No skot! No skot!

When SB was but a She-Blob, I often worried about giving birth to a super girly-girl. You know - the pink-clad, bow wearing, purse carrying toddlers who, for inexplicable (and slightly disturbing) reasons have their nails painted before they've reached the ripe old age of 2.

Maybe it's my deeply rooted understanding that the next logical step to these Lolitas' development is the kiddie pageant circuit; perhaps it s my barely concealed envy that even before they've entered pre-school, these future Paris Hilton clones are better attired, know how to match their clothes, can walk the walk, and all in all are better groomed than I will ever be, but I found myself making all sorts of promises about the balanced (read, tomboy) upbringing Otter would have under my Doc Marten wielding tutelage.

Once SB entered the world however, my post-feminist agenda was somewhat undermined by all those darling, precious, ruffled frocks and skirts that friends and relatives love to pile upon you as soon as they realized it won't result in a cross-dressing disaster. So SB's feminine wardrobe grew, running the gamut from the funky rocker chick tu-tu's to dresses that made her look like a refugee from David Williams' YFZ ranch. And admittedly, I contributed to the collection too.

Still, in the practical day-to-day outfitting of my child, I found it hard to select times when dresses and skirts were appropriate. While she was really little, she spent most of her time crawling around on the floor, where dresses seemed more of a hindrance. As she grew older, and spent much of her days at playgrounds and parks, putting on frilly gowns appeared misguided and frankly, downright cruel. Sure, we'd roll out a dress for the occasional birthday party - but let's face it - kiddie parties are all about running around and playing, not showing off your chique wardrobe. So, at best I'd pull of throwing something that could pass as a long shirt over a pair of leggings or jeans and calling it a day.

And perhaps I've done my brainwashing a touch too well. For her second birthday, we decided to outfit SB with clothes suited for the opinionated, independent girl she was becoming. Including some very cool, very hip skirts. I happily displayed my new purchases to Otter, expecting her to grasp the fashion-forward approach I had taken to her wardrobe, and to understand, once and for all, that I was ONE COOL MOM. Instead, she looked at me in horror and started screaming, "No skot! No skot!"

She won't even let my put the damn skirt on her stuffed animals.

Fashionista Diaries Continue

Just a taste of Otter's fashion sense. As one of my friends pointed out, "Oh, she has mommy's sense of style..." This seems so far from the innocent days of skants...

Fashionista

One of my greatest fears has come to be. I'm the mother of a girly-girl. Who loves all things pink, and flowers, and doggies, and her dolls. And, apparently, fashion. This was this morning's ensemble (minus her favorite doggie shirt, which, sadly for Otter was in the wash). More to come...

All Hallow's Eve

After much deliberation, aborted plans, warnings about swine flu outbreaks passed around through candy wrappers (or something like that - I'm still not clear), we gathered child and dog and set off for the magical world of trick-or-treating.

Foster went as the Hound of the Baskervilles (minus the glowing-in-the-dark, since Bree wouldn't let me spray him) while Otter went as... an otter, of course.

Our journey followed the path of our usual dog walk, with bonus encounters with Yoda, some princesses, a few zombies and the occasional unidentifiably clad teen trolling for candy. Otter met trick-or-treating with equal shares confusion and curiosity. At the first house, after staring blankly at the piece of candy that had been handed to her, she offered it back. Can't say the girl doesn't like to share!

By the end of the block, she'd gotten the hang of it though. Not only was she reaching in and grabbing loot like a champ, she was actually going for the good stuff (mom thanks you for the extra Reece's Peanut Butter Cups you scored, baby)!

Our journey was short-lived. The weather was about 20 degrees north of autumnal, while the otter suit was designed to keep babies snug in sub-polar regions. So after hitting about 6 houses, a hot and slightly damp Otter was brought home and summarily deposited in the bath. And offered her very first Kit-Kat.

As she sat in the tub, chocolate smeared all over her slightly-dazed face, I had to laugh. "This is what ladies do," I told her. "Sit in the bath and eat bon-bons."

Was I teaching my girl to embrace gender stereotypes? Would she be bouncing off walls instead of drifting off to sleep? Who cares? It's Halloween!

I Poopied!!!

Yesterday, Otter took her first step down a road that can one day lead to wet t-shirt contests or, worse, MTV Spring Break exposes. That's right - she went to her first pool party. Donning her Elmo Splash Pants, pink swimsuit (the last one in her size on sale at Target) and enough sunblock to withstand a trip to the surface of the sun, she made her grand entrance.

For my part, I initially considered the modest Mom Suit - you know, the one that covers more flesh that it exposes. The Mom Suit has many pros. For one, this would be the proper thing for a lady in my position to wear. For another, without string ties, one of Otter's favorite playthings, a Mom Suit would certainly save me from unplanned wardrobe malfunctions, courtesy of SB. But when have details like unplanned exposed boobs at my nephew's 9th birthday party stopped me? So, with nary a concern that my zombie white ass would blind all those around me, I pulled out a bikini. Since Operation Fatten Up has yet to live up to it's full potential, I might as well take advantage.

Sucking in for all it's worth, I bravely entered a pool chock full of splashing, screaming pre-teen boys. Not quite what my pool parties used to be, to be certain. Otter looked skeptical. We stepped further in and she quickly decided that this had about as much to do with her bath, which she loves, as an ocean resembles a puddle. The face soured, the mouth turned down, and the baby began emitting whining noises. Still, since she wasn't crying outright, I persevered a bit longer. But, when it became apparent that SB preferred the feel of dry land under her feet, we decided to hit the food instead and tried pizza (approved), cupcakes (very approved) and ice cream (not so much).

And we left not a moment too soon. As Otter and I were stuffing our faces at the table, a wail went up from the pool. "I poopied! I poopied!" screamed one of the little party guests. And indeed, she had. Bree and I plastered overzealous smiles on our faces - the kind designed to not let the other party-goers know just how traumatized you are in that moment. Perhaps Miss Pool Poopie would have benefited from some Elmo Splash Pants herself...

Kiddie Party

It seems that we are now on the kid party circuit. In fact, I think we've had more kiddie party invites in the last 6 months than we've had adult gatherings in the past 2 years. And we're quickly learning that other holidays (like Father's or Valentine's Day) take a back seat when it comes to accommodating your child's birthday fantasies.

Otter, after a crazy 3-hour nap, was ready to party like it was 1999. Dressed to impress, she wowed me by displaying absolutely none of the stranger anxiety she has recently exhibited. Instead, she happily scooted around the floor, allowed herself to be picked up, snacked on some crackers and even checked out the Bouncy Castle - the de rigueur accessory to every kiddie party.

Which leads me to wonder (as we sneak ever closer to Otter's 1-year mark) what the expectations for a baby celebration are. Clearly, whether your child grasps the concept of their birthday or not, a party is mandatory. To not have one would be tantamount to admitting you don't really care that your baby survived its first 12 months in this world. Some may argue, it even implies that you regret your child's existence, what with the not celebrating and all. Not that I'm being judgey.

So then, who do you invite? If all of your friends have bred, the solution is simple. But for most of us, a kid-related event means that the social group is broken into 2 camps - the crazed, glassy-eyed parents (oh, just say it - mothers) chasing their sugar-amped toddlers around the yard, hoping they don't hang themselves on the bouncy castle's inflator hose, and the childless couples, standing around awkwardly and avoiding making eye contact with anyone involved on the "family fun" side of the yard.

Of course, let's not forget the presence of Entertainment and its close cousin, Theme. As we've seen, the Bouncy Castle is a gimme, but beyond that the field is wide open. In our travels, we've run the gamut from the way cool (that guy who brought lizards) to the vaguely unsettling (I know it's a cliche, but clowns are just creepy).

Drinks (the alcoholic kind) are mandatory - if not for the kids, then at least for their haggard parents and their uncomfortable childless friends. And of course there must be cake. How else are you going to get for adorable photo of your baby sticking his whole face into the biggest expanse of icing while all the other rug-rats gather so close that they risk catching on fire from the lone candle in the middle?

Finally, there is the question of what to wear - both as the baby-of-honor and the guest. I thought this was fairly straight forward (their crappy clothes that you won't care about when they ruin them with cake, grass, soda and whatever other sticky substance they manage to fall into) until this weekend; at our latest kiddie fete, an 8-month old baby was donned in designer white jeans, a hot pink Diesel shirt, rhinestone sandals, and a silver charm bracelet. WTF are you thinking, baby's parents???

Hot Mama

***WARNING: What follows may be Too Much Information for some. Proceed at your own risk.

In a crazy, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants fashion moment, I have discarded my usual uniform of jeans, t-shirt and Docs for something a bit more weather appropriate. So I am wearing...

a skirt (let those zombie-white legs show, darlin')...

heels (which make walking a bit challenging from lack of practice)...

and, most importantly, a REAL bra. Yep, that's right folks. I have traded in my utilitarian, clasps on each cup nursing bra (which is hideous, despite claims by my mother and m-i-l that things used to be much, much worse) for a snazzy, hot pink, before-there-was-baby REAL bra! There are no extra hinges, or hidden compartments. There is push-upness and shape. There is cleavage (or, as close an approximation to cleavage as I am ever likely to get).

I feel decidedly un-momish. Now if only I could figure out how to pump with this thing...

***This photo is SOOOOO not me. Mom and dad, you can exhale.

Image by http://www.abriefaffair.com/Cosabella-Soire-Push-Up-Bra