'Tis the Season

It's that time of year filled with joy, cheer, party overload and desperate attempts to bring the magic of the holiday season into sharp focus for toddlers everywhere, so long as they still believe.

After the season got off to a roll with a pre-holiday "just because" pancake party, it was off to the races with the first event: a holiday-concurrent birthday party. Which went something like this:

Hello All,

Just a quick reminder that there is a bit of a schedule. We are very excited to see everyone tomorrow!!

3:30-3:45—Greetings!

3:45-4:00—Dress up! Costumes passed out. (Tutu, wings, wand, halo—so have kids wear clothes that they can put the costume over).

4:00-4:15—Picture Time

4:30-5:00—Craft Time

5:00-5:30—Pizza, Salad, Cake, Cupcakes

I think the important thing to point out here is that the child in question was turning 3. I don't think I need to explain beyond that.

Next, was a holiday party at an indoor playground - complete with crafts, cookie decorating, bouncy house, obstacle course, temporary tattoos, face painting, magic show, parachute, and cupcakes.

Throw in some holiday baking (OK, a LOT of holiday baking), walks to admire the neighborhood lights, nighttime train rides to Santa's house, plans for Disneyland, Nutcracker recitals (too much? too soon?) figuring out Santa's list and endless scouring of Internet holiday event listings (amid self-flagellation for each missed event) and the pressure to make this magical season well, magical can get the best of any elf. Especially an elf who has yet to finish her Christmas shopping.

And then sometimes the favor is returned, a thousandfold. Tonight, as I put my girl to bed, after the obligatory sprinkling of magic dust AND powder, she reached under her covers and found some magic powder to scatter over me. It was the perfect, irreplaceable, unsolicited gift.

Playdate Pressure

It's been exactly a month since Otter began her academic career, and while some things have drastically improved (like actually wanting to go to school), other aspects of her socialization have um...plateaued (like, say playing with other children). To this end, her teacher suggested several times, that we contact one of the other parents in her class and set up the ubiquitous "play date."

Now as my friend Kate points out, play dates are a rather new invention. When we were kids, which admittedly was a while ago, but not THAT long ago, you were just friends with the kids on your street. But be it a question of progress or geography, cars abound and children running up and down our block are noticeably lacking. Which leads to the necessity of pre-planned spontaneous outings where the children play and the parents referee and (hopefully) bond for what may be a life-long - or an afternoon-long - friendship.

And therein lies the rub. I have a history of shunning forced socializing with strangers. Not that I mind meeting new people - but I had never joined a sorority. Or even a club, really. Networking was always more of a chore than a pleasure. And those Mommy and Me groups sent me running for the hills. It's not that I'm better than those people (ok, I might be better than a few of those people) but after 7th grade I've never belonged to a clique. And it seems odd to start now, when I've fairly mastered the skill set required for making friends organically.

I was hoping that during the orientation meeting at the school, I would naturally gravitate towards someone, whose child would naturally make a perfect playmate for mine. But as we sat pretending to listen to the teachers describe the school, while in actuality sizing each other up one thing became clear to me: I do not fit in with these parents. Jumping to conclusions? Perhaps. Judgey? Most likely. But there I was, with my bleached hair and combat boots. and there they were - in their sun dresses and rhinestoned sandals. So, I'm just saying...

And to be fair, I wouldn't doubt if they had the same initial, unfounded, utterly superficial assessment of me, thinking "Which hooligan did she birth and then enroll with my angel?!"

Which leads me to the little angels I have to pick from. Or rather, the ones Otter has chosen. So far I have been presented with 4 options:

First there was the "Sandbox Companion" - let's call her SC for short. SC seemed very promising - in fact, SC's mom (we'll call her SCM) seemed receptive to the idea. So much so that on the morning we were told of the unbreakable bond of sand toys, SCM suggested to Otter that she go and play play dough with SC. And when Otter didn't jump at the opportunity, SCM took my befuddled child and started leading her away. And that's when it all went south for me.

Really SCM? Do you see me manhandling your spawn into coming closer to the Little People House? Are you suddenly in charge of this classroom? Last I checked, you were just another parent dropping her kid off. So please take your mitts off mine, and note that as of this moment I don't like you, you pushy broad. SCM may have sensed my bristling - the second time the teacher reintroduced us (again, suggesting a play outing for the kiddies) she pretended to be surprised and not recognize me. Yeah, SCM is kinda full of it.

Option two is a young man who is quite proud of his Potty Training prowess. Which he announced (and someone demonstrated) in class. I know he's only three and yes, this is my "my kid is a head taller than everyone but won't potty train sour grapes" routine but come on. Ironically, I think I like PT's mom.

Option three is recovering from a case of Hacking Cough. Enough said.

Option four is Otter's Cubby Roommate. CR may have the most going for her though that is the full extent of what I know about her.

Though from what I'm hearing (much to my shock and chagrin), who I like is fairly irrelevant. Apparently its Otter who gets to gravitate towards friends and I get to do her social planning and follow meekly along. Better find that class roster and start dialing.

Requiescat in canem pacem.

He was there the day she first came home from the hospital. And though he was less than please with her infringement on his despotic rule of our household, he became a model "big brother" - patient to a fault, submitting to being crowded, pinched, having paws run over by strollers and toys, and, despite our best efforts, having to play second fiddle to a baby.

We broke every conventional "wisdom" with him - giving him more freedom once Otter came home. He would sit on the bed with us while I nursed, sometimes putting his giant head on my lap. I would put SB on his bed, a tiny infant lying near a giant of a 100 lb. pit bull. He gained bed sleeping privileges for the first time. We'd often curl up together - all 4 of us squished on a queen-sized bed.

And as Otter grew, she did so with him as a constant, furry, larger-than-life companion. Whether she was trying to climb on him, dress him in Christmas hats, make sure he got his fair share of pancakes, join him on fund-raising walks for homeless dogs, pummel him, or - ultimately - hug and kiss him, she loved him with all her heart. She grew to respect all animals, to approach them carefully - or at least more carefully than most toddlers do.

On September 20, 2011, Foster died.

More terrifying than sitting at the vet, knowing we'd never see him again, more frightening than the deafening silence, emptiness and lifelessness that filled our house with his absence, was the prospect of explaining to my 3-year-old that this incredible fixture in her life was no more.

Bree and I waffled between the big doggie playground in the sky or that he became a star. In the end, we followed the advice of SB's teacher, and told her the simple truth: Foster was very, very sick, and he died. No fables, no euphemisms. Those, said her teacher, were for us, the parents. Otter would understand, albeit in her own way.

SB is taking the news in stages. Though she first ignored any mention, telling us she wanted to play, she's since been asking about him.

"Where is Foster?"

"Can we go get him?"

Her questions make my heart bleed. My answers tear it to pieces.

Last night she asked me, "But where did he go?" And after a panicked pause, I again, told her the truth. "I don't know honey," I said. "But he won't be coming back to our house." I suggested making an album of his photos to remember.

I'd like to think that perhaps he did become a star, his dogly energy - a glow that outshines his physical size a million-fold - returning to the infinite universe. If that is the euphemism I need, I'll take it. My great pain is that on his celestial journey, he took an irreplaceable part of me with him. Though that's the least I can offer him.

Rest in peace, Foster.

From the Bad Mommy Files: Alert AA

I've always tried to keep my drinking around SB to a minimum. Sure I've imbibed in the occasional glass of wine (I mean I don't want the girl growing up thinking we're teetotalers or anything), but I had been under the impression that the majority of my Bacchanalian endeavors were happening after hours.

But either I've been less careful than I realized, or my kid is showing some early proclivities... Today as we were getting sandwiches from a local market, Otter walked me to the wine section. "Look at all those wines," my 2 1/2-year-old enthused. "We should get some."

From the Bad Mommy Files - Why I Suck

Today is the day reserved for love, overpriced flowers and heart-shaped boxes of cheap chocolate. It is the day Hallmark and Jane Seymour have groomed us for, what with the heart-felt messages and hideous jewelry. I, however, will take this day to tell you how I suck - and not in the vampire-y Gothic, romantic kind of way so much as the falling short, massive fail variety.

It is no secret that Bree and I have given Valentine's day less than its due. After the first few years of obligatory gift exchanges and fancy meals, we called a spade a spade and quickly slid into non-celebratory complacency. And even our early February nuptials did little to up the romantic ante. Sure, I still called my parents on an annual basis, trained by the years of macaroni art, but all in all the big day of romantic overkill was lost on me.

You would think that having a child would have renewed my interest in a holiday based on pure love. That I would jump at the chance to shower Otter with tokens of my adoration. You would be unfortunately, and gravely, mistaken. And while Bree and I paid lip service to doing something in the days leading up to the day, once the 14th dawned we had given up on it.

Until Susana showed up - carrying a balloon, a hot pink monkey, and a bottle of wine - ostensibly for us. I was chastened. I was shamed. Not that I expected any less of our amazing nanny, I'd just expected a little more of me. But there was nothing to do except for tuck tail and flee to work.

Sad as the scene was, it wasn't the day's low. That came at around 2pm, when I made a mad dash to Walgreens to try to come up with a thoughtful gift for my only child. I was clearly late to the party, and as I perused the picked-over aisles, my shame burned a Valentine's Day-appropriate deep red. I slunk out with a blue Toy Story ball and 2 packs of sparkly stickers.

As if that weren't enough, I ended up staying late at work, not making it home until long after SB was in bed. As I fruitlessly tried to balance the the ball on the table, grateful for the fact that at 2 1/2 SB still has no concept that we screwed up, and with a commitment to do better next year.

Clocking the Competition

Today, we took our step down the road that will determine She-Blob's academic accomplishments, social standing and general happiness for the rest of her life. That's right - we're looking at preschools.

For those who have not ventured down this path (a group that included Bree and myself for the better part of 36 years), the concept of preschool can be an ambiguous thing. What is preschool, after all? Neither school nor daycare, preschool has evolved from a frivolity of the spending class to an institution without which further academic and social success are seemingly impossible. Rising from the ashes of the failings of generations past to properly socialize their rug rats in an evermore isolated world, preschool has offered to close the gap, turning our biting, grabbing, hitting, screaming offspring from wild animals into humans right in time to start "real" school.

I don't need to go far for real-world proof, for I, too, went to preschool - albeit in a different country. My most vivid memory is of pretending to be a passenger on a cruise ship, while being reprimanded for mistreating my doll by dressing her by holding her head tightly between my knees and shoving her dress over her feet. All I wanted to do was be one of the "sailors," a vocation reserved for the boys in the class. In one fell swoop, preschool socialized me - teaching me basic child care (or at least how to avoid charges of child abuse in the future) and reminding me of my place in the world.

But times and geography have changed since then, so it was I who led the charge to the first of 3 open-house/prospective parent meetings of the week. Why 3, you ask? How better to compare the student/teacher ratio, preschool philosophy (yes, they all claim different 'philosophies') and play-dough recipes available to us? If SB is going to be improving her finger painting technique to the tune of $700+ per month, I want to be sure we're getting the best finger paints.

And it's not only the teachers and craft supplies a modern parent needs to worry about. When I recently mentioned our impending tours to a friend, he asked me if it was to make sure the other kids were up to snuff. "Mostly it's to see if the playground is acceptable and make sure no bodies are buried in the yard," I replied.

But let's face it - he has a point. If this is where SB is going to be spending her days, the other crusty toddlers there are going to become her friends. Which means (the potential horror) that their parents are going to become our friends. And it was obvious as we all circled each other pretending to encourage our respective children's progress in the trough of cornmeal while casting surreptitious glances on our neighbors, that we were all there trying to weed out the close-talkers, infrequent bathers and other social outcasts.

We left satisfied - Bree and I with the answers to the probing and impressive questions we'd prepared, SB with the quality of the toy cars. Now all that remains is two more tours, and the agonizing decision which approach and classmates will best suit our child. Because we all know the rest of her life depends on this.

Potty Mouth

While Otter may be having a tough time with the potty itself, it should come as no surprise that as far as a potty mouth is concerned, she's got it going on. There was no question that sooner or later (with all signs pointing to 'sooner') SB was going to adopt some of her parents...um, colorful expressions. The only debate was which of us would be responsible for the first utterance.

And the winner is...mommy! Adding to her already rich vocabulary of "Oh my God's," SB took the game up a notch. Don't snicker. I know what you are all thinking, but, for the record, Bree isn't exactly innocent of dropping Otter-inappropriate bombs on quite a regular basis. As my narrative will prove.

This morning, as Bree was putting enough butter on a waffle to deep fry a whole chicken in, I couldn't help but comment on it, in my own distinctive way. "Holy crap, poppa!" Otter gleefully parroted.

Amid looks of surprise and judgement mixed with barely suppressed laughter, Bree and I tried to make sense of this new linguistic frontier we had just so casually embarked upon. There were silent accusations of wrong-doing, expressions of surprise at how long it took for this to happen, an offhanded remark about being convinced it would be the other parent who would open Pandora's box, and finally, a curious confession.

"You know," said Bree, after having thoroughly reprimanded me for having befouled our child's previously virginal vocabulary, "she may have repeated something I said the other day, and dropped an f-bomb." Really? "But I'm not entirely sure," he quickly added. "And this is the first confirmed cursing."

Perpetrated by me. How convenient.

Main Man

A few weeks back, we found Otter pretending she's on the phone, deep in conversation as we walked in on her. "Buh-bye Jimmy," she quickly babbled upon seeing us.

Jimmy? Who is Jimmy? Ears perked up, we investigated further. Jimmy, it turns out, is the little boy from the park. What's this? Does Otter have a boyfriend? A paramour to whom she makes clandestine, early morning, pretend phone calls?

Bree took the news far better than I expected - no talk of guns or barbed-wire fences came up. How long this surprisingly blase attitude lasts remains to be seen.

In the meantime, we're suddenly aware that the little girl who had until very recently been a baby, has begun her secret, independent life.

God help us.

Potty Mouth

Apparently, I was potty trained with ease and at an incredibly early age. By 18 months (as my mother's oft-fuzzy memory serves her) I was peeing and pooping into a potty with wild abandon, and, to hear her tell it, enjoying every minute of it. And, being parent to an only child, my mom has little else to compare this experience to, other than that of her friends, who's lazy, slacker children ran around in all states of incontinence well into their second and sometimes even (heaven forbid) third years.

Unwilling to play grandmother to such a slothy kid, my mother's single-minded mission in life has become to get her peeing in the potty ASAP. A mission which she plans to accomplish from 3ooo miles away by asking everyone who's ever borne a kid for advice on what I can be doing better to hurry this potty training thing the f up.

Each of our conversations now begins or ends with some tale from the streets of one child or another and their pooping habits, along with helpful pointers on what their guardians did to accomplish the Herculean task. "I asked _________ (fill in the name) what (s)he did, and they __________ (fill in helpful hint)."

"That's great mom. I've heard about _______." In fact, we've probably at least attempted some version thereof.

Here are the problems:

Otter is 18 months old, and apparently not the potty prodigy that I was. Her interest in the potty is limited to shoving her dolls into it, taking it apart, or inverting the basin over her face in an attempt to drink (?) from it.

She refuses to sit on it for more than 30 seconds at a time, and I see no way to rectify this short of tying her down to the toilet, which I'm told is illegal.

That helpful potty book we got? SB's mostly exclusively interested in the last page, where Elmo gets his big kid underwear (a current obsession). and much less so in how he got to that elevated state.

The desire to be dry and clean so vital for one to have a stake in going in a potty vs. the convenience of pooping right in your pants? Otter cares not...

So we're left with little to do but wait for nature to take its course and SB to come around to the idea of peeing like a big girl. I can live with this. My mom, having a bit more trouble.

"I really can't do this any more," I told her during our last potty stand-off. "I'm not worried. We have plenty of time."

"That's all relative," came the curt reply. "Some people are ok with their 5-year-olds running around in diapers."

Balloon Nazi

Every once in a while I'm reminded why I hate most people. At a birthday party yesterday, apparently there had been a balloon guy - you know the one that makes all those animals the that kids love?

My child being a bit gun-shy around strangers, she certainly wasn't going to join in with the balloon fun. But, my child being 18 months old, she wanted a balloon.

The opportunity for one came an hour later as she wandered around the park grounds. One of our fellow party guests, had parked her stroller by a picnic table, and lying on the ground around it, were 3 or 4 balloon animals in various colors. Otter honed in on an orange one and went in for the catch.

"Um," said the grandmotherly owner of the stroller, as Otter happily carried her prize. "I think that fell out of OUR stroller."

Are you kidding me? I spun around in disbelief. Granted, I'd been up since a quarter to 5, which may have accounted for some of my crankiness. But seriously, are you kidding me? You, a 60-year-old woman, with FOUR balloons and ZERO grandkids claiming them, are going to make me take a balloon away from my 1 1/2 year old? Have you no sense of decency? "I'm sorry baby," I told my toddler, "This isn't ours. Let's go play by the train." I handed the inflated latex back to the Balloon Nazi trying to send death rays from my eyes. "You've got to be kidding me," I not-so-quietly said to Bree as I turned around. "I am so close to saying something to her."

"Walk away," he said. And walk away I did, but not without giving her the dirtiest looks I could muster at every given opportunity. And it worked!

Whether it was my scowling demeanor or common sense that prevailed upon her, BN gathered her grandchild and a red balloon and came over to us a few minutes later. "We wanted to share this with the baby," she said. That's right, feel the guilt. I smiled sweetly and thanked her profusely. And Otter ran off with her new prize.

Now that my rant is through, I do want to reiterate my sincerest gratitude to ex-BN. I really don't hate you. Just continue to wonder what initially motivated you.

So When's The Next One?

It could be that a number of my friends are currently with child, or the fact that everyone we meet now seems to have reproduced, or maybe it's just a function of the passage of time, but the topic of "another one" has been broached. Apparently, like book ends or socks, children ideally come in multiples of 2.

I can see the logic in this. On the upside, they can entertain each other when you've dumped them in a room, giving you a chance to live your own life for 10 minutes; they can help with each other's care; multiples keep the population from diminishing with each generation; if you get one of each gender, everyone has supposedly had their secret offspring wishes fulfilled.

But much like anything else, there is a downside. First and foremost, from what I understand, two is MUCH, MUCH more than one more than one. The ripple effect is exponential. Just when you thought you were done with sleepless nights, having your body belong to someone other than you, and had finally had that moment to yourself while your kid was busy eating Cheerios off the floor, it starts all over again. And even amid all that glorious sibling bonding, you still have to, you know, take care of them.

For a few, the agony was completed in one fell swoop, with twins. Sure they suffered greatly, but now they can safely say they're DEE-YOU-EN, DUN and I dare anyone to tell them otherwise. Others just missed that day in health class, and got knocked up again right away, ripping the band-aid off in one continuous, albeit prolonged motion. But for the rest of us the decision to have another baby is an actual decision. That takes thinking about, and deciding. And that's just hella scary.

Lest anyone jump to any conclusions, this is not my way of revealing a baby on the way, a plan of a baby, or even a plan of a plan of a baby. We've stuck to our mantra of "at least a three year difference," with all the ambiguity that "at least" implies, and all the requisite lack of mathematical computation that is necessary to continue living ignorance of when that means there could be more. For now, SB lives on alone, with no siblings but the dog to plan her revolution with. Her onliness is my talisman against my greatest fear - what if "the next one" turns out to be twins?

If at the end of it all I should end up in hell, which (based on much of this blog alone) I suspect may happen, I predict it will look exactly like the Garden State Plaza during the post-Christmas shopping rush. Whatever rumors are circulating about a recession, they have not reached Paramus where every man, woman and child were out looking for a deal, a steal, a sale of the century.

And much as Bree and I vow every year to not end up in the fray, we are invariably yanked into the vortex that is the post holiday-season mall for some present we forgot, overlooked or simply didn't feel like hauling cross-country. This time SB, guilty by association, was hauled into the vortex with us.

I won't speak of the 45 minutes it took us to find parking or the 3 times we got hopelessly lost in a place where the ground floor is actually considered the 2nd floor.

There was one shining moment in the whole fiasco. There was a fantastic merry-go-round - complete with every animal, real and imagined. After gazing at it longingly each time we passed by, Otter was rewarded with a ride. We chose a horse with a fish tail. A mer-horse? A hor-phin? All went well for the first 10 seconds. Then Otter noticed the panda and her heart, already filled with panda-obsession flowed over. "Deda! Deda! Deda!" continued the chant. Nothing could be done except a second ride - this time on the panda. The carousel spun around and around while hordes of shopper jostled past. Unfazed, SB sat on the panda, smiling happily.

And somehow that made it all ok...

Giving Thanks at 15 Months

Otter is 15 months today, an event we're celebrating as family joins us for an over-ambitious meal. So much has happened in the past 15 months.

We are thankful for our family, whom we love and who are close to us, some in person, others in spirit.

We are grateful for our friends, who comfort us when the aforementioned family drives us nuts.

We are thankful for every day that Otter sleeps until 7.

We are thankful for our nanny, who has magic.

We give thanks to our home, while asking humbly that the roof not leak to badly this winter.

We are overjoyed at our health.

We are grateful for all that we have seen, all the places we've been, and for the vivid memories of those things, which will hopefully sustain us for the next 16 1/2 years, until Otter goes off to college.

I, personally, am thankful for good food and good booze. Mostly good booze.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

All Saints Day

I've long been a fan of extended celebrations. Why should Halloween have only one night? So because it's one of our favorite holidays, and because Otter's 1st birthday party had been indefinitely postponed until it was silly to have it, we opted for a Halloween party.

Now we've had kids over before - usually one at a time. How hard could it be with a few more - especially if some of them don't even walk? And unlike our usual fests, where we kill ourselves We ordered pizza, bought trays of veggies and 5-layer dip. Susana made a cake.

Let me tell you - 7 babies is A LOT. Especially when they're screaming, bullying each other, running around like banshees in the back yard. Otter took it all in stride, making her exit to push her lion around the back yard when the action indoors got tad too intense for her.

Bree and I? We muscled through - barely seeing each other - until the last guests were gone and we fell asleep sitting up on the couch. Only 15 or 16 more of these, right?

Dumb

We'd all like to believe that our kids are, at the very least, bright. No one wants to think their child is the dim bulb in the lamp. And yet, I've encountered a substantial number of unintelligent adults throughout my life. I have a hard time believing they were born with genius potential and simply grew...well, more simple with each passing year. It stands to reason then, that they were born stupid.

So what do you do if you realize your kid (the one you enrolled in Japanese for Babies) isn't bright?

The Facts of Life

A few days ago, I was talking to a co-worker about his kids. Several years ago, he and his wife were surprised to find that they were becoming parents again, so soon after they'd had their first baby. It took them a while to adjust, but they did.

"So, sticking with the two, or going to have more?" I asked.

"Well, there's actually another one on the way," he replied. "It was kind of unexpected."

To which I say, seriously? I mean, I was willing to give you a pass on the first "surprise," but a year and a half later you're shocked to discover it happened again? And the same way to boot? What kind of crazy, topsy-turvey world is this?

Without even trying hard, I can think of three people who took no precautions, and were shocked to discover that they were knocked up. And I have to wonder - is the miracle of immaculate conception all around us? Did all of them miss that day in health class when it was explained how babies are made? Or did they just think the rules of biology did not apply to them?

What's even more interesting, these people are smart, educated professionals, at the top of their various games. Yet when it comes to making babies, especially the second or third time around, they all seem to have blinders on. So, for the record people - breastfeeding is NOT birth control. Neither is "We only have sex once a month."

But before I throw too many stones, I suppose I should look back on my own glass house. Unable to face the reality that we were Trying To Have a Baby, I opted for the self deception of We Stopped Preventing A Baby From Happening. And several months later, I, a fairly smart, decently educated semi-professional, who is at least in the middle of her game, was shocked to SHIT when the Baby Happened. There it was - the faint + on the stick, and a soon-to-become familiar nausea. Yet I sat there, trying to calculate all the ways in which this was sheer impossibility.

What is it that causes us to abandon all logic and previously accumulated knowledge in favor of delusion? Perhaps it is the fear of admitting to ourselves the very thing we secretly want but are afraid to covet.

image by [177]

Pretty As a Picture

So what I'm supposed to be blogging about is Otter's successful 1st birthday party, filled with cake, pizza, friends and new toys (all of which doubtless make some kind of battery-fueled noise). But alas, due to an unexpectedly under-the-weather dog, we've had to postpone...

Instead, let me share my tale of professional baby photos. I know, you're probably saying "What? Isn't that just so mother-of-the-yeary?" And it's true - most photo sessions (my wedding included) send me into an anxiety-ridden tailspin. Granted, my exposure to professional photography has been limited to the school picture/Sears/Babies R Us set. And while I applaud their efforts, pictures of my offspring lying blissfully on pink fluffy pillows or looking mischievous wearing nothing but some angel wings and a bow in her hair are decidedly not for me.

But through friends we found (what we hope is) a really great photographer, Jamie. And since I'd decided to forgo both the requisite pregnancy and newborn photos, a 1-year portrait seemed to be in order.

We arrived at the Santa Monica beach promptly at 9am, Otter in her picture-day best, Bree and I in whatever we had time to throw on, and our beach-illegal dog in his best red collar. SB loved the sand, was mesmerised by the ocean. "This will be so easy!" I thought. Our worst problem was going to be keeping the lifeguards from throwing Foz off the un-pet-friendly beach. Otter took one look at Jamie and frowned.

As the session progressed, so did Otter's displeasure, and what began as uncertainty, quickly turned into loud wailing and a refusal to let go of me. For his part, Foster allowed us to position him with a look of grim resignation, and a silent regret that he had not been adopted by a different family. We struggled through photo after photo of Otter looking despondent, while Jamie valiantly tried to entertain and distract our pouty baby.

"Maybe there's a song she likes?" she suggested, helpfully.
The Poopy Otter Song didn't seem appropriate.

"What happens if you blow on her, or tickle her?"
A whole lot of nothing, apparently.

"Does she like the water?"
Why yes, she does. Until the wave comes in and freaks her out, as she didn't expect her entire bottom to get soaked.

"Does she know the Happy Birthday song?"
No.

"Any games that make her smile?"
Yes, yes there are: throwing her in the air, throwing her on the bed, pelting her with pillows (PILLOW AVALANCHE!!!!), chasing her around on all fours while fiercely growling, shoving Monkey in her face (MONKEY ATTACK!!! THEY GO FOR THE FACE!!!!!). All of which didn't seem right to mention, let alone do in public.

In the end, it was a combo of granola bar and being allowed to climb all over Foster (who lay down morosely as sand was liberally sprinkled on him) that brought Otter out of her tailspin. And we may even have gotten a few photos with a smile. But as we made our way home, all Bree and I could think about was, apparently families have songs and games that make their toddlers giggle. What's wrong with us, that all of our go-to stunts run the risk of getting us taken in for child endangerment?

Questions

Can one seamlessly combine a monkey and a dog theme?
How many kids do you need to justify a bouncer?
What does one put in goodie bags?
What does one do with a group of kids, ages 6 months - 13 years, when it's 150 degrees outside?
Does marker come off of furniture?
Does one need both ice cream AND cake?
How much tequila is it appropriate to drink at your child's first birthday party?

Taking Flight

Today, SB made her second trans-continental journey in under a year. Unfortunately for both of us, someone needs to make a respectable living in our family, so Bree stayed behind to mind the store. Unfortunatelier, traveling alone with a nearly 1-year-old is about 10 months of development and mobility worse than traveling with a 2-month-old. One is like going on holiday with a turnip in baby clothes. The other, is like traversing the country with the Tasmanian devil.

So here is the synopsis of the trip:

1. Carrying enough luggage to permanently set up camp in an uninhabited jungle, I arrive with the airport. Specifically, I'm carrying a stroller, car seat, collapsible bed, suitcase, diaper bag, bag of toys, and my own bag where I've foolishly packed some magazines for when I have "time to read."

2. Bree comes with, and manages to steer my plethora of bags through the insane crowd (where ARE all these people going on a Tuesday morning????), while I get stuck trying to cross a stream of oncoming travelers, none of whom seem to think that a frazzled looking chick with a stroller and baby are worth stopping for.

3. The self-check machine won't let me register a suitcase AND a car seat. I go through the options twice before just checking the luggage and hoping one of the helpful attendants will talk me through getting rid of the rest of my crap.

4. Helpful attendant takes it all, and directs me to yet another long-ass line to actually hand off my luggage. After negotiating through another stream of people, I manage to chase down Bree and leave him to dispose of my bags while I do a 180 and go find an elevator to the second floor security checkpoint.

5. Security line is short. Awesome. Stand in line, prep my bags (being a seasoned traveler and all), remove my shoes, and am trying to unstrap Otter with one hand and collapse her stroller with the other when a woman (ok, I'll say it - a rude bitch) pops ahead of me by declaring "I'm just going to cut in front of you," as if that makes it ok. I'm too dumbstruck to even say anything. Upon going through security, it is discovered that RB is also a moron who doesn't know to remove her dvd player from her bag. Now her shit is being sent out a second time (interrupting my flow AGAIN). I shoot her death ray looks.

6. Make it to the gate to learn that the empty seats and room in the bulkhead that I was assured of by the reservations clerk were a figment of his imagination. Accept my fate of having SB in my lap the entire flight. See that RBwhoisalsoaM is on my plane and resist the temptation to ride over her toes with the stroller.

7. Take what I hope will be my only bathroom break with Otter parked in the stall in her stroller. Think of dignity falling away.

8. Get on the plane and find that I am in a row with another woman with a lap child and a kind, sweet, patient man who was stuck between us. Apologize profusely for what he is about to experience.

9. Learn that we are breaking FAA laws by having 2 lap children in one row. (Something about a lack of oxygen masks.) Have lengthy, confusing discussion about which of us should move. Have the flight attendant discover a free seat up front and move the sweet and no doubt relieved gentleman. Thank the universe profusely.

10. Sit in my seat with an overtired, squirmy girl. Buy a $3 chocolate chip cookie for brunch. Pray that she goes to sleep soon so I can inhale it.

11. Realize that Otter needs changing after her nap. Wait interminably for a bathroom to become available. Gather my boatload of baby paraphernalia and totter my way down the aisle. Get in the bathroom and use it with the baby sitting in my lap. Realize how naive and stupid any thought of having lost dignity back around point 7 really was. Realize soon after that there is no changing table in this lavatory. Manage to change Otter in my lap with about 2 inches of room to work with. Promise myself to never assume I've hit bottom.

12. Manage to entertain child for the duration of the flight by allowing her to play anywhere she wants, including in the leg space of the middle, unused seat. Hope that the person in front of me doesn't use this moment to lean back.

13. Arrive at the airport and wait for an extra 1/2 hour at the gate to retrieve my stroller. Which is of course at the very bottom of the pile when it does finally arrive.

14. Retrieve my luggage and realize the bed isn't there. Panic. See a luggage carrier bringing it over. Run to her and choke down the impulse to kiss her.

15. Realize that no matter what happens from here on out, I can do this.

There are some people I want to thank - Bree, for carrying my bags; the gentleman at LAX who actually stopped to let me pass by; the woman behind me in line who called RBwhoisalsoaM out on her shit; the kind flight attendant who valiantly attempted to reassemble my stroller after the security gate; the man in the middle seat on our plane who was rewarded for his kindness by getting the hell away from us; the other long-suffering mom who shared toys and goldfish with me, and her husband who mesmerized Otter for a full 15 minutes with an Elmo video; all the people who chatted and smiled.

Scrapbooking

From what I gather, there comes a time in every mother's life when she begins to scrapbook. This often begins with filling out a baby book and then spirals out of control, until entire rooms in the house are devoted to accommodating this hobby.

While I stand guilty as charged of keeping the obligatory baby album, I have only been dragged into full Monty scrap booking by family. In my defense, I say that this isn't even for me, but for a cousin who's expecting his own child.

After putting it off as long as I could, and getting the admonitory e-mail that I was slacking, I dragged myself to craft store heaven Michael's. The plan was simple - get the properly sized page, a few festive stickers and high-tail it out of there for some gluing fun.

How naive I was...

Michael's swallowed me up like the Bermuda Triangle, leaving me lost in a sea of paper patterns, stickers, appliques, ribbons and all sorts of other doo-dads I know not the name or function of. And the cost of it all! Who are these millionaires with no responsibilities who find the time and the unlimited funds seemingly necessary to pursue this unnatural hobby?

I looked at some of the (unbelievably expensive) scrap booking idea books for inspiration, and learned that to do this correctly, I must be prepared to build lots of layers on my page, print sappy one-liners in funky fonts on newsprint and, most importantly, buy lots and lots of the expensive crap that one glues to the pages to make them more "meaningful."

After what seemed like hours, I limped out with 2 sheets of paper and 3 packages of stickers, leaving my pride and nearly $15 inside the store. What followed at home was another 2 hours of laying out and printing photos, assembling all my design elements, a few Internet searches on how we are actually related to the baby-to-be (Is my husband's cousin's future kid my second cousin? My first cousin once removed? My cousin-in-law? And what about Otter's relationship to all these folks? Thank god for Wikipedia!), and finally, some double face photo tape gluing fun!!! All for ONE PAGE!!!

Lest I sound too bitter, I was happy to do it. I think it's a great idea for the baby to have these pages to look back on, to actually know how his or her father's cousin's baby is related, and to know that an entire extended family put in the work and creativity to welcome him/her to the world. And truth be told, I at the end of the day, I kind of enjoyed putting the page together.

Hmmmm.... Perhaps I should take out a home equity loan and start Otter's scrapbook next...