there now several people in my office I can't look directly in the eye, but there is also a Dad at Meg's day care, several people I went to college with, Suzanne from Married Geeks, and I think Sarah Palin.

Oh, and Tara. I can't forget that she is beating me. She won't let me.

I asked Tara to play knowing that she hates Scrabble and therefore hasn't played in as long as I have and probably would be an easy mark. Really, I can't tell you how dumb that was. Since she started what can only be called a "whupping" I have tired several times to convince her I am letting her win. It isn't working though, because she reminded me how much we both enjoy gloating.

Truth be told, I don't really enjoy it though when she's doing it.

I try to tell myself that this really isn't a commentary on my intelligence. That lots of people who are smart and have good vocabularies and consider themselves linguistically gifted aren't good at Scrabble. That I happen to know a large number of people who love Scrabble and possibly spend all of their free time playing when I am doing other things -- like blogging or saving orphaned seal pups from burning buildings. That I will eventually get better at this, and know that "xu" is a word while "xoja" is not. I really wish it was though. That would have saved my ass when I was playing a guy from high school today. Well, maybe not saved it, but made it less sad in defeat.

Maybe I should just wait for a sarcasm based game to come out. It could also be called "Words with Friends" but you would say it differently, so people would get the meaning.

I definitely wouldn't play that one with Tara though. I know my limits.

Generation Gap, Dag Nabit!

2011-05-19T16:37:00.007-06:00

When I was a kid I had a toy clock. I had a toy camera. I had a toy radio and even (yes, I am this old) a toy record player. Also, like most girls, I had a toy phone -- a light pink rotary that I loved very much.

My kid? She just has a toy phone.

When she wants to take a pretend picture? She points the phone at her subject and says "cheese." Sometimes she'll snap her fingers and say "over here" if she feels they aren't paying

proper attention. When she wants to check the time? She picks up the phone and looks at the face, saying "tell time." And when she wants to listen to music? She hands me the phone and tells me to "plug it in."

If I just put it down she gets very upset, so we have learned to compromise. After all, if my phone plays music, why can't hers?

She also, of course, makes numerous phone calls.

There are days I wish that most of Meg's life play didn't revolve around a phone. That she had numerous things to mimic me and her Dad instead of just one. Maybe it would help if our lives didn't revolve around our phones. After all, I only really loved my pink rotary because my Mom loved her beige one so much.

I guess we could cut down on phone use.

Hmmm... That might be an idea.

Yeah, not going to happen.

At least Meg hasn't figured out texting yet. Otherwise we would NEVER get her phone out of her hands.

Marco?

2011-05-18T15:10:00.003-06:00

Yeah, stop waiting for me to say "Polo" because I'm not really here. I am other places though, with lots of interesting things to say!

Over at Tired and Stuck you can read about why I have replaced my morning coffee (okay, Diet Pepsi) with a cup of hot swamp water, and couldn't be happier about it!

Oh, and at Sprocket Ink I have written about why a psychologist trying to prove African American women are not attractive has probably been turned down by a lot of African American women.

Of course, I will be back here tomorrow, zipping up my cardigan sweater and putting on my sneakers for a trip to the land of make believe.

Can you tell I am feeling nostalgic for childhood?

Later, gators.

These are the People in my Neighborhood

2011-05-16T18:48:00.004-06:00

We have a new neighbor. Well, actually, we have six new neighbors, but only one interests me. Her name is Liza, she's six, and I'm guessing she's lived a pretty boring life so far, because she thinks we are the most fascinating people ever.

The first time we met Liza, Meg and I were sitting on the front porch waiting for Ryan to get home. Really, that's all we were doing. No fireworks, no acrobatics, just sitting. Liza jumped out of the van and yelled "are you our new neighbors?" I was so shocked I didn't even have time to think of something sarcastic to say about how we were just trying out the porch. I just said "yes." Liza LITERALLY (yes, I know the meaning of the word) started dancing, and shouting "and they have the cutest little baby" into the air. I couldn't argue with her there, so I just smiled.

Liza has now lived here about three weeks. Every time we see her, it's the same routine. We walk out, or she walks up. She shrieks and yells "you're out!" Meg screeches along with her. They both start dancing. Sally starts barking and running. Somewhere a unicorn smiles. It is truly a sight to behold.

Really, Liza doesn't even care what we are doing. Tonight Ryan was pulling weeds, I was blogging, and both of us were trying to keep Meg from eating dirt. After the traditional yell/screech/dance/unicorn smile, Liza had to ask us all about what we were doing. What plants weren't weeds? Why did my computer work outside? Did Meg like one kid of dirt more than another? Then she told me about school, and her brothers, and made Sally sit and shake hands before petting her on the head.

I am not a big fan of neighbor conversations. I like to be left alone unless something has been scheduled, or people are well aware of my "drop by" rules. However, there is something about Liza that is just so utterly enchanting. Maybe it's because kids are so funny. Or maybe it's because I watch how Meg watches her, and know I am getting a preview of what's coming.

Either way, I think Liz is pretty fascinating too.

Turkey Trot Terror

2011-05-11T19:46:00.000-06:00

Meg and I were almost killed today by a turkey.

Totally not lying.

We were at the zoo, waving to the monkeys and telling the giraffes we loved them, singing songs of joy and love, and wishing our fellow living beings well, when all of a sudden, this big turkey stepped out into the path.

I could tell he was ready for a fight.

Meg clapped her hands, like she does with the turkeys at the farm to make them gobble. But this was no farm turkey, and he would only be gobbling for blood.

We took a step forward. He took a step forward. We faked to the left. He followed us. I asked him what the hell was his problem. He didn't answer because he's a turkey.

Finally, I just took off running, pushing the stroller with all the might my spaghetti arms could handle. We ran right past him as he ruffled his feathers, finally gave a gobble, and Meg screamed with glee.

When we turned around he was still mad, but his little bird brain had forgotten all about the fact we were the ones he was mad at. And there was another family coming up the path. A menacing looking family.

We didn't even stick around to see what happened. I figure next time if we see the turkey with a black arm band we will know.

Hey you!

2011-05-11T12:33:00.000-06:00

Yes, you! Good to see you here. There really isn't that much going on here today though. All the action is on the other sites where you can find my ramblings.

Over on Tired and Stuck you can read how my body is trying to show me who is boss -- no matter how many supplements I take, or how many needles I have stuck into me.

Oh, and at Sprocket Ink I've written about how Osama bin Laden's apparent love of Pepsi makes my head hurt. It's deeper than just that though, so go check it out.

Of course, come back here tomorrow. I might have a puppet show planned...

Twenty Two Months

2011-05-09T13:20:00.003-06:00

Meg is very advanced for her age. She's already well into her terrible twos.

Maybe "terrible" isn't the right word for it. How about her "incredibly active, opinionated, and willful" twos? Yeah, I think that works better. She really isn't trying to be difficult. She just knows what she wants to do, exactly when she wants to do it, and hasn't figured out that is not always possible. Hell, if it were I would always be eating pizza and never have on pants.

It isn't just that she doesn't understand that she can't always have her way though, it's that she is now mobile enough to try and get her way if we aren't immediately helping her to get it for those reasons she doesn't understand. She can now get out of the restaurant high chair when we tell her we will not lift her down because people are still eating. She can now reach the counter where the fruit snacks are sitting when we won't hand them to her because dinner is almost ready. Oh, and she can definitely undo her car seat straps when we refuse to let her out because the car is still moving.

Despite all this everything she does still makes me smile. Even when I am totally exasperated because she has thrown herself to the floor, or refuses to eat and is instead trying to "help" by clearing her plate into the (fat) dog's mouth, I am still enchanted by this child. I love it when she tells me "no, no" or "be nice" when I am doing something she doesn't like -- like trying to bathe her or make her wear socks. I love that when she runs away she also slightly dances. I love watching her tastes develop, and her opinions evolve. For instance, she no longer like ketchup. Used to love it -- now won't look at it. Why did that happen? And what will change next?

I can't wait to find out.

Oh, how we love our girl.

An Open Letter to Mariah Carey

2011-05-05T06:31:00.000-06:00

Dear Mariah,

Congratulations on your new babies! I am sure you are going to be a very interesting mom to say the very least. And I think that you're first act of parenting, I mean, after playing them your greatest hits tape and introducing them to the Reverend Al Sharpton as he renews your wedding vows, is to change their names.

No, I'm not saying your choices aren't unique. Monroe and Moroccan? Your kids definitely won't have to go by Monroe and Moroccan C to differentiate themselves from the scads of others with the same names in school. Mostly though, that whole uniqueness thing will bite them in the ass.

For instance, they will NEVER be able to find a pencil with their names on them at Disneyland.

Now, I know, that doesn't seem like a big deal. With all of your "Glitter" money you could buy them personalized unicorns with pencils for horns. However, when you're five, and you see all of those pencils, with practically every name in the world on them, and yours isn't there, it makes you feel crappy. Trust me. My name is Libby.

It isn't just pencils, or license plates, or rainbow mugs that are the problem either. You know that saying "kids can be cruel?" Well, guess what? KIDS CAN BE CRUEL. Yes, I know, kids can find a way to make fun of every name, but at least make them work for the payoff. Isn't it bad enough that bullies will already have the ammunition of the fact that you are their Mom and you took these pictures while pregnant? Maybe you should have just named your kids "give me a wedgie" and "really, take my lunch money" to make it easier.

If you don't want to change both names, at least change Moroccan, or let him go by his middle name -- Scott. After all, girls can get away with kooky names most of the time, especially if they are slutty, but boys have no such luxury. Also, Scott (I will always refer to him as that now) really should get to pick his own name, since you named him after a design scheme. Yeah, Mariah, we all know you named him after the decor in your third floor balcony. How do we know this? BECAUSE YOU TOLD US! IT'S LIKE YOU DON'T EVEN WANT THEM TO HAVE A CHANCE!

Sorry, I got a little excited.

Ahem.

Really, though, mazel tov. I hope you have very competent nannies to take care of all three, er two of your children. After all, we don't want you overexerting yourself.

That might lead to decisions you regret later.

Best of luck,

Libby

Pssst...

2011-05-04T07:16:00.002-06:00

Hey you! Yeah, you! Wanna read all about how I am not only having acupuncture, but ELECTRIC acupuncture? Well you can! Just not here. Head over to Tired and Stuck for the lowdown.

Of maybe you want to know what I think of the Osama bin Laden situation? Or rather, what I don't think of it? That's over at Sprocket Ink.

Come back here tomorrow though. I'll be handing out puppies and Pop Tarts bright and early...

ARRRGHHHH!

2011-05-01T19:25:00.002-06:00

What happens when you try to explain to a toddler that riding on the outside of the cart can be dangerous, no matter how many jerky kids with irresponsible parents you see doing it in Target?

This:

I tried to get her standing -- twice. She slid back down. I tried to pick her up and carry her. She made her body so heavy I swear it was made out of lead. Finally, her Dad just threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. A screaming sack of potatoes.

At least it tired her out. I'm going to drink wine now.

An Adjective, Not a Noun

2011-04-28T14:43:00.006-06:00

I was visiting my husband at work the other day, and was talking to two of his colleagues. One of them is about 42 months pregnant, and the other is trying to adopt after having a son around the time Meg was born. I commented on bulging belly of the first, and the second turned to me and said "Yeah, aren't you glad you adopted? You didn't have to deal with any of that."

She didn't mean to ruffle my feathers, but she did. I instantly jumped into the role of infertile woman, insulted that she would think there was any reason I was "lucky." Didn't she have any idea what I had been through to get my child? Didn't she have any idea of the loss I had suffered? That I am still suffering? Didn't she know all the things I had done to my body, and was still doing to my body to achieve what others had gotten so easily? Had she no idea that she offended me?

Then it dawned on me. No, she hadn't. She wasn't viewing me as an infertile woman. She was viewing me as a Mom with a beautiful child who had never had to deal with cankles.

It made me think.

I have been dealing with infertility for almost five years. In that time it has become not just something I deal with, but a main part of my identity, if not my entire identity at times. And now? It's time for that to end. It's time for me to stop feeling bad every time I see a maternity dress, or think "why not me" when I hear a friend is pregnant. Or, if not to stop those feelings, to not let myself wallow in them, and wear them like a corsage. There are so many prettier things I could pin to my dress.

I am not saying that my feelings of frustration, and sadness, and anger, and envy, and hopelessness aren't valid. I am just saying I don't have to, or want to, validate them every day any more. They can be a part of my story without being the center of it. Who knows, maybe the story will be even more fascinating because of it. And maybe I can help others dealing with infertility get past the soul numbing, all consuming yuckiness to expand their own stories too.

After all, I'm lucky. Damn lucky.

In case you didn't know, this is National Infertility Week. For more information, visit Resolve.org.

Looking For Me?

2011-04-27T18:34:00.002-06:00

You guys are thinking I am totally lazy, aren't you? You're thinking that instead of writing anything this week, and participating in the world I am just going to sit around drinking daiquiris and waiting for the royal wedding. Oh, how wrong you are. First of all, do you know how many calories are on one daiquiri? I could have like three bottle of wine for that. Also, I have been writing this week -- just not here.

If you want to read about my recent foray into acupuncture (and really, who doesn't) head on over to Tired and Stuck.

If you want to know why I just can't mock William and Kate as they prepare for their wedding? Well, you need to go to Sprocket Ink.

Of course, after going to these sites, please return back here tomorrow for a new post, and maybe some light calisthenics.

Ahoy!

Depressing Little Secret

2011-04-20T19:39:00.009-06:00

About two weeks ago, for reasons that I thought were good at the time, I decided to go off my antidepressants and try to "tough it out." It was not a smart thing to do, and I am now back on them after a crash that should be called impressive to say the least. However, while I am very glad to be back on the right path, and not running into the bathroom at work to cry when I read something sad (which is a A LOT, people really suck sometimes), I have to say, it wasn't all bad.

That's the dirty little secret about going off meds when you have been on them so long. There are moments when it is the best feeling ever.

Now, I am not saying that being suicidal, or crying uncontrollably, or thinking that everyone is out to get you is fun. Those are the reasons for medication. At least the reasons for my medication. However, the medications also dull the other emotions that can be larger than life for a person with depression -- like joy, and love, and excitement. Once the meds are gone those feelings are so overwhelming it's like no one else has ever, or will ever feel them that way ever again. You kind of feel bad for people on an emotional even keel.

For instance, last Thursday Meg and I were playing some stupid game, and she crawled into my lap and put her cheek against mine. I breathed in the smell of her hair and my eyes filled with tears because I love her so much. At that moment I KNEW no Mom could love a child more. With that feeling I really believed I could balance out the absolute emotional destruction when the pendulum swings the other way.

Wait, no it didn't. That's just crazy talk.

While those feelings are wonderful, and exhilarating, and make you think life is dull without them, they are just a trick. A mirage to bring you in that leaves you sucking sand. And in the end, feeling pretty good all the time, instead of feeling either stupendously terrific or world endingly bad, is an excellent trade off -- especially if you have a kid.

I'm glad to be back.

I mean, not crazy glad -- after all, I'm on meds.

I Lied

2011-04-20T14:12:00.002-06:00

I said I would be back here today. I'm not. I mean, I am, but just to make sure hooligans haven't broken in and messed the place up.

I did write something today, though. Something wonderful! Something that includes Charles Manson AND Michele Bachman. And all you have to do to read it is click on this little link. That will take you to Sprocket Ink. That rhymed! We're having fun already!

I promise, I will be back tomorrow...

Taking My Crazy Elsewhere...

2011-04-19T07:50:00.002-06:00

I have done a lot of crazy, over the top, not quite sane things in my quest to get pregnant. However, this time I went too far. Read all about it at Tired and Stuck today. I will be back here tomorrow.

Beaten into Submission

2011-04-17T19:59:00.005-06:00

Utah's newest Senator has a way to fix the deficit, save social security, and not make the richest one percent of Americans pay more in taxes. Yep, instead of taking from the rich to help the poor (that is really so un-Ayn Rand) he wants to make the poor work longer, and get less when they retire. He is absolutely sure it will work. Why? Because the younger generations don't expect that much from their government.

You think I'm kidding, don't you? I'm not.

Senator Mike Lee had joined with two other Tea Party "activists" to put forward a plan that would raise the retirement age to 70, and reduce the benefits anyone would receive once they reached that age. Now, to his credit, the people who make the most would receive a lot less than those who make the least, but he admits that's because those who make the most probably won't need social security anyway, and will be able to retire long before 70.

So, that shouldn't be so bad, right? I mean, 40 is the new 15, and everyone lives to at least 90 now! Oh, yeah, except the poor. The people who will have to work the longest will live the shortest after they retire. In fact, as their social security benefits have decreased over the past three decades -- so have their life spans.

Wait! Dead people don't need social security! Ca-ching!

Of course, not everyone will die, that would make things too easy. Luckily, the people this plan really sticks it to is the middle class. You know, the people who might make more than 43-thousand dollars a year for at least one year in their working career. Those people will still be paying the highest percentage of their income to social security, and seeing the lowest returns for those payments.

I guess I could consider this Senator Lee's plan to spur me to make more. After all, if I do that, I won't have to worry about this silly "social security" nonsense.

Or I could just expect less. After all, it's what all the cool young kids are doing. And it is MUCH easier than expecting my government to work for me...

Meg the Destroyer

2011-04-12T19:57:00.004-06:00

Never trust a quiet toddler. I learned that today the hard way.

In the past week Meg has started throwing absolutely spectacular fits, and Ryan and I have started trying dealing with said fits by putting her in a quiet place where she can't hurt herself and ignoring it the best we can. Today, when she totally freaked out because I wouldn't let her stand on the dining room table, I picked her up, put her in her crib, gave her a couple of board books that I knew she couldn't tear apart and walked out. When I heard her quiet down a moment later, I totally thought I had won.

I was so wrong.

Five minutes later when I went into her room (I know it was only that long, I was watching the clock) I noticed that there were strange brown chips in her crib. At first I thought she had ripped apart one of her books. Yes, they are board books, but she has done it before. All the books were in tact though. Then I looked at the wall...

I have Keebler elf hands, but you get the idea.

We live in an old house. It has lathe and plaster walls. Those walls have been wallpapered and painted over several times, and so there are some cracks in them. Occasionally we have to fix one of those cracks. During her time out Meg decided to start the demolition phase of one of those fixes.

She was so proud of herself. "I did it," she crowed as I surveyed the damage.

The next few minutes are kind of a blur. I know I was yelling, but also trying to smile as I yelled. Meg thought I was just making monster noises so she was growling along with me. I vacuumed out the crib of all the paint pieces, and scoured Meg's mouth to make sure she hadn't eaten any of them. I called Ryan and told him to get home because I needed to walk away RIGHT NOW. I called Tara and told her that it was really unfair she lived in California when I needed to meet her for a glass of wine RIGHT NOW. Finally, I sat down on the floor and cried. Big, ugly cried.

Meg came up behind me and patted me on the back. I looked up at her smiling face and realized, no matter what she did, I could never be mad for long. "Dammit," she said.

Dammit indeed.

Dammit, I love that kid. No matter what she does.

I just need to put a bell on her.

Twenty One Months

2011-04-10T17:44:00.005-06:00

This month has been really hard. It is the month we realized Meg growing up isn't just a cute possibility, but a concrete reality; and that we not only have to let her, but help her do it.

This is the month we moved from a high chair to a booster. When we put the playpen away. When we started thinking about buying a toddler bed because the crib is having a hard time containing her. When she started not only wanting to sit on the potty, but peeing when we set her on it. When I looked in her face and saw what she will look like as a teenager.

Yeah, I almost lost it then.

While I'm sad to not have a baby any more, and wonder where that time went (I mean, those nights when she wouldn't sleep seemed endless, how did they go so fast?), every day that we get to see Meg grow and change and turn into the wonderful little person is becoming more than makes up for it. While we have learned she is extraordinarily stubborn, and will do what ever it takes to get her own way, we have also learned how loving and kind she is. She cannot hear a baby crying without wanting to help, and she is always willing to share with anyone -- even the dog. I kind of wish she wouldn't share with Sally though; that dog is packing on the pounds.

It is also fun to see just how smart Meg is, and how her mind works. Things like memorizing colors or shapes aren't interesting her, but she can sing full songs, repeat back things she heard only once, and is utterly fearless when it comes to trying new things. She will yell "I try it" before jumping on the monkey bars, or climbing up a net, or going down a slide. We just run alongside to make she she doesn't get too hurt. Meg also makes up the most fabulous dances, and is trying to tell jokes. Yes, the jokes suck, saying "diaper" when holding a shoe and then laughing uproariously is not high comedy, but she's trying.

Our growing girl is also becoming a master of manipulation. The other day she started screaming when I was leaving for work, yelling "cuddle, Mama, cuddle." I got her out of her crib and was about to call and quit my job when she hopped down off my lap, looked back at me, and said "I want fruit leather" as she ran to the kitchen.

I would be mad if she wasn't damn cute.

Oh how we love our (rapidly getting bigger) girl. Love, love, love our girl.

The Power of Ovaries

2011-04-07T19:01:00.003-06:00

Hey, wanna know a secret? This big government shut down that might happen? The one that is supposedly about making major budget cuts and saving the country from financial ruin? Yeah, it's not actually about that.

It's about vagina.

Well, more specifically, it's about what the vagina leads to, and what women should and should not be able to do with those parts of their anatomy. Yep, the primary reason that the budget cannot be finalized is because Republicans want to pull all funding for Planned Parenthood, and restrict federal funding for abortions, and the Democrats aren't going along with it.

It isn't even that Planned Parenthood, or abortion, get all that much money from the feds. I know, I know, you would think that would be the prime concern in "budget" talks, but the amount of money spent on these programs is so laughably small that lawmakers probably spend more each year on those little flag pins. The reason they are hinging the budget battle on this issue is because it is a way to deal with it, and not have many people notice.

Think about it. If conservatives Republicans mount a bill calling for the defunding of Planned Parenthood, and changes in federal programs to not cover abortion, it's going to be a major national issue. Every person in America will hear about it. It will start a debate. The people trying to do this don't want a debate. That's why it's in the budget bill.

This budget bill will eventually have to pass. It has to. Before it does all the news will be about what happens if it doesn't. If a government shut down happens, people will get panicky. Once they get panicky they won't care what's in the bill as long as it's passed. We all know once people are panicky the Democrats will fold. And, just like that, the far right has won on an issue they have had in their back pocket for years, without any debate.

Then the women of America, especially the poor or those without health insurance, will be left wondering what happened to their reproductive rights.

Great secret, huh?

Oh, My, Goodness? Golly? Gosh?

2011-04-03T20:35:00.015-06:00

Today I was sitting at the computer, paying bills (yay, bills!), when Meg came wandering up to me and demanded to "get up." I had tried to sit her in front of a video, sippy cup and blanket in hand, pacifier in mouth, but she obviously wasn't having any of that.

"Meg, go watch your video for five minutes, and I will be right there," I said.

"No, get up." she started to climb into my lap.

"Meg, Mama is paying bills. Your video is much more fun."

"No, get up, DAMMIT."

I stopped. Surely I had misheard her. After all, her pacifier was in her mouth. "Meg, take out the pacifier and say that again" I said. She did, and this time the sentence was clear as a bell. "Get up, dammit." She smiled.

"Meg, we don't say that word," I was trying to say it with a straight face.

"Dammit?" Now she was curious.

"Yes, that word, we don't say that."

"Dammit." Now she was pondering.

"You need to stop saying that."

"Dammit." This time it was a whisper, like she was committing it to memory. She got down and went back to her video.

We are so screwed. Yeah, I know, I shouldn't use that word around Meg either.

I wonder if swearing is still as fun if you spell out the words...

Opening Game

2011-04-03T19:17:00.005-06:00

It's spring (kind of) and that means it once again is time for Ryan and me to play our favorite game "pick the stellar parenting moment." Now, yes, we could play this game anywhere, since truly stellar parenting moments are all around us, and we like being judgmental all year long. However, like baseball, this is a game that is best played outside, in settings that are supposed to be all about fun. I think we all know that is where the stellarest of the stellar moments happen.

Ryan and I had our first game the other night at the zoo. The weather was warm, the animals were out and playing, and some parents just couldn't tell their kids enough how horrible they are.

All through the zoo we had two prime contenders. One had a child named Mason. We know his name was Mason because she would scream it every time she would push him and tell him to "hurry up.'' Seriously, you would have thought Mason was cattle the way she was prodding him. I guess she had a definite schedule of animal viewing, and no one was going to mess that up for her.

I have no idea what the kids of the other Mom were named, because she only called them all "you." I guess when you have five under seven that happens. "You," she would say "stop making that face. You're making the picture ugly. I don't know why I even take pictures of you." A short time later we heard her say "hey, you, if you don't hurry up I am leaving you here and the animals will probably eat you." No, that is a great way to make sure a kid will love the zoo forever.

All throughout the zoo these two top contenders battled. The "you" Mom would say something totally disheartening that could scar a child for life, but then Mason's Mom would push him so hard we thought for sure he was about to take a tumble. It was a REALLY close race, sure to be a photo finish.

Then a dark horse pulled ahead.

A young couple that had been making the rounds in the zoo with us, not making a peep except to coo over their probably nine month old son, held him over the rail in the giraffe house, 16 feet above a concrete floor, to get a picture of him with the animal. I don't know who looked more shocked: the endangered child, or the giraffe who was wondering if this was some kind of chubby new treat.

Mason's Mom and the "You" Mom faded into the background. We had a winner.

I'm actually hoping that we run into them again. Maybe at the aviary, or the race track. I have a feeling they could make this the best stellar parenting season ever.

Not Black or White

2011-03-29T19:35:00.004-06:00

High schools in Utah have things called "color wars." It's a week when students at the school divide into two teams (usually freshmen and sophomores versus juniors and seniors) and battle in a series of really stupid contests, each team representing one of the school's two representative colors.

Sounds harmless, right? Well, sure, unless the colors of the school are black and white. Then you end up with kids yelling "black power" and "white power" and possibly wearing white hooded like garments (pillow cases, they say), and all hell breaking loose.

One kid has now been suspended, as have the Vice Principal and Principal for not stopping the events as they happened. Everyone involved (except for the people who were offended) say it was all in harmless fun, and that they were thinking of the "color wars" and not any racist overtones. The parents of the boy suspended say his punishment doesn't fit the crime, since he never "meant" the pillow case to look like a hood, and he didn't bring it to school anyway. The NAACP says they don't care, and want him expelled. They want the administration fired too.

The thing that really gets me is the fact no one wants to take this moment as to teach, rather than a moment to punish. Was that kid wrong? Hell yes. Should the administration have paid more attention? Oh, yeah. Could they all have really not meant any harm and just have been lulled into not seeing racism because no one wants to acknowledge it or teach their children what it looks like any more? I think that's entirely possible.

We teach our kids to recognize poison, and danger, but when it comes to racism, we try to pretend it can't hurt them, that we are "past that." We aren't past that. Race is an issue. Trying to pretend it isn't, and that are not racist undertones in everyday society, is like not telling kids poison can harm.

I think the first thing we need to do is get rid of "color wars." I mean, does no one see the problem with that? Are we going to call field day "race riots," next because running like that is so fun?

Yeah, not so harmless.

Oh, Mexico

2011-03-27T20:33:00.000-06:00

For seven days I wore sandals, if I wore any shoes at all. Now it's back to big bulky boots so my toes don't freeze.

For seven days I smelled like sunscreen, salt, and ocean. Now I keep getting whiffs of mildew, and I think it might be me.

For seven days I watched whales and dolphins. I saw every sunrise and sunset. I chased little lizards and crabs while Meg squealed in delight. Now I will go back to watching the clock, and NBC "comedies."

For seven days I ate whatever I wanted, and drank beer no matter what time of day it was. Now I am back on my diet, and I doubt they will let me sip on Corona at my desk. It wouldn't taste as good anyway...

For seven days Meg and Ryan never left my sight. We giggled, and swam, and sang, and cuddled. Tomorrow Ryan and I go back to work, and Meg goes back to day care.

Oh, how I loved those seven days. Oh, how lucky I was to have them. Now I will let the memories sustain me until the next seven, next year.

Keep Calm and Carry On

2011-03-19T10:25:00.002-06:00

I will be back in a week. In the mean time, check out my stellar blogroll, or two cool new sites Tired and Stuck and Sprocket Ink.

Catch you on the flip side.

Meg Takes Manhattan

2011-03-17T05:53:00.003-06:00

Being with Meg is like being with a rock star, only with fewer temper tantrums and less vomiting. Everywhere we go people stare at her, and faun all over her, and tell her how wonderful she is. They are willing to give her anything they want just to get her to smile, and hate to see her upset. Up until now I thought this was just a Utah phenomenon since it is less, how do I say this, um "colorful," here than in other parts of the world. Our recent trip to New York proved I was wrong.

People were stopping on the street to stare at her. Waitresses were slipping her lollipops as we came in. Cops were giving her high fives. Street musicians were playing just for her. The way things were going I fully expected Mayor Bloomberg to show up at our hotel with a key to the city. The only person who didn't think Meg was darling? This guy:

This guy not only looked like Michael Jackson, he thought he was him. He was dancing on Broadway and 36th, right outside of Macy's, with a huge crowd around him. The minute Meg saw him and heard the music, she wanted to shake her groove thing. We got her out of the stroller, she started dancing, and no one saw Michael any more. The murmurs in the crowd went from "look at him dance" to "look at that baby dance." Ryan started getting concerned people were taking pictures of Meg. This did not make Michael happy. He came up to Meg, took her hand, and walked her back to Ryan. "They came to see Michael," he said.

We didn't tell him we saw people leave once Meg stopped dancing.

As I said, she's a rock star.

Really? You Are Saying That?

2011-03-14T21:16:00.005-06:00

People are assholes.

Yes, I know that was blunt, but really, that's what it boils down to. Today, among all of the coverage of the devastation in Japan, all the stories of people having to flee their homes or identify their dead children, there were also reports of how hundreds, if not thousands, of Americans had taken to the web to spout bullshit about how the quake and tsunami were karmic justice for the attacks on Pearl Harbor.

Yeah, I know. Assholes.

I know we all have free speech. I know the Internet makes it very easy to access it. I know that ignoring these trolls is the best justice. Oh, and I also know that if karma had anything to actually do with this tragedy that they better watch their backs -- and so should other "Americans" think God only has our backs.

What about Hiroshima? Or Cambodia? Or Vietnam? How about Bosnia? Or Iraq? We really better hope Karma doesn't know about Guantanamo Bay, or the black site prisons around the world. That would bring some serious shit down on our heads.

Well, except along the gulf coast. Karma owes those people.

I mean, except for those who really think this was all because of Pearl Harbor.

The Bowl Secret

2011-03-14T05:31:00.000-06:00

If Meg had her way her diet would consist of three things: snacks, dips for said snacks, and apple juice.

Wait.

Now, before you start thinking that I am worse than that mother who feeds her kids dog food, let me explain. You see, it's all about the bowl.

About three weeks ago I bought a set of small bowls for her to have at snack time. She LOVES them. However, since the first time she used one I called it a "snack" bowl she thinks that everything that goes in them is a snack. Crackers? Snack. Standing rib roast? Snack. Pasta? Snack. Fruit snacks? Well, that one is just obvious. Since she always wants to eat out of those bowls, be it at breakfast, lunch, or dinner, everything is a snack.

The dipping is a bit harder to explain. I blame my mother. She's the one who taught Meg that for every food imaginable there is something it can be dipped into to make it more delicious. Meat has ketchup. Cookies have milk. Fruit has yogurt or peanut butter. Pretty much everything else can be dipped in syrup, either maple or chocolate, depending on taste. Dips must be placed not in the bowl, but to the side of it, preferably in a smaller bowl. I mean, we're not animals. And if a dip is not available? Foods can be dipped into other foods in order to at least make a semblance of a well balanced meal.

The apple juice? Yeah, she just loves it. I figure it's not horrible for her as long as we cut it with tons of water. I can only imagine the sugar crash she will have the first time someone gives her full octane juice.

I am hoping that as Meg gets older her eating habits get a little less esoteric. Either that, or we will be sending her away to college with thousands of tiny bowls, every condiment imaginable, and apple juice.

Oh, what the hell. Even if that happens I doubt she will have the weirdest eating habits on campus...

Twenty Months

2011-03-09T04:59:00.004-07:00

We may have made a mistake in naming Meg. Her middle name really should be danger.

Meg's last month has been filled with death defying leaps, stunt crawls, eating things they wouldn't put on "Fear Factor," and basically looking common sense in the face and laughing. She no longer wants to wear her straps in her car seat, or in any other seat for that matter, and will get out of them in seconds if she can. Once she is out of them she will try and stand, or reach, or twirl or jump, regardless of if she on a chair that can tip, a shopping cart four feet off the ground, or in a moving car. You know, because that's how she rolls.

She climbs like she is trying to reach a world record, or give me a heart attack. If I turn around for a moment she gets up on a chair, then the table, and is reaching for the chandelier by the time I look back. Last night I walked maybe three steps away from her to get a blanket from her crib, and when I turned back she was up on the rocking chair, with one foot on the bookcase, reaching for a decorative toy that is most definitely a choking hazard.

Of course, every hero has an Achilles' heel, and Meg's is people who want to give her attention. Yes, that is when she becomes "shy" and buries her head into my legs or Ryan's shoulders, pretending she just can't stand the thought of facing the cold cruel world.

The minute they stop paying attention though? She's strapping on her waterskis and getting ready to jump that shark -- wearing her leather jacket, of course.

Oh, how we love our girl.

Not Here Today

2011-03-08T07:37:00.001-07:00

But, you can find me elsewhere on the interwebs. I am over at Tired and Stuck! So, what are you waiting for? Go! Just go! Nothing more to see here!

Welcome Wagon

2011-03-07T04:43:00.004-07:00

We have a rental house next to us, which means that we don't always have the most reputable neighbors. About a year after we moved in we had a group of college boys that were loud every night. If they weren't having a party, they were playing midnight Frisbee, or loudly calling their demon dog. One night I had had enough, so I went outside to yell at them. However, I didn't feel all that confident, so I did it in an English accent. Not my best moment. I ended up talking that way for the next four months until they moved out. Luckily, Ryan could not keep a straight face when I was doing it, so he looked stupider than I did.

I really thought that was going to be my worst neighbor story. I was wrong.

Tonight I pulled in the driveway to see a man staggering up the street. He collapsed on the lawn of the rental house. Twice I asked him if he was okay, and twice he didn't answer. I went inside and watched him from my window for about five minutes, and then I called the cops.

I think you know where this is going.

By the time I got off the phone Ryan was in the front yard talking to this guy, finding out what was wrong. He said he was having chest pains. Ryan said to come get us if they got worse. When Ryan came up the stairs I asked him why he would tell this stranger to come to our house if he was having chest pains. "That's one of our new neighbors, " Ryan replied, just as the fire truck and ambulance rolled up.

We still aren't sure what happened. We know he was taken away in an ambulance. I now know he is the nephew of the family moving in. We know no one has really been home since, but they haven't fully moved in yet, so they could be at the other house. We are hoping when they do fully arrive they don't hate us.

Ryan says I might be able to make it better if I break out the English accent.

I think we might have to move.

Expanding Vocabulary

2011-03-03T20:19:00.009-07:00

We are going to Mexico (yay)! So, I need a new swimming suit (boo)!

I haven't bought a swimming suit in five years. Yes, that means the last time I wriggled into Lycra in front of a three way mirror was long before the fertility treatments -- and the pounds that came with them. Now, granted, I have lost some of that weight since, but I was still nervous. I needed support. I needed a distraction. I needed Meg.

Look at the cute toddler, not at the fat girl in the Mom swimsuit.

And no, I wasn't just taking pictures of myself, I was sending them to Tara for advice.

Meg thought shopping for swimsuits was hilarious. She loved running through the aisles, putting on the straps, and taking all the compliments from the saleswomen. She loved the echo in the dressing room. Most of all though, she loved watching me try them on.

Wait, that sounded bad. I'll explain.

Meg is at that age where she wants to know EVERYTHING. If there is a thing she cannot name, she points and says "that." We then tell her what it is called, and she repeats it at least four times, cementing into her brain. One of them words she recently stuck there? Boobs. So, every time I would take a swimsuit off, or start to put one on Meg would look up at me, point, and say "Mom's boobs."

Did I mention the dressing room echoed?

I was embarrassed at first. I tried to distract her with games on my phone, but every time I was topless she would comment. Finally, I just gave up. Every time she said it I would just say "yes, those are my boobs, or breasts. Can you say breasts?" I figured that would at least sound a bit classier to the women in the neighboring booths, and get her practicing her r sounds.

In the end though, Meg made it the most painless swimsuit shopping experience. After all, I will never see any of those people who heard her yelling about my boobs again, plus I'm pretty sure most of the saleswomen are almost totally deaf.

Oh, and I didn't focus on my thighs at all...

And Now, The Tears

2011-03-02T19:48:00.006-07:00

One month ago...

Me: I think I am going to dye my hair.
Tara: By yourself?
Me: Yeah.
Tara: Don't.
Me: Why not? I'm not going to do something radically different. It will just blend in when my hair grows out and gets lighter in summer.
Tara: Really, don't.
Me: I don't have time to go to the salon and get it done. And my hairdresser just raised prices again.
Tara: I am warning you.
Me: I can totally do this.
Tara: It will end in tears.

Today...

Sometimes I really hate Tara.

Branching Out

2011-03-01T18:41:00.004-07:00

I am thinking about jumping back into the baby making business. Or at least the attempting to make a baby business. Meg is growing up so quickly, and I think it would be a really wonderful thing for her to have a co-pilot through life. I may not always like my sisters, but I know we have shared history. They have my back. I want Meg to have that.*

However, while I am thinking about trying for another baby, I am not thinking about going back to fertility treatments. This time, I am going to try something I never thought I could do, and still am not sure if I can -- get out of the way and let my body do it's thing. To that end I going to try and do this all through lifestyle changes, and maybe a little acupuncture. It's a plan laid out in the book "Making Babies: A Proven Three Month Program For Maximum Fertility."

This is not going to be easy. Actually trying to make changes instead of just hoping western medicine has the magic bullet never is. I am going need people keeping me honest in order to stay on track. To that end, I have entered into a joint blog venture with Erin and Christina. They are using the program too, and together we will hash it out, overcome the difficulties, and hopefully all end up pregnant.

If not, at least it will be entertaining reading. I hope you will join us at TiredandStuck.blogspot.com.

*I know many of you are thinking "why not adopt again." I wish I could, but that is not financially possible at this time. Not ruling it out in the future though.

Bad Trip

2011-02-28T14:51:00.004-07:00

I have spent the last week sick as a dog, and refusing to go to the doctor. You know, because that's how I roll. I sounded like the love child of Harvey Firestein and Selma from the "The Simpsons," and had no idea how my body was producing so much mucus when it had so little energy to do anything else. I was gross, I was suffering, and the last thing I wanted to be told was that I had "just a cold." We all know there is a whole aisle at the grocery store devoted to treating those. So, to that aisle I went.

First I tried Sudafed. Nothing. Then I coated myself in Vick's Vaporub. Ryan threatened to sleep on the couch, but I still didn't feel better. NyQuil. DayQuil. Mucinex. Nothing, nada, zilch. I was close to the end of my rope when, on Friday, I pulled a bottle of Robitussin off the shelf on my way to work.

I took a dose in the car as I drove. I waited. Nothing. I got to work. I waited. Nothing. After about an hour I decided to take another dose, and see if that did anything. It did. Suddenly I was high as a kite. A kite that still had cold symptoms. I turned to my friend Irinna.

"Irinna, I am totally high," I said.
Laughter.
"Don't laugh, this is serious."
"Well, don't take any more."
"But I still have my cold."
"Don't take any more."

I'm not quite sure how I go through the rest of the day, but I did. On the way out to my car I started to crash, and by the time I got home I had a hangover similar to those I had in my 20's, only worse, because I had no funny memories to go along with it.

The next day I went to the doctor. Damn it. Well, at least the antibiotics she gave me won't lead me to a 12 step program.

There's One in Every Family, Er, Music Class

2011-02-24T18:59:00.004-07:00

Meg is in a music class. She loves it. We love it. It's all about learning melody, and how rhythm manifests itself in the body, and using music to build intelligence. We LOVE it. Every week we go to class and sing along with Meg, and then we go home and listen to a CD of the songs from the class and prepare for next week.

Well, we listen to almost all of the songs. Not the hello song. NEVER the hello song.

In class the hello song is one of my favorites. We go around the room and all of the parents sing hello to all of the children by name. We sing hello to the moms and the dads and the teacher too. It's a lovely community building time. The song on the CD though, is very different. The song on the CD has "Uncle Jerry."

The song on the CD starts out just like in class. They sing hello to the teacher, then to the Moms and Dads, and then, without warning Uncle Jerry comes in. Now, he doesn't do anything wrong, all he sings is "hello, I'm Uncle Jerry." However, every time I hear it I want to scoop Meg up, run away, tell all kids in the area not to take candy from him, and NEVER, EVER sit on Uncle Jerry's lap.

I know, I know, I'm totally songtyping. I'm sure Jerry is actually a very nice man, who teaches music, who was asked to sing on this record, and who just happens not to have kids of his own. Still, did he have to be "Uncle" Jerry? Couldn't he just be "Jerry"? I mean, "Jerry" is your pal who has an above ground pool, or a playful cartoon cat. "Uncle Jerry" has a black van with no windows, and a mysterious reason for having to leave the boy scouts.

I just am grateful he's not the one teaching our class. Bringing a tazer into a class full of kids, even for a good reason, is never smart.

P.S. I am totally featured at Studio 30 Plus today. So, if you want more logic, head over there...

The Days of Our Food

2011-02-22T17:28:00.005-07:00

This weekend we lived like rock stars and cleaned out our kitchen cabinets. I know, you all wish you were me. Actually, I don't mind the quadrennial cleaning, since it gives Ryan and me time to play the game show that is sweeping the nation: "what food has the oldest expiration date!" This time, our two finalists both came from the soup family.

Obviously we don't eat soup. So, which one was it? Well, the travel soup expired in 2005. And the can?

Yep, that soup EXPIRED in 2004. That means I probably bought it in 2000, which also means it moved from Washington D.C. to Utah with me, and then through three apartments before being stuck in our cabinet. I really wasn't sure if we should throw it out, or throw it a party. Of course, that soup would just be an honorable mention if we included spices. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you parsley flakes from 1996.

How do I know the parsley flakes are from 1996? Because I remember buying them when I moved into my first apartment in D.C., thinking I would make garlic bread. I never did. I just made mummified parsley.

Do you think the Smithsonian takes parsley? Maybe I should keep it around, just in case. If it turns out they don't at least I'll know I have an ace in the hole for the 2015 cabinet clean out...

The Secret Recipe

2011-02-17T19:45:00.005-07:00

The television channel has changed! Hurray! No more learning as I try to work out! Hurray, hurray! Oh, and the new television channel has introduced me to my new hero: Judie Byrd.

Isn't she perky? As you can tell, her show is all about cooking -- and cooking fun things to boot! Truly, I don't think she made a single dish she didn't say was fun. Chicken salad? FUN! Cabbage salad? FUN! Noodle salad? FUN! Now, I have only seen the one show, but I am guessing if she thinks salads are fun she is extra pumped about other foods.

Oh, and Judie is not only perky, but adventurous too! Now, don't be too afraid, but one of the salad dressings she made had -- wait for it -- sesame oil. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? HOW DO THEY GET THOSE TINY SEEDS OPEN? Plus, and this may actually make you quiver a little bit, it had rice vinegar too. THAT'S RIGHT, VINEGAR MADE OUT OF RICE! NOT EVEN KIDDING! I was pretty shocked when Judie pulled out these "ingredients," but luckily she let me know that they really weren't all that odd, and that people all over Asia (her implied italics, not mine) use them every day. Asia? I'm just going to have to take her word for it.

While she may use crazy ingredients, don't fret, Judie is all American. Not one of her recipes included less than a half a cup of oil. She even used it to fry those crazy sesame seeds, because we all know while toasting them might make them just as, if not more, delicious, it would also make her a communist. Oh, oh, oh! She also added salt to a dressing that had a third cup of soy sauce in it! Only in America can you get a salad that gives you hypertension.

Seriously, Mr. T should have been hanging his head in shame when his "fat cutting" oven infomercial tried to follow her show. I pitied that fool.

I might now actually miss learning about WWII weapons.

Damn

2011-02-15T13:27:00.001-07:00

I am writing this on an elliptical machine. No, really, I am. I'm working out, sweating, as my fingers type his. How's that for multitasking?

See that picture? Totally proves I'm working out. It's even shaky because ii am aworking so hard.

I know, I know, you're all thinking "why is she blogging while she's working out?" I would love to say it's because this is the only time in my busy schedule, but really, it's because I am so fucking bored.

See that TV? The one in the blurry, proving I'm working out picture? It's on the History channel. It's ALWAYS on the History channel. And I have no idea how to change it. I have looked all over this gym trying to find the damn remote, and it's nowhere. I would change it manually (I know, how quaint) but it's six feet off the floor. I am five foot. There are no step stools. I am not risking my life, standing on a yoga ball for TV.

I mean, at least not today. Maybe tomorrow. As I said, exercise is really boring.

I Don't Get It

2011-02-10T16:22:00.000-07:00

When I was in third grade I couldn't roll my r's.

Everyone else could do it. They would all happily rrrr their way through "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" at song time while I mouthed along until the "caw, caw" part, hoping no one noticed. I would look at their mouths and try to figure out how they were making that sound while I could not. I asked friends who knew about my plight to help me, to show me exactly what to do. Still, I couldn't do it. I remember how left out I felt, and how thinking there was no worse feeling in the world.

I had no idea about the bitch of infertility.

It has now been two years since we stopped actively trying to have a biological child. Ryan and I both decided we don't want to try fertility treatments again. We both could not be happier with the way things turned out in the end with the adoption of Meg. We wouldn't want it any other way. We are both fine with never having a biological child. Still, sometimes that feeling, that left out, "why can't I do that" comes back to haunt me.

Right now I have two friends that are pregnant. One was actively trying not to get pregnant, and the other had just started trying like five minutes ago. Neither one was taking pills, or getting shots, or monitoring their basal temperature, or peeing on everything for signs of fertility. I am absolutely thrilled that neither one of them had to do any of that, and I look forward to the births of their children. Yet, still I wonder "how did they do that?"

I can go through all the reasons in my head for my infertility. PCOS. Irregular cycles. Too many years on birth control. Still, there are people with all of those things that have had children. My doctors told me I was making eggs. I had no "structural factors." Ryan was not a factor. We are pretty sure we are doing it right. What's the problem?

Honestly, I don't think I want to know the answer, even if there is one. I think that might make things worse, possibly luring me back into the world of fertility nightmares to prove "yes I can." My life is too good to even think about going back there.

At least now I can roll my r's. It gives a certain flair when I talk about being inferrrrrrrtile.

Nineteen Months

2011-02-09T06:50:00.001-07:00

It has finally happened: Meg has reached the age where she wants to do everything by herself.

See that balloon? The blue one? Yeah, that one. That is the balloon I tried to help her hold, but she would have none of it. Wouldn't even let me tie it on her wrist. She had to be in control and hold it herself. She did a good job too. I was sure it would slip through her grasp reducing her to a pile of rage and tears, but she held onto that string tight, looking up at her beautiful blue prize, whispering "mine."

Meg has also decided she doesn't want any help eating any more. That's fine when it's something like crackers, or fruit, but a little trickier when she wants to eat yogurt. So far we've managed that by giving her the little squeeze pouches, which she handles with very little mess, but I know the day when nothing but a spoon will do is coming soon. She's already working with utensils to eat less splattable things -- like peas -- so I am hoping her skills will have greatly improved by then.

Meg's cousin Luke continues to be her hero, and she wants to do everything he does -- by herself. If he walks up the stairs, she wants to walk up the stairs. If he plays the drums, she wants to play. If he is eating a sandwich that isn't cut into pieces, you better believe Meg wants hers whole. Meg also wants anything that Luke has, and will follow him asking for "bites" if it is food, or "have it" if it is something else. Luckily, Luke adores Meg and is always willing to share. When I think him for being so great with her he always shrugs and says "she's my cousin." What a great kid.

The most heartrending sign of independence is that Meg no longer wants me to put her to bed. Now when she is ready to go she let's me carry her into her room, but then points at her crib rather than letting me rock her to sleep. She still let's Ryan rock her though, probably because she still fits on his lap. After all, she is already half my height.

So, today it's climbing up in chairs, and wanting to take off her shoes herself. Tomorrow it will be borrowing the car and picking out clothing that I think is ridiculous, but she says is "cool." I just hope time slows down a little between now and then. I can't believe it's already been 19 months.

Oh, how we love our girl.

The Truth Hurts

2011-02-06T15:18:00.006-07:00

I think we can all agree that sexism is everywhere. No one says anything about it, and we all try to act like it isn't there, but it is -- and it starts early. Kitchen sets have little girls in the ads, while trucks have little boys. The doll isle is all pink and features "little mommy" slogans. The action figures are on aisles filled with blue "tough guy" slogans. Nothing implicit is said about toy only being for girls or for boys, but it's all implied.

Thank God for Fisher Price. They totally cut through the bullshit. Ladies and gentlemen (mostly gentlemen) I give you the hammer...

Yep, this hammer is for boys. BOYS! No girl better try to touch it, even if she is 3 to 18 months. A girl baby wouldn't even know what to do with the power of this hammer rattle, and trying to figure it out could cause serious problems! She might break a nail, and we all know about the problems of baby nails.

Of course, Fisher Price realizes that while girls shouldn't -- no, CAN'T -- play with hammers, they know that they are still at least 50 percent of the toy buying market. They had to create something for them too. After all, girls can be so pouty if they feel they aren't getting enough attention.

BAM! Yep, that's right -- a diamond ring! I mean, come on, isn't that what every baby girl wants? Of course, it would be better if it was given to her by a boy baby, but it's fine as a gift from her parents in order to remind her what's she's reaching for in life: a real ring from a boy, that hopefully knows how to swing a hammer.

I am just so proud of Fisher Price for saying what every other multi-national toy company is thinking: that boys should do things, and girls should stand by and look pretty until boys are ready to pay attention to them. If they get any more truthful they'll have to call their next collection the "fuck you Gloria Steinem, get back in the kitchen" teaching toys.

No, I won't be buying any of them. Probably no other Fisher Price toys either. Regardless, though, I do appreciate their honesty.

The Suction Shack

2011-02-02T18:33:00.011-07:00

No, it's not what you think. Sickos.

Meg has had a snotty nose since January 3rd. I know the day it started, because that is the day we all ended our holiday vacation bliss. The first day Meg was back at daycare she greeted me with a booger filled nose when I picked her up. Her first post-break gym and music classes just multiplied the problem. By the end of that week Ryan and I were armed with tissues at all times, all three of our bulb aspirators were continually in the dishwasher, we had bought enough Vicks products to have stock in the company, and Meg looked like she was sporting a bright red mustache because of all the wiping. We figured once all of the germs were once again acquainted with her body, the snot would stop.

We were wrong.

We went to the doctor. She said Meg just had a snotty nose.

Things continued to get worse and worse, despite our growing arsenal of defenses. In addition to the vapor rub, we added vapor baths and vapor steam at night. We started wiping hands and everything else down with sanitizer at every opportunity. We stopped using normal tissues for lotion ones, and began slathering Meg's face in Aquaphor so the skin would not end up peeling off.

I took Meg back to the doctor yesterday. The other parents in the waiting room looked at me like I had brought really gross napalm in the room. I understood, but having wiped her nose 3 seconds before, and knowing I was going to have to do it three seconds later, I figured they could cut me some slack.

This time the doctor had answers: Meg had an ear infection, as well as a mild case of bronchiolitis. She needed antibiotics, and a trip to the "suction shack." It took everything I had in me not to ask why she wanted me to take Meg to a gay bar. She got the last laugh though when she told me what it really was, and that I was going to have to take my baby -- MY BABY -- to the hospital to have her nose and chest sucked out.

I'm not even going to go into the panic I suffered in the next 24 hours. I worried about how it could scar her psychically if we did it, and that it could lead to pneumonia if we didn't. I called everyone we know to get a second opinion, and my Mom to get her opinions on all the opinions. I monitored everything coming out of Meg's nose, hoping it was decreasing. Then I noticed that while I focused on my suffering, I had forgotten about Meg's -- and the fact she needed this to end -- NOW. I called and made the appointment. Ryan, worried I might pas out, or punch someone, said he would meet us there.

Honestly, the worst part of the "suction shack" was the stupid sign on the door. Apparently "outpatient respiratory therapy" isn't cute enough, so handmade sign with it's nickname and a picture of a "Gilligan's Island" house adorns the door. I was not amused.

The treatment itself was really quick. A tube up the nose, suction, and done. Meg wasn't pleased, of course, but no more upset than when we use the bulb aspirator. The stuff that came out of her was really impressive. I mean, if you are into that kind of stuff.

Oh, and now? She can breathe. We've only wiped her nose once since then.

I don't know if I'm ready to give up the Vicks, though. I've really started liking the smell.

Jesus Isn't Laughing

2011-01-31T17:01:00.007-07:00

Dear person who keeps leaving the Book of Mormon on my desk,

Knock it off.

Five times now I have come into the office to find the book on my desk. Five times now I have moved it, telling everyone around me it is a spare copy that landed on my desk the first time by happenstance, and that it is up for grabs. Five times now I have moved it off my desk.

I do not want to do any of this a sixth time.

If you are trying to get me to read the book, just know that I already have. I've lived in Utah my whole life, do you really think I've gone this long without reading it? Don't worry, if I suddenly decide to convert, I'm sure I will be able to find another copy.

If you are doing this as a joke, please know I'm not laughing. Once again, this is Utah, so my office has lots of Mormons. If it looks like I'm making light of their religious beliefs, that could mean trouble for me. I have enough trouble at the office as it is, and I like being able to pay my bills. So, let's find something else to joke about -- like Republicans. Wait, no, not Republicans, that wouldn't go over well either. How about puppies?

Is it a deal?

I have a book you can swear on to make it official...

Libby

Four Year Old Memory Shark

2011-01-27T17:56:00.005-07:00

I think we all know the only reason to play a game with a child is the secret knowledge that any time we could crush them. Yes, yes, we play games to foster creativity, and for interaction, but what is really enjoyable about it is that we know we are letting them win, and that at any moment we could snatch that away from them and leave them crying. It's sad, but it's true, and it has made Parker Brothers millions of dollars. It's only when that knowledge leaves us that the games are no longer fun.

That is what happened to me last night.

It was all so tempting. A new memory game featuring brightly colored candy, a warm sitting room, a fire in the fireplace, and, best of all, a bright eyed four year old girl. I thought I would sit, drink wine, talk to my friend (the unwitting child's mother), and magnanimously let her win, all the while enjoying my benevolence. Really, could you pass that up? I thought not.

I didn't really pay attention during the first game. It was all so fast, and I was drinking wine. The next thing I knew it was all over, and I had only three pairs: circus peanuts, candy necklaces, and some sort of nonpareil. Not only had she beaten me, but she had only let me take the crappiest candy on the board.

She wanted to play again, so I took the challenge. I put down my wine glass and concentrated on the board. Every move she made I watched, trying to burn the location of every candy into my brain. I started wondering why the hell we need so many types of candy in the world. I began to imagine that some of them had to be made up. The child started to make chewing noises every time she turned over another pair, letting my know she was not only eating candy, but my self-esteem as well. I wasn't going to let her swallow it whole.

I picked up red licorice. She picked up Good and Plenty. I picked up peanut brittle. She took candy corn. Lollipops. Taffy. Some kind of candy that looked like rabbit turds. One that looked like Czech cough drops. The cards were flying fast and furious. Finally, only four remained -- and it was my turn.

I turned over the first card -- jelly slices. I knew exactly where it was. I had seen it at least 20 times during the game. Also, there were only four cards left. I grabbed the second card and deftly turned it over revealing gummy -- wait for it -- WORMS.

The chomping noises she made while gathering up the last cards still ring in my ears.

The worst part of the story? At the end of each game, in order to name the winner, we had to stack our cards next to each other. Once stacked the four year old, who now appeared to have the eyes of a demon would say "look Libby, mine's bigger." Not only did she win multiple times, but she publicly shamed me too.

On my way out the door, my friend patted me on the shoulder. "She always beats me too," she said. I know she was trying to make me feel better, but I swear I heard a hint of pride in her voice.

My memory training starts now. Retribution will be mine. Oh yes, yes it will.

Family Can Be Fun

2011-01-24T17:25:00.003-07:00

I work with my Dad. I don't know if I have mentioned that before, but I probably haven't because it isn't something I like to readily bring up. I mean, the minute I say that everyone thinks I got my job through nepotism, rather than hard work and lots of sucking up. So, there's that, oh, and the fact my Dad's restraining order only allows me to mention him in my blog a limited number of times a year.

It's always interesting to watch new people try to piece together exactly what our relationship is. I've had people tell me, when looking at pictures of Meg, that Tommy (my Dad) has an adopted granddaughter as well, and maybe I should talk to him about it. I've had people ask why we go to lunch together so often. I've had people who see us outside the office together widen their eyes and do double takes, unsure if they are seeing something illicit. One time I had a new co-worker come up to me and say "did you know Tommy has a picture of you in his office?" I put on my best shocked face. "Does he have one of you too," I asked. I let her off the hook then, but for a moment it was glorious.

Last Monday the most recent hire was being shown around the newsroom, and it was my time to be introduced.

"Have you met Tommy," I asked, knowing that my Dad is his boss. "What a jerk."

"Really?" His eyes became the size of saucers. Why was I saying this? Was I disgruntled? Or crazy? Or really concerned about him?

"Oh, yeah. Stay away from him as much as you can. Nothing but bad news."

He turned and started to walk away. One of my co-workers came up and took his arm, speaking low, letting him in on the joke. He turned, looking back at me. I smiled, and waved. He shook his head, both relieved and annoyed.

I picked up the phone to call my Dad in his office to tell him the story. He groaned.

My Mom thought it was funny though.

Fear of Silence

2011-01-20T17:46:00.007-07:00

I talk, a lot. Now, I know you're thinking "oh, everyone thinks they talk a lot," but let me tell you now, they are wrong. The story in my family goes that I didn't start talking until I was almost three, and I haven't stopped since. I can't help myself. I really love to talk. When I am not talking to someone, or something, I am talking to myself. When I am not talking to myself I am talking to imaginary people, having conversations I think we would have, if we ever met. I talk in the shower. I talk back to the TV and the radio and the computer. I talk in my sleep. I talk, a lot.

I am not just telling you I talk a lot to have something to talk about. I mean, that sounds like something I would do (and in another time and place I probably will), but today I actually have a point. You see, one of my Internet friends, Jennifer, is suffering my greatest nightmare: she is being forced to be silent. She has been doing this for 15 days, and is supposed to be doing this for 15 more. I can only imagine the horror.

Seriously, since I started following her odyssey into silence I think about it constantly. My recurring nightmares of not being able to talk (see, I wasn't just being hyperbolic) have been happening more frequently. I monitor how long it has been since I have said a word, and wonder if I could double, or triple that time. The obvious answer is, no, I can not; and each time I start talking again I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

Thank goodness Jennifer has an awesome blog where she can vent. I just hope that, unlike me, she doesn't have to read her posts aloud and discuss them with the air as she writes. Or, if she does, that the air reads lips.

God speed, Jennifer. I would love to promise you I will keep silent out of solidarity, but I think we all know that would just be talk...

In The Event of My Death

2011-01-18T05:27:00.004-07:00

I am getting to the age where I am attending funerals on a more regular basis. I mean, not weekly or anything, but more than I have in the past. They are funerals for parents of friends, or friends of parents, and, while none of these people are ancient, no one at theses events says things like "they were just so young," or "what a tragic accident." Like most people at funerals, I usually stop thinking about the deceased pretty early into the service, and start thinking about myself. More specifically though, I start thinking about my funeral, and how I really don't want it to be so boring people stop thinking about me, and start thinking about themselves.

To that end, I am laying down these ground rules, to be followed at my funeral/memorial service/shooting of my ashes and/or frozen head into space:

1. Drinks and food will be served before, during and after. No one is going to have to sit through the whole thing in order to get a glass of wine. In fact, I think the whole thing should start off with a drink. Also, if someone needs a nosh right in the middle, I don't want them having to dig through their purse for a stale breath mint. Nope, not at my funeral.

2. No one gets to speak for more than four minutes. Let's face it, brevity is wit; and I don't want my funeral to be anything other than witty. I figure that four minutes allows people who really knew and loved me to share something from their hearts without getting maudlin, or saying something unintentionally mean. It also is short enough that people who are just attending out of courtesy don't feel they are being held hostage.

3. The words "she loved life" must not be uttered. I mean, duh. Of course I loved life, that's why I stuck around as long as I did. Also, I didn't love life all the time, no one does. If anyone has to use such platitudes, they probably don't even need four minutes to talk about me, and should be made to stop talking immediately. Oh, in this same vein, if I die of some horrible disease, no one is allowed to say I "fought valiantly." I know me. I probably fought whinily, and bitchily, so that's how I want to be remembered.

4. No pictures, please. If people don't know what I looked like, then why the hell are they at my funeral? Also, I don't want them to feel like I'm watching them, and making sure they are grieving properly. I mean, I will be; I just don't want them to know.

That's all I can think of right now. I mean, I'm sure I'll have more ideas later, but I think you get the general idea. Of course, in the end, no one actually has to follow any of these rules. They could have a five hour ordeal, filled with Hallmark card sentiments, no bar, and my picture printed on napkins, and there would be nothing I could do about it.

After all, I'll be dead.

Doctors of the Round Table

2011-01-13T18:40:00.006-07:00

A friend of mine found this flier hanging up at work.

Yes, that's right, it is a flier for "medieval" sword fighting lessons, taught by a person who admits he has been he has been doing this since he was 12, and is now much older than 15. It is an invitation to revel in geekdom -- in a public park.

Now, as much as I would just like to roll my eyes, do some light mocking, and then move on with a "to each their own" shrug, I can't. You see, there are several things about this flier that scare me. First, there's the fact the friend you found this is a doctor, and he found this in the doctor's lounge. Second, there is the fact some of the tabs on the bottom have been taken. This means there could be an abundance of health care professionals are spending their weekends beating each other with Nerf swords in the park. That should scare everyone out there. Doctors could be making life and death decisions -- with the help of 12 sided dice.

Still, I guess I would prefer this to Twilight fans in the operating rooms. You know they're just there for the blood...