Going for the Toes

Ava's really getting into the Olympics. She even staged her own event.

The Challenge


So Close


The Agony of the Feet


Try, Try Again


She's Got It!


The Thrill of Victory


Well, That Was Just Silly

About a Butt

Parenting is a continual process of letting go, a series of gains and losses metered out over months and years. At least, that's been my experience so far.

I thought of this the other day, when Ben was having some trouble, trouble with a certain itch. I told him to get one of Ava’s wipes and use that, but he wanted me to do it. This is probably not appropriate to talk about on the Web, what with the anu$ being private and all. But what the hell.

As I prepared to wipe, there was this awkwardness between us, a new awkwardness, one I hadn't experienced with any of my kids before. He's a kindergartner now, and for Ben, kindergarten will go down as the year his butt became his own.

Offspring butt intimacy begins at birth. At first it doesn’t even look like a butt, being so bony and all. It looks like a chicken butt, and not even a Perdue. Then the butt gets plump and, if you’re lucky, it developes rolls and cellulite. (If this happens, the danger of offspring butt obsession becomes very real. If you think you have this problem, seek help.)

During this stage, wiping baby's butt seems strangely normal, like wiping your own butt: not pleasant, but not enough to make you gag. Usually.

Then the poops become more adult, the body attached to the butt grows into a tantruming Pull-Up addict who screams “I’m DOOOOONE!” just after you get the baby to sleep. So it loses its allure, and you just can’t wait to be done wiping it because it also seems to epitomize every injustice and indignity of motherhood.

Then your 5 ½ year old son asks you to wipe his butt due to a particular problem, and you feel like strangers with his butt. You realize you haven't wiped his butt in six months or more. You sense this new awkwardness between you and your first born, specifically, his palpable annoyance that he has to have his mom wipe his butt. He’s his own man, with his own butt, despite this momentary indignity.

Wasn't it just yesterday when he clung to my legs and loved me so much, and I wiped his butt 20 damned times a day? And now here he is pulling away from me in so many ways, one of which is butt ownership.

Parenting is a continual process of letting go, a series of gains and losses metered out over months and years. I thought of this the other day, and thanked God for finally giving me a loss I can really get behind.

My Site's Design: An Internet Parable

Since this site's design got nominated for a Share the Love Blog Award, I am pausing to give proper thanks and applause to Weblog Design for this beautiful template. Let me share the story of how it became the face of Wonder Mom.

Once upon a time, when I read just three blogs (Discount Satori, Mom-Blog and Dooce) as opposed to the 50 I read today, when I had no concept of how one put anything on the Web, I searched the Web for site templates. I found this template, for free, at Weblog Design. I downloaded it, saved it, and continued having no concept.

A few months later, I asked Gina about starting a site, and she told me about Blogger and Typepad. I chose Blogger, because, duh, it's free, and started this blog the next night. During the next several months of blog surfing, my cluelessness only intensified.

All the blogs I saw, the ones by grandmothers and school children and federal prisoners, all had interesting or at least unique designs. Any notion of myself as techologically savvy withered and died. I began asking everyone -- moms at playdates, the assistant at Ben's preschool -- "When did everyone become a freaking Web designer?" or "How come 16 year olds who can't spell have have pretty Web sites and I can't figure out how to put my picture in the sidebar?" To which I of course received blank stares and worried offers of tea.

After months of using a basic Blogger template, parading my Web-backwardness for all Internet surfers to see, I got smart: In my 100 things list I mentioned my beautiful template, and my cluelessness.

Within a few weeks, Julie, an Internet Good Samaritan, came to my aid. She selflessly gave of her time and brain cells to help me, a mere stranger with an offensive Web site design. Within a week, during Thanksgiving even, she got it working! She even helped me work out the kinks, charming me with her sweet and kind ways, despite my persistent cluelessness.

So, there you have it: a timeless tale of Internet synchronicity. The moral? If you want something, ask for it and you'll get it. On the Internet. For free.

How nice not to have to be all self-deprecating about this nomination. I mean, come on, it's classy, eye catching, and I had nothing whatsoever to do with any of it. Wait, I did have the good taste to download it, and ask for help to get it set up. For that, I've celebrated by letting myself eat as much Valentine's day candy every day since discovering the nomination. See, I'm a winner already! If I get any more nominations, I'll have to inquire at Russel Stover about their frequent binger program.

Congrats to Weblog Design! You can vote here until tomorrow night.

(I'm not sure why the Share the Love image to the right won't link to the site. See? Still clueless.)

Aftermath

Yesterday was kind of hard. My mom watched the kids while I went to my MOPs group, so I stopped by the old, beloved preschool to pick up John's portfolio and drop off our registration payment for next fall. As soon as I walked in, my heart got heavy. I told the director an abridged version of the debacle that ensued at his new school, hoping she'd say, "Oh what the hell, we'll squeeze him back in." Wouldn't that have been great? But, no.

The director told me to tell John that they miss him. His old teacher told me to tell him that too, a few weeks ago. I just hadn't had the heart to do it. I mean, why rub salt in his wound?

They included some pictures of John in his portfolio, taken at their Halloween party. Oh, the joy in his eyes, and the tears in mine. Driving home I kept thinking, "See how far away this is? This is why you did this, Kris." But of course I hit every green light and got home faster than ever before, as if the cosmos wanted to remind me that I'm a big shit head for taking him out.

Later in the afternoon, the kids and I walked to the park then around the block and by Ben's school. We passed Ben's classroom windows and, mistake No. 1, I pointed that out.

"There's your classroom, Ben."

"Yeah, and there's John's classroom."

"No, not anymore, that's not John's class."

"Why?"

I reminded him why, and John said, "Yeah, I want to go to the red room, that's where I want to go."

"Oh, honey, you miss the red room, I know." Then, before I knew it, I made mistake No. 2: "They miss you at the red room, too," I said, slapping my hand over my mouth as the last words rolled off my tongue. I panicked, I began singing John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt -- really loud -- but it didn't work. He'd heard me.

"Well, do you know what Mama?!" he implored. "Do you know why they miss me?! They miss me because YOU WON'T LET ME GO TO THE RED ROOM!"

And right there, on the pavement outside the evil preschool, John cried the hardest he has yet over this whole disaster. I hugged him, biting my lip. "Of course you're upset, honey, of course you are. I'm sorry. You'll have lots of fun at your new school, you'll see. And next year ... "

Well, next year doesn't help very much right now, does it.

As much as this story is "over" from my point of view, with all assessments performed, decisions made and new schools found, John is still reeling. The car has stopped spinning, the glass has been swept up off the street. But new aches and pains still appear with each day, the loss more fully realized.

Aw, hell, he'll recover. He'll be fine, especially once he gets going in his new school (which, God help me, won't start for over a week). But, yeah, I still feel like a big shithead. What you don't know is that Ben had a similar preschool debacle, caused by me, the chooser of evil preschools. I'll tell you the Ben story soon.

Unlike John, Ben was just over three and forgot about the whole thing. John, on the other hand, will probably be telling me off about this until he's 16. Oh, I'm kidding. I'm sure we'll give him something even better to complain about long before then.

Preschool Switcheroo

My latest post is up at DotMoms. I figured I'd give John the last word on this one.

After Christmas, we took John out of the preschool program he loved ...

Share the Love Blog Awards

The woman behind One Woman's World has decided to, bless her heart, run a blog contest: Share the Love Blog Awards. Hat's off to her because, as you might suspect, this is no easy endeaver.

Wonder Mom got nominated for best site design, which is pretty cool! And pretty funny, considering some of the competition. But, hey! It's the site's first award nomination! So, thanks to whoever nominated my site for this category.

This contest has some interesting categories, such as "Most Meetable in Real Life," "Happiest Blog," "Makes Me Want to Have Kids," and "Learn Something New Every Day." So go check it out. You're bound to find even more blogs to lure you away from your daily responsibilities. I know I did.

Oh, Yeah, He's Outta There

So let's bring a much-awaited end to this long and winding (or is that, long-winded?) story.

John never went back. When I spoke with his teacher on the phone, it went like this:

Me: It’s not working out for John, he’s miserable. We’re taking him out of the program (tone: sympathetic but unapologetic).

Teacher: Oh? Really (tone: genuine surprise).

Me: Yeah. We want him in a program that emphasizes play (tone: matter of fact).

Teacher: Well, we have an hour of play built into the program (tone: dismissive, as in, “P’shaw, not enough play -- what do you know?”).

Teacher: I suggest that when you look for a new program for John, you find one with structure and routine, because that’s really important, and he really struggles with that (tone: concerned, smiling).

Me: John went to another school during the fall, which had plenty of structure and routine, and he did great (tone: I could tell you off right now, but I'm biting my lip hard enough to make it bleed and I will just say this ...”)

Me: John LOVED his old school, but he was miserable in your program. When I visited your class, I didn’t see any fun. The reason we want John in school right now is to have fun and be three --

Teacher: Well, this program works for plenty of kids. We have structure and routine to get the kids ready for kindergarten. Our program emphasizes kindergarten readiness (tone: "I'm talking over you") ...

Me: That’s why we decided to cut it now. John was miserable, and I’m sure you have a waiting list (tone: this conversation’s over).

Teacher: Well, I’m sorry. It works for lots of kids (tone: smiling, almost laughing in fact, as in, "It’s you/John, not the program").

Me: OK, bye (tone: can't hang up fast enough).

It really gets me that the program's designed for kids with developmental delays of some sort, for example, with speech, fine motor, gross motor or social skills. I have to wonder how these kids will be helped along by a program that allows no play, speech or movement for long periods of time. I'm sure these three to four year olds need preparation for kindergarten. But I guarantee you that pretending they're in kindergarten already sets them back instead of moving them forward. Look at John! He became 3 again after just one class!

But now, the good news: I gathered recommendations and four out of the five preschools I called can accept John right away. I've narrowed it down to two. One has an exceptionally warm, enthusiastic and creative staff. He'll love it as much or more than his old school. The other has a better schedule, a bigger facility, and I know tons of women who've sent their kids there (a few would be in John's class). I tried to get John registered for this very class last spring, but they could only offer a waiting list. So I went with the preschool 20 minutes away, the one Ben had gone to and loved.

Tomorrow, I hope to have my last tour and make a decision. Let's hope I don't destroy my son's happiness and upset the equilibrium of the entire family during cold and flu season again, at least not now.

And that concludes the Preschool Debacle of 2006. When I meet with the principal, I will try to update. I hope I can convey my experience persuasively, so that he's left with a feeling that there is a problem he must fix.

Thanks for the advice, and for listening!

The Preschool Debacle of 2006: Part 3

The last installment left us at story time. At this point, the kids have been sitting still for the 40 minutes since they arrived, except for a two-minute dance to Raffi’s “Shake Your Wiggles Out.”

9:25: The Meanie reads, her words punctuated by “Shhh,” her index finger flying to her lips. “Quiet!”

She says “Ssshh!” at least 12 times in five minutes. She’s also reading a lift-the-flap book to a group, which doesn't make sense to me.

Toward the end of the book, she asks, “Does this girl look happy?” Then, as the kids start to answer she slaps her finger to her lips: “Ssshh!” Doesn’t that remind you of the old Steven Wright joke about the dog named “Stay”? “Come ‘ere, Stay! Come ‘ere, Stay!”

9:25: John’s chosen for snack duty. He goes to the sink with the Assistant to wash his hands, while the other kids sit on their mats. (Sit, quiet, wait.)

After John washes his hands, he goes back to the circle, where his friends wait. He stands with the Meanie, who helps him call each friend individually. Each child then goes to wash their hands and find a seat for snack.

He's then led to the tables. The Teacher has a stack of napkins and tells John he will help hand them out. He tries to get the stack from her, but she hands him one at a time. They hand out 14 napkins this way, then repeat the whole process with plastic cups.

This snack preparation ritual takes nearly 10 minutes. Perhaps if John were handing out the napkins and cups himself, I could see the educational benefit. But as it stands, I do not see the value in taking a cup from the teacher’s hand and moving it 10 inches to the table top. The process is a waste of time, and more unecessary sitting and waiting for the kids.

9:33: I put my coat on, yet the Teacher, the Assistant and the Meanie still ignore me. “Good-bye Teacher, thank you!” I say loudly, trying not to sound pissed. This is VERY DIFFICULT. “Oh, bye,” she says, glancing halfway toward me over her shoulder.

I push open the door, my brows furrowed. John had not played or babbled or guffawed for a whole hour -- none of the kids had. Biting my lip hard, I see all the tantrums, tears and difficulties of the last five weeks flash before my eyes, the reason for most of them now crystal clear. "Sorry kiddo," I think, as I walk home.

11:00: I stand at the bottom of the stairs waiting for John to come out. The Meanie brings him onto the landing. It's cold and blustery outside, but John has no hat or mittens on. He's upset.

"Where's your hat?" she says, flipping his hood up and attaching the Velcro tab beneath his chin. "There you go." She pats him on the back, and he starts down the stairs, fighting tears.

This isn't the first time he's come out hatless and crying, saying the teachers wouldn't let him put his hat and mittens on. See, John has his method: He must put his hat and mittens on first, then his coat. He can do the whole thing himself, with zippering. They've known him for five weeks now, yet they still cannot let him do it his way.

"What's the matter, hon?" I say, within earshot of the Meanie, who ignores me. "Where's your hat and mittens, in your backpack? Let me get them for you." I take them out and hand them to him. He carefully puts them on as he whimpers, then he puts his hand in mine, and we walk home.

Later: When I ask John what he did after I left, he says they had painting. "So, you painted?" I ask.

"No, I wasn't allowed to."

"Why not."

"Only the other kids could."

He tells me that he tried to play with the Rescue Heros, too, but couldn't.

"So, what did you do?" I ask.

"Nothing."

Somehow, that doesn't surprise me.

Predicting Survivor

“Look, they just won all that fishing gear. Who do you think will lose something?”

“Him. Wait, no, he’s a fighter pilot. No, it'll be her. What the heck are those things on her legs? And will she please put some pants on?"

“There she is, on the boat. The set up’s in place. Will it happen? She just dropped the spear! She dropped it!”

“Well, that didn't take long. Will ya look at that, it's gone. Sucks to be her.”

"Man, this show's so predictable now."

The Winner Is ....

On Tuesday, I promised a copy of Literary Mama's anthology to a lucky commenter.

Congrats to Jaime! Please send me your address at clouth@gmail.com.

First Teeth

What's On the Menu?

It's picture day over at DotMoms. Go check it out!

P.S. I know I promised a post on my teether addiction today, but between visiting preschools and getting ready to go out tonight, I ran out of time. We're going to see INXS tonight. The last concert I went to was, I think, Smashing Pumpkins in the mid-90s. Billy Corigan had a cold and sounded like crap. Let's hope tonight goes better!

The Preschool Debacle of 2006: Part 2

Sorry, the last post was a bit dramatic. No, they don’t string the kids up and whip them. But, no, the program is not appropriate for three-to-four year olds.

I recorded every detail. This may put you in a bored stupor, and I'm not even done. My suggestion? Scan it for the interesting parts. You have been warned.

Because this happened in the public school, I plan to meet with the principal. That’s why I wanted to write it all down. By next week, I will have boiled this all down in my brain so I can speak to him coherently and not rattle on like I'm about to here.

The last post left me sitting by the computers, offering me a fly-on-the-wall view of circle time.

8:32: The kids come in with their parents, hang their coats and head over to the semi-circle, where they find their name on a 12”x12” vinyl mat on the floor, and sit. They may not pick up a toy or a book, they may not stray from their mat.

Within a minute, the Meanie discovers Michael* playing with a toy alligator he got off the shelf behind him. “No! Put that back. You know better,” she admonishes, pulling the toy from his hands.

The kids sit, silent, and wait.

8:40: The Teacher finds her way over to her chair to hold court over the circle, while the Assistant and the Meanie sit on chairs on either side. I stare at the Teacher, expecting her to acknowledge me: a smile, a nod, eye contact – something! But she ignores me, which pisses me off. She never even tells the children who I am, so every once in a while I get wide-eyed stares, which I answer with a broad smile and a little wave.

Circle time begins with roll call. The teacher calls each name and the children answer, “Hi!”

The third girl, Sarah, says, “Hi!” Pause. “Hi!”

“Only once, Sarah,” the Teacher tells her. No room for spontaneous hello’s here.

8:45: The Teacher chitchats about different things (who’s back from being sick, how's he feeling, who’s out today) to the kids, who sit and listen. The Teacher, the Assistant and the Meanie start small talking with each other. The kids wait.

8:50: Everyone stands for the pledge of allegiance. The Teacher talks about the calendar and the weather and assigns various jobs. One is for an “office helper,” who gets to choose a friend to walk to the office with him. John’s upset that the office helper doesn't choose him, despite his please of “Choose me! Choose me!” (He tells me later that in five weeks he never got to go to the office.) The office pair leaves the class unsupervised (?), returning full of giggles a few minutes later. This was the only giggling I heard during my visit.

The Teacher says certain words to certain kids and asks them to repeat them. (This is a public preschool with some developmentally delayed kids.)

Twenty minutes in and the kids are still quiet, listening, sitting on their squares, speaking only when spoken to. I’m creeped out by the still, silent three and four year olds, and and I’m so bored by the teacher’s pace and saccharine monotone that I find myself checking the clock every minute.

From my vantage point, John appears to be sitting still, too, but since 9:30 the Assistant has whispered to him three different times. The third time he plasters his hands over his ears.

I realize John won’t be back and contemplate leaving. I don't, though, because I told John I’d stay until snack time, and I don’t want to upset him. Plus, I may as well stay and see what I can see.

8:55: The children stand, and the Teacher plays Raffi’s “Shake Your Sillies Out.” (They do this every day, I know because it’s the only thing John’s mentioned doing in school besides Rescue Heroes.) John gets spoken to for wiggling off his mat. He stands when instructed to fall to the floor, and falls when told to stand. His last bit of defiance.

9:00: The “Language Arts” Specialist takes over. The Meanie tells the kids to, “Go to your seats and sit with your hands folded.” They go, unsmiling.

9:00-9:20: The kids paste pictures into a book. “Pick up the mom, paste her here; pick up the dad, paste him there; pick up the bear ...” This is not an exercise in creative expression.

The Teacher approaches John. “You didn’t put enough glue,” she says, grabbing his glue stick. “The picture will fall right out!” She smears a bunch of glue on the white page, sticks the picture on and tells John to press it down. John – my John who insists on doing everything himself and barely even let me feed him as a baby – looks pissed but doesn’t say a word.

The Specialist comes by and tells John he’s doing it wrong, he should put the glue on the back of the picture, not on the book’s page, as the Teacher told him. In a normal setting, John would have said, “Well, the other teacher told me to do it this way.” But he says nothing.

With the books finished, a few kids begin to stand but are shushed and directed back to their seats. The Teacher reads the book while the kids look bored and distracted, then instructs them to put their books into their back packs.

As he walks to his cubby, Michael stretches his arms out at his sides, like an airplane, but not all the way up. The Teacher’s right on top of him. “Arms down!” He complies, but runs a few steps while going back to his seat. “No running, Michael!” the Meanie says tersely.

9:20: The Teacher sends the kids back to their square mats. They first to arrive must wait for the others to get there and for story time to start. (Sit, quiet, wait.)

Michael’s sitting on the bench next to Julie. They’re playing, pulling each other’s arms. The Meanie notices and tells them to stop it. “Michael, THAT’S not where you were sitting, get on your assigned mat.” She sounds very disgusted. “You, too, Julie. Let’s go.”

I’m disgusted too.

Within a minute, Michael’s in trouble again, “Don’t do that, don’t put that in your mouth,” Meanie tells him. I can’t see what he’s doing. “HEY!” she snaps, leaning in, glaring, getting her mean on. “Don’t you make a face at me,” she hisses. “When I say don’t do something you say, ‘OK.’” She changes her tone from mean to sweet with the OK, which only serves to punctuate just how mean she sounded to begin with.

I scowl at her. She doesn’t look at me, though I will her to.

*All names have, of course, been changed.

Coming in Part 3: Story time (ssshhh!), snack time (more sitting and waiting) and my exit, graceful as always. Plus! John's in tears when I pick him up, again!

The Preschool Debacle of 2006: Part 1

I visited John’s preschool. When I showed up to stand in the hallway with the other moms and kids, waiting to be granted admittance, I peered into the classroom. When asked by another mother if I saw something, I said, “No, I’m just wondering why we’re still in the hallway.” A little too loud.

You see, class starts at 8:30. When I signed in at the office, I checked the clock: It was 8:30. Yet, here we were, in the frigging hallway.

The thing is, class starts at 8:30 and, call me a stickler but, maybe if they didn’t have the kids out the door at 10:55 when class isn’t even over until 11, I wouldn’t bitch.

But they do.

They heard me, I realize now, and they let their vengeance be known. Who are “they”? The Teacher, the Assistant, and the Meanie.

They never even seem busy inside. Brian’s seen them eating breakfast; I’ve seen the assistant with yogurt and a spoon, on the phone or gabbing while we wait in the hall.

Red Flag No. 1: They're hanging, not readying. They’re stalling the inevitable rush of three year olds and parents into “their” domain.

Finally, we got the O.K. I went in, helped John hang up his coat and put his snack on the shelf above. I looked around, saw nothing amiss. I recognized the young blonde as the language specialist. The lead teacher had told me on the phone the day before that I’d see “language art” and, “It’s pretty neat!”

So preparing for “neat,” I divulged my observer status to the specialist and wondered aloud where I’d be out of the way. She showed me how the cubby chair turns on its side for taller guests, but I opted for a chair by the computers, affording me a fly-on-the-wall view of the circle time.

Let me just say that the next hour found me insulted enough to spit, biting back tears, wanting to leave (because What’s the point? He’s out here!), and willing the Teacher, Assistant or Meanie to look at me so I could give them the facial equivalent of the finger.

Sure sure, I will be long winded on this one, but I have to share what I saw there. The sad part is that some kids still have to go there.

More tonight ...

Blog Book Tour: Literary Mama

When I started reading Literary Mama: Reading for the Maternally Inclined last month, I dutifully took notes on which pieces I wanted to highlight when the blog tour stopped here. But then, I found myself writing down every single one.

• "Dear Friend," a mom talking about life with her disabled son.

• "Evolution of a Muse." This one I thought was written just for me. It's about a writer who becomes a mom and, at first, this puts the kabash on her writing. Then, as so many of us have experienced, her child becomes her muse, and she remembers to "go and write it down."

• "Analyzing Ben," a mom marvels at the differences between her son and her daughter.

• "The Gift," in which a mom becomes frightened and awed by her daughters artistic gifts, but ultimately is inspired to nurture who own inner child and her own gifts.

• "Forecasts," a beautifully drawn memoir of growing up with alcoholic parents.

Usually I'm not a big poetry buff, but these poems, oh, these poems:

• "Beautiful Daughter": "Some of her flies away at the least touch like wild horses; some of her stays."

• "Matermorphosis," a poem about a woman's journey from seduction to motherhood.

• "Son of a Bitch," on how a mom pushed her son out of herself, then out of her life.

• "The Impatient Mother," a poem I want to mount on my desk and read daily, so I can call it to mind whenever I feel hurried or PMS-y with my kids.

• "Namaste," a mom's quiet bedtime wishes for her child.

• "The Blue Snake Lies Curled in My Bowl Like Oatmeal." I love this:
"But these five years are spent, idle, and gone
with but a handful of poems to show.
No publications from Antaeus to Xanadu,
but you, my poemchild,
whose smile is all my sonnets."

See? I told you! I could go on and on. I will try not to gush. Yes, I love this book. I love it so much that it has earned an esteemed spot on the "Do Not Give Away" section of my bookshelves.

But I will have to spring for another copy. Why, you ask? Because the book earned not just my love but my enthusiasm. Yes, I have become a Literary Mama evangelist. In other words, I'm giving my copy away to a lucky commenter.

Leave a comment between now and Friday at midnight, EST, and I will put all of the names into a hat and draw a winner on Sunday. Don't forget to leave your email address so I can get your address.

You, too, will probably feel the need to share its earthy goodness with the moms in your life.

Chubba, Chubba, Chubba: Gotta Love Baby Chub

Ava has worked very hard during these last seven months to develop delicious rolls of chub. Behold the thighs! The wrists!


She had a big weekend, with her first two teeth breaking free from months of painful bondage. She also mastered sitting up without throwing herself into a head-bonking right-sided shoulder-stand-rollover thingy.


The plus side of having three kids? My two boys can snap Ava out of almost any crying fit, just by smiling at her. Wait, they don't even have to smile, just looking at her does the trick. Her brothers cheer her more than Elmo, Barney or any other psycho children's show character ever could.


Hey, who's that chick in my turtle? She looks delicious! (I can confirm, she is.)

Coming This Week
Wednesday - The Literary Mama Blog Book Tour stops here!
Thursday - Preschool horror show: It was worse than I thought.
Sometime - Another Picture Day at DotMoms
Friday - True confessions: My teether addiction.

Poltergeist, Redux

My poor husband. He watches his wife gaze at her computer. Soon, he fears, he will come home to find her sweatshirt and jeans deflated on her desk chair, shadings of her voice eminating from her computer speakers. He will have to log in and go to Kris.com just to see and speak with her. He'll have to (*shudder*) read her Web site.

TV watching is socially acceptable, at least, not worthy of commitment. But start spending time at the computer, dare mention any “friends” you have there, and see how fast your husband starts in with the comments.

“Oh sure, go to your computer.”

“I’m just browsing the news. It’s like looking at a magazine, which you do, too, by the way."

He raises an eyebrow.

"O.K., fine, I'm reading blogs.”

God forbid I speak of these “friends” in any detail.

“Gina’s so inspiring. She’s going through a lot, but it’s so touching to watch her get through it with faith.”

“Ann is a writing machine. She’s buried right now, but these books will be major highlights of her career. Isn’t that cool?”

“Dani just left me the most flattering comment. When I write a novel I’m going to ask her to write a blurb on the back cover. She's having a 'commenting tea party' today, and she's serving mimosas!”

His skin pales. His eye twitches. He looks at the floor, flashes a half smile and says, “Anything good on Tivo?”

Stupid Is as Stupid Does

Question
Is it brave or stupid to wear large hoop earrings when caring for a 7 month old?

Answer
Stupid. Blood-ouch-wicked stupid, in fact.

Dear Family Dentist

We like you, because you have a big fish tank and a private room for when my five year old screams bloody murder at the prospect of having his teeth counted. We also like that you nag us about flossing at every visit (we need the nagging). My kids love the slimy lizards stuck to your ceiling and, by the way, you give the coolest toys of all the medical people we interact with.

I'm also happy you could afford a fancy-schmancy new phone system to place recorded apppointment-reminder calls to your patients. I'm sure this saves you lots of money, since you don't have to pay a live person to make these calls and perhaps you have less missed appointments.

However, please reprogram your fancy schmancy-machine so that it does not call my house four times in a two-day period, often before 9 am or after 6 pm. Please tell the kind woman in the machine that I will NOT call her back to confirm the appointment.

You see, I am lucky that I remembered to make the appointment, that I remembered to listen to my answering machine messages and, hopefully, that I will remember to bring my son to your office. Asking me to call you to confirm an appointment, which I already called you to make and which you've already called me to confirm? Is just plain stupid.

Harrassing a frazzled mom of three with requests for inane callbacks? Is, frankly, suicidal.

Sincerely,
Kris