Short Fat Dictator

Daddy Knows Best - Part the Second

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 21:24:00 +0000

We're back this week with Part Two of David's daddy-tastic wisdom!

Last week, I talked about the realization that came to me once I stopped continually correcting my husband on his handling of our child.

What I discovered was that not only did my husband NOT need my constant guidance, as I had imagined, BUT even more surprising, once I actually started to let him parent on his own - I had a thing or two to learn from the guy.

Last week I talked about learning...

LESSON # 1 - CHANGING MY PERSPECTIVE IN THE FACE OF THE IMMOVABLE FORCE THAT IS THE HYSTERICAL SNOOD.

...and this week, the hits just keep on coming!

LESSON #2 - IT IS POSSIBLE THAT THERE IS NO 'RIGHT WAY'

When the Snood was first born, I must confess, I devoted a lot of time and effort to attempting to show David THE RIGHT WAY to parent, which just so happened to be my way. In my defense, it appears that this belief in my own superior parenting skills is one I share with approximately 97 percent of women everywhere (I'm talking to you, lady at Target, who screamed 'That baby needs some juice!' at me when the Snood started coughing in Aisle 23 last week.)

My certainty in this parental infallability was what drove my constant supervision of David in those early days, convinced as I was that

THE BABY WAS TOO COLD!

THE BABY DOESN'T LIKE IT WHEN YOU PUT YOUR FACE THAT CLOSE TO HIM!

THE BABY WILL FORGET HOW TO SLEEP FOR THE REST OF FOREVER IF HE DOESN'T GET A NAP RIGHT NOOOOWWW!!!!

As it turned out (perhaps you should now take a moment to prepare for the shocking nature of the following statement) some of my theories were not 100% on point. Once I stopped consta-correcting my husband I was forced to recognize that, in fact, there might be more that one correct way to do things when it came to Snoodie. It also became apparent that David could actually figure out his own style of parenting that was, insane as this may seem, just as valid as my own!

Don't believe me? Just look at the evidence!

Amazingly thought this may seem - those times when David took the baby out without a blanket and Snoodie began to fuss because he was too cold.....David was able to figure out how to come back home and get a blanket! And it helped him learn to bring a blanket the next time, JUST IN CASE!

Need more proof?

Well, it ALSO turns out that even thought I knew EXACTLY the way the baby liked to be held, with a little nag-free time my husband was able to figure out his own way to hold the baby - that also worked!

Yes, my fellow mommies, I come before you today with this most startling of revelations. It would appear based on a whole host of evidence that there IS more than one acceptable way to parent a child!!!

LESSON #3 - I BET THAT'S NOT AS BIG A DEAL AS YOU THINK

(a David-ish lesson that I feel wish I could have mastered earlier)

From time to time, as a mom, I have a tendency to get myself a little crazy:

SNOODIE ISN'T EATING HIS FRUIT - HE'S GOING TO DEVELOP SCURVY!

WHY ISN'T HE SLEEPING?! HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE ASLEEP AT ONE O'CLOCK EVERY DAY!

WHY IS HE FREAKING OUT IN THE CARSEAT? I THOUGHT HE LIKED THE CAR SEAT NOW, WHY IS HE FREAKING OUT???

Inevitably, David puts on his calmest, "Easy now, craz-o" voice and says, "You know, I bet that's not that big a deal."

The new rule in our house is that mommy is not allowed to stress about any Snood-related issue that hasn't been a problem for at least a week. Looking back, I realize I spend way too much time running to parenting advice books, deeply concerned over some weird sleep hiccup, strange eating phase, or bizarre screeching event that I was determined to solve, only to find that within a week said behavior had disappeared entirely.

David, on the other hand, seemed to grasp the changing nature of babyhood immediately and stepped up to a much needed role - the voice of reason. Every home should have one.

All of which brings us to our final, and perhaps most important lesson!

LESSON #4: EMPTYING THE DIAPER GENIE IS MAN'S WORK

OK, let's be clear - this is not so much a lesson that David taught me than it is a lesson I arrived at on my own and imposed upon our household with an iron fist. None of which makes it any less valid.

The fact that my husband is capable of ignoring a plate of half-eaten pizza, moldering on the end table by the couch for days on end, led me to conclude that his personal grossness threshold was higher than my own, and thus he should be in charge of wrestling the dreaded "genie poop snake" out to the curbside cans.

Of all the lessons I've shared today, fellow mommies, I think you'll agree that this may be the greatest of them all.

Daddy Knows Best - Part the First

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 18:18:00 +0000

When the Snood was first born my husband, David, hadn't been around a baby for approximately two decades (since back when his youngest sister was an infant) so some serious rust had built up on any burping, swaddling, diaper changing, and assorted infant-related knowledge he might have possessed. He was, for all intents and purposes, starting from scratch and he made me....a little nervous.

One day, when Snoodie was about six weeks old, my best friend was over. As we sat catching up I kept one careful eye on my husband - making helpful suggestions as he and Snoodie got ready for a trip to the corner store.

"Watch his head when you pick him up!"

"Where's his hat? He needs a hat!"

"Remember - make sure the cars are really stopped before you push him out into the crosswalk!"

"People can look at him in the store but DON'T LET THEM TOUCH HIM!!"

David nodded with a smile as he closed the door on the last of my fleeting admonishments. As soon as he was gone, my friend turned to me and said:

"I bet if you gave him the chance, he could figure out a lot of this himself."

*lightbulb moment*

Turns out she was right! From that moment on, I made a concerted effort to squash any instinct to "help" when David was taking care of the Snood. He would occasionally ask a question, or share some realization like...

"Wow, you really need to cover up that kid's penis when you change him, huh?"

..but, for the most part he just took the reigns and went for it.

Not only that, but once I stopped giving him instructions, I noticed that not only was my husband not in need of constant supervision, but he actually had a thing or two to teach me about being a parent.

The first of these lessons is presented below, in a series entitled: "What I've Learned From Snoodie's Dad."

ADAPT YOUR ATTITUDE, BECAUSE HE'S NOT ADAPTING HIS

I have a tendency, when confronted with an opposing force, to dig in my heels and fight. This approach sometimes serves me just fine, but unfortunately, I found that it was highly incompatible with motherhood. Whenever I "took a stand" against Snoodie, I found that it only served to make both of us miserable. But then, one day when Snoodie was about 2-months-old, I was watching David on a car ride home with him -- AND I LEARNED SOMETHING!

You see, when Snoodie was little, this is how he would react to a car ride of any duration:

(actual baby Snood in his actual car seat)

As a result, one of us would take turns riding in the back with him, attempting to soothe him for the duration of the trip. On the night in question, it was David's turn in the back, and I listened in as he spoke to our shrieking son patiently:

"OK, buddy...let's try to stop screaming now, OK?... why don't you take your pacifier and just calm down... that's right, boy-o, let's try to quit crying now... it's gonna be OK, little guy..."

The only effect this had was to drive Snood into more pronounced fits of hysteria, but still David kept at it.

"OK, pal, it's going to be alright, I just want you to try to settle down a little bit buddy..."

After 10 minutes with no change in Snoodie's hysterics, David let out a frustrated sigh, which I assumed meant that he had simply given up. BUT NO! After a moment, he started talking again, in the same unerringly patient tone:

"That's right, buddy, you just let it out. Go ahead and express yourself. You just cry if that's what you need. Good job, buddy. You are doing great at letting us know how you feel."

From my perch upfront I started laughing so hard at my hubby's profound awesomeness that I almost drove us off the road. I understood, in that instant, that David had unearthed one of the true secrets of the happy parent -- and that is that sometimes the only correct possible response to one's child is to adjust your own perspective.

It took my M.I.T. trained husband to show me that, when it came to car rides, our inconsolable infant was not a variable, but a constant, and so the only possible solution was to redefine the equation.

Now, when the Snood is throwing food, instead of getting angry, I pull the food out of reach. When he fusses about bedtime, I explain that while I get, on some basic level, that he's not a fan of the idea, it is still what's best for him so he'll just have to deal. It's a lesson that just keeps on giving, feel free to use it yourself! I'll tell David you said thanks.

STAY TUNED next week for Part Two of the barely taped trove of wisdom that is my husband! "Daddy Knows Best - Part the Second" coming to a blog near you on March 3, 2010!

A Will of One's Own

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 16:12:00 +0000

According to the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, "free will" is defined as

a philosophical term of art for a particular sort of capacity of rational agents to choose a course of action from among various alternatives.

I am currently defining "free will" as

a particularly irritating stage of early childhood development which becomes overwhelmingly problematic around the 16th month of life.

I'm telling you folks, he's no longer as short and barely qualifies as fat - but these days, the Dictator is really coming into his own.

Gone are the days when my sweet little baby Snoodie could be propped, much like a lovable potato, in his infant swing and left to stare contentedly at a mobile while I cooked a meal or, perhaps, indulged in a "Real Housewives" marathon, salty snacks in hand.

Gone, too, are the only marginally less blissful days when a leisurely dinner could be enjoyed while the crawling Snood remained happily contained behind a well-placed baby gate.

Nowadays the Snood is a one-man walking, squawking, free-will machine. His morning peeps, which used to gently alert us to the fact that he was awake, have been replaced by demanding shrieks and a rattling of the crib bars so severe that we occasionally find the entire apparatus has moved by several inches by the time we manage to scramble out of bed to collect him.

Then, there's mealtime.

Snoodie's contented devouring of whatever mushed up goo we saw fit to spoon into his compliant maw has also gone the way of the Dodo. Now that he's realized he is the master of his culinary destiny, his demands are relentless.

He's learned the sign for "HUNGRY" but, sadly, not the sign for "Thanks, mom, for making me such a nice lunch - but I think I'll eschew the broccoli at present." Instead, he expresses his displeasure with my culinary efforts by tossing them in the general direction of my head.

But all of this is nothing when compared to the walking.

Oh, the walking! While I fully accept, on the one hand, that you are an essential part of the growing process, on the other hand - BITE ME THE WALKING!

Snoodie LOVES to walk. Each morning we begin with the following exchange

Mommy: Good morning, Snoodie Butt! Did you have a good sleep?

Snoodie: (in baby sign language) HUNGRY! HUNGRY! HUNGRY!

Mommy: OK! OK! I'll get you something to eat.

Snoodie: (signing) HUNGRY! HUNGRY! HUNGRY!

*Brief interlude for the frantic feeding of the Snood.*

Mommy: Are you enjoying your breakfast, Snoodie Bear?

Snoodie: (signing) ALL DONE! OUTSIDE! OUTSIDE! OUTSIDE!

So, I let him down from his high-chair and then frantically search for my keys, as Snoodie bangs on the front door like a refugee from Attica. We eventually make it outside and walk around the neighborhood, wherever the Snoodie may lead. We stop to see the guys at the Smog Check place next door, irritate several neighborhood dogs and generally have a ball. UNTIL - - -Snoodie does something, like, let's say for example, attempting to open the front door of one of the neighboring houses and wander inside, and I have to tell him, "NO."

And then......IT IS ON!

Snoodie flings himself to the pavement and cries out in a heartbroken wail:

SNOOD: (loosely translated) NOOOOO! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!!!! I AM MERELY AN INNOCENT LITTLE SNOOD!! WHY WOULD ANYONE BE SO CRUEL??? SOMEONE HELP ME!!! SAVE ME!!! PLEEEAAASE!!!!

Concerned neighbors gather at their windows, wondering whether or not to dial Child Protective Services, as I smile and weakly wave towards them while trying to gather the furious Snood in my arms and slink away towards home.

When we finally arrive back at the house I shut the door and inevitably look up to see El Snoodo standing anxiously at the door of the kitchen:

SNOOD: (signing) HUNGRY! HUNGRY! HUNGRY!

Basically, the kid's got me on my toes. He's making the choices these days and it's all I can do to keep my feet underneath me and attempt to meet his incessant demands in a timely manner.

I comfort myself with the fact that a brand new Dictator arrives in May, and I get to start all over again with those blissful days before he or she will have any will of his or her own.

I'm planning to enjoy every minute of it.

Old Bear New Bear That's Not Blue Bear...

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 02:22:00 +0000

Like a pair of none-too intrepid zoologists, David and spent much of last week attempting to introduce our TWO newly purchased Blue Bears into the Snood's natural habitat.

The replicates

For those of you who might have fallen behind in our saga, as of our last visit to this topic, David and I had jumped through a series of SNAFU-laden hoops in order to procure two duplicate versions of Snoodie's beloved lovey, "Blue Bear". Our goal, as we chose to accept it, was to get Snoodie to fall for the 'replicate' bears, thus establishing their role as 'backup loveys' should some unforeseen tragedy befall Blue Bear the First.

The original Blue Bear has been with Snoodie since birth, but he's only been heavily relied upon (and thus heavily chewed, barfed and generally gooped upon) for the past six months or so. He's showing signs of wear, but we estimated that he was not so worn-in that our new bears couldn't catch up, as long as we could move them into the rotation with all deliberate speed.

We had concerns right off the bat - understanding, as we did, that this would be a delicate operation. There was no room for mistakes. Much like a set of organs being prepped for transplant, we know that any irregularities in our replicate bears could cause them to be rejected by the host.

Our first step was to line up all three bears for inspection.

From Left to Right: Original Blue Bear, Blue Bear #2 and Blue Bear #3

Right away we noticed that there was something seriously amiss with Blue Bear #3.

While his tag read "Mr. Beeps 15-inch" (as did the tags of his two fellow bears), he clearly was not a match. His blue fur was at least twice as voluminous as that of Blue Bear #1. The dude was SUPER fuzzy.

Please note extreme fuzziness of Blue Bear #3, at right

David and I agreed that Snoodie was sure to sniff out this fake from a mile out, so we opted to consign Blue Bear #3 to the "regift" pile, fingers crossed that we would have better luck with Blue Bear #2...

Blue Bear the First, Blue Bear the Second

...who we were thrilled to discover was a nearly identical match!

I mean, sure, he was a wee bit cleaner that the original and his fur was a wee bit, well...furrier, but David and I felt sure he was close enough to fool the Snood.

We placed our duplicate strategically before creeping up to our Snood and asking his favorite question,

"Hey? Where's Blue Bear?"

Snoodie's eyes lit up and he immediately leapt to his feet. The search was on! As he turned the corner into the living room, there was Blue Bear #2, lying face-down on the floor.

Snoodie pointed towards him in delight, rushing forward. As he got closer and bent to pick him up, David and I stared in delight when we saw the tell-tale sign that the imposter was being accepted - - - he placed his thumb firmly in his mouth!! His go-to Blue Bear greeting! David and I high-fived in delight as our kiddo collected Blue Bear #2 in his arms and hugged him tight!

...but our elation was short lived.

After that brief and loving embrace, Snoodie's face suddenly fell. He looked from me to David, held Blue Bear #2 out in front of his face and made the following sound,

"Huuuuurrrrrrggggg?"

before dropping faux Blue Bear distainfully on the floor.

He stared us down with an expression that seemed to say,

"Really, guys? You expected me to fall for that? What do you two dopes take me for exactly?"

Then he placed his hands on his hips and stood staring at us until I reluctantly headed for the hall closet, unearthed the hidden Blue Bear #1, and handed him to Snood in defeat.

So it is that I come before you today to announce that Operation Replicate Blue Bear has proved a resounding failure. My attempts to avoid the fate of so many parents before me, who have struggled through lost and decaying loveys, were in vain.

Oh, and also to let you know that if any of you are in the market for a 15-inch Blue Mr. Beeps I have one at a super-discount price (now available in regular and extra fuzzy).

A Simple Question

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 22:03:00 +0000

Folks, I have a few simple questions for you:

Do you enjoy the blog www.shortfatdictator.com?

Would you go so far as to say that www.shortfatdictator.com is one of the best mommy blogs in the history of the universe?

What have you done for www.shortfatdictator.com lately?

If you took the time to answer any of the above questions, then surely you are a person with enough spare time on your hands to follow the below link and vote for Short Fat Dictator as a "Best Mommy Blog".

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

FOLLOW ME - I AM THE LINK YOU NEED

HELPFUL HINT: Click on "Alphabetical" to sort and the blog is listed on page 10.

A Story and a Lesson

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 17:06:00 +0000

Thanks to the faithful readers of www.shortfatdictator.com, we now have two spankin' new Blue Bears that are a perfect perfect shade of..............BLUE!

This means that Operation Replicate Blue Bear is officially a go. Expect a full report on our newcomers' integration into Snoodie's habitat in the coming weeks!

This week we move on to a story of a grotesque and biological nature. Now, I feel it is important to acknowledge that back at the start of the blog I promised that I would make some attempt to limit the number of entries that revolved around my baby's poop.

The problem with this, to be honest, is that when you have a child, the sheer number of poop-based incidents in one's life increases exponentially - making it a challenge to avoid the subject entirely. All I can promise is that I'll try to keep my description of the "incident" brief and to the point, and fear not(!) once you make it through the part with the poop, I make it all worthwhile by including a HELPFUL LESSON at the end!

Last Tuesday, Snoodie and I had spent a delightful morning at music class - getting our Kookaberra on, shaking our eggs, and generally engaging in musical merriment of all kinds. By the time we got home, Snoodie was completely wiped out, so we headed straight for nap time. Because it was a little warm in the house, I tossed him into his crib in just a t-shirt and diaper, sure in my knowledge that we were in for a rockin' afternoon nap.

I was incorrect.

For some reason, Snoodie started squawking after barely an hour of down time. Finding myself deeply engrossed in a Tivoed episode of "The Bachelor: On the Wings of Love" (TEAM ALLIE!), I opted to ignore the squawks, convinced that Snoodie would eventually fall back asleep.

I was incorrect.

Shortly before the last one-on-one date, I conceded that all hope was lost (both for Snoodie's nap and the dignity of the Bachelorettes) and I went to collect the Snood...

...only to discover that instead of falling back into the sweet release of sleep, Snoodie had opted instead to remove his t-shirt, take off his diaper, poop in his crib, and then fling said poop about the room in the manner of a caged orangutang.

So, instead of spending a relaxing afternoon with my feet up indulging in questionable reality television diversions, I spent that time doing laundry (including yet another trip through the machines for the intrepid Blue Bear #1), scrubbing the floor, and hosing down a poopy Snood.

*end of poop tale - beginning of helpful lesson*

THE LESSON OF TODAY'S STORY:

The fact your child has never removed his diaper before is NOT a reliable indicator of the fact that said child does not know how to remove said diaper.

CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED.

We Can Rebuild Him

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 18:10:00 +0000

I am sad to report that "Operation Replicate Blue Bear" is off to a rocky start.

After our day long search for Snoodie's beloved BFF last week, I became convinced that we could avert future catastrophe by purchasing several duplicate Blue Bears.

My determination was partially informed by observing my two nieces, now pre-teens, and their love for the beloved companions of their youth: "Monkey" (Niece #1) and "Squiddy" (Niece #2) (what can I say - creative stuffed animal monikers are not my family's forte). These furry friends were received by each girl at birth (much like Snoodie's Blue Bear) and went on to accompany my nieces EVERYWHERE for the next decade.

Niece #1 was about five when Monkey's head fell off for the first time.

Her Grandmother (by luck, a trained physician) was able to reattach it, but the operation proved to be no more than a stopgap measure. A year later the head was off again, this time followed shortly by his left leg.

I'll spare you the grim details of monkey's ongoing deterioration over the ensuing years, as I believe the photo below will suffice:

(Monkey and Squiddy photographed January 2010. Monkey's tie added to lend him an air of dignity he sorely lacks in that he is, at present, merely a mangy monkey head and two ragged monkey arms grafted onto onto a child's onesie stuffed with foam)

As you can see, Squiddy has fared a bit better through the years, having needed only a few minor repairs. But, this is not to say that Squiddy has not presented problems of his own.

Once, on a road trip across to Chicago from New York, when Niece #2 was about six, the family pulled off for lunch at a highway rest stop before getting back on the road. It wasn't until about 100 miles down the road that my sister-in-law looked around the car only to realize that Squiddy had been.............................LEFT BEHIND!

Faced with the choice between driving three-hours round trip to pick up the errant cephalopod OR explaining to their inconsolable daughter that she would see her boon companion no more, they pulled a resigned U-turn and headed back to retrieve him.

But, I decided, no such fate for me!! I would take action, so that I might never be a slave to the lovey! The plan seemed foolproof. I would create my very own ARMY of well-worn Blue Bears, one of whom would always be at the ready to soothe the Snood!

I pulled Blue Bear's given name off his tag ("Mr. Beeps", for those of you who are curious), then I took to The Google and I FOUND HIM! For $15.99 a piece I could have as many Blue Bear replicates as my little heart desired! I originally considered buying a few dozen, loosely calculating that we could probably manage to misplace 8 or 9 bears a month, but David rightly convinced me that we could never keep that many similarly worn bears in the rotation, and I settled for two.

As I clicked SEND on my order I turned to David and announced proudly,

"I am a GENIUS! This plan is foolproof!"

Four days later a box arrived at my doorstep. Our new Blue Bears were ready to be introduced! David and I opened the packaged excitedly only to find...

...two pink bears. Pink, it would appear, is Mr. Beep's new signature color.

So, "Operation Replicate Blue Bear" starts again in earnest next week, as I take to eBay in search of more duplicate bears.

Until then, I'm watching the original like a hawk.

Bad news Bear

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 17:54:00 +0000

I've talked before on this blog about things that you never want to hear as a mother, and this week I've added a new and exceptionally terrifying phrase to that lexicon. And it is the following:

"Uh, honey...have you seen Blue Bear?"

Yes, folks, our Snoodie has a lovey. His name is 'Blue Bear'. In case you have not been able to successfully deduce this on your own, he is a rather small yet very fluffly blue bear. He is very cuddly, and I have to say for the guy, he's also quite the trooper. Blue Bear was on the front lines for the "Great Stomach Flu of 2009" and required several trips through the washing machine by the time the puke quit flying. He's been dragged through the mud and peed upon more times than I can count, but through it all Snoodie's love for him seems only to grow.

At bedtime, Snoodie sees Blue Bear in my outstretched arms and immediately sticks one thumb resignedly in his mouth and trots off towards his crib, buddy in hand. Once there Snoodie lays down and tells Blue Bear all about his day. After chatting for a bit, Snoodie chews on Blue Bear's face and limbs for a while before drifting off to dreamland.

During the day while I work at my desk, Snoodie will often holler to me from the doorway of his room with a series of ever more urgent grunts:

"Eh...ugh...oh...meh...GAH!!!!!!!!!"

Which loosely translates to:

"Hey, you! Lady who works for me! Blue Bear is stuck in my crib and I need you to come and retrieve him for me immediately!"

I get up, reunite the two pals, and Blue Bear and the Snood wile away the afternoon, hangin' in the playroom, romping in the backyard, and generally having a blast together.

Until yesterday morning, when suddenly - I COULDN'T FIND BLUE BEAR ANYWHERE!!!!!!

He was missing!

Gone!

Lost!

I clearly remember grabbing Blue Bear out of Snoodie's crib around 9:15am and I remember seeing them wandering around the house together shortly thereafter. But after that - NOTHING.

We misplaced Blue Bear once before. When we left for Florida at Christmastime, I realized that, in our rush to get out of the house, we'd completely forgotten him. We considered turning back, at risk of missing our plane, but then David remembered that we had an extra bear someone had given us in the back seat of the car. It was a Brown Bear, a bit on the small side and with a much smaller nose, but Snoodie seemed to take to him so we decided he'd do. Throughout the trip, Snoodie seemed to give his beloved Blue Bear nary a thought (causing David to surmise that our boy might just be the Tiger Woods of bears - with a new love around each corner).

So, when naptime came around yesterday with no sign of Snoodie's buddy, I hoped that maybe we could pull off another switcheroo. But, it appears that in the last month Snoodie's loyalites have sharpened. He rejected first a yellow duckie, then a tan Teddy, and finally his old favorite Winnie the Pooh that he used to love as a baby. Naptime was a thing of terror and by the afternoon the search for Blue Bear had turned truly desperate.

I pulled up couch cushions, emptied closets, and even pulled the fridge out from the wall to crawl behind it. David came home from work early to aid in the effort, but he too found himself stymied. The bear had simply disappeared.

By 8pm Snood was refusing to sleep at all and David and I were reduced to crawling around the house on hands and knees in the vague hope that being at Snoodie level might help unearth a stuffed animal we were only by then referring to only as (insert expletive) Bear. Due to the fact that we hadn't so much as stepped outside on account of the monsoon that is currently engulfing Los Angeles, I knew he HAD to be in the house. Considering the fact that we live in 1400 square foot home, it seemed impossible that we could not locate a foot-and-a-half high bear.

As 8pm loomed with our boy still refusing to head for bed alone, I finally turned to the Snood in desperation and said:

"WHERE DID YOU PUT BLUE BEAR???"

Snoodie stared back at me with an expression that said,

"Oh? That guy?"

...before marching into his room. In one corner, there was a child-sized suitcase shoved part-way under the crib. Snoodie promptly pulled out the case, opened it up, grabbed out Blue Bear, inserted his thumb in his mouth calmly, looked at me for perhaps the thousandth time like I might be a bit of a dummy, and then headed for his crib without further ado.

(the real Blue Bear emerges from his hiding spot)

David and I agreed that it was one of those nights where the only possible thing to do was to take to our bed (him with a large tumbler of scotch) and pray for the blissful release of sleep. BUT FIRST! We snuck into the sleeping Snoodie's room, grabbed the serial number off of old Blue Bear's tag, and headed off to the internet to order up six or seven duplicates of our boy's one true love.

A Lesson Learned

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 16:57:00 +0000

I make a real effort here on the blog to steer clear of doling out parenting advice. I don't think of myself as a child-rearing expert (and, come to think of it, neither does my child), but every once in a while, an incident from my personal experience seems such a 'teachable moment', if you will, that I feel compelled to pass it along.

Let me be clear right off the bat that today's entry will contain some disturbing imagery. You know how on Facebook women have been posting their bra color all week? And how that's forced you to picture people you never wanted to think of undressed in their 'dwear? And how that made you feel kind of deeply yucky on the inside? Well, today's posting will inevitably cause some similar discomfort. But if sharing my personal truth can save JUST ONE other person from walking this tragic path, then it will all have been worth it.

"The incident" as we'll call it, happened last Thursday morning. I'd taken the Snood to a largish department store to pick up some housewares. The morning was going surprisingly well, with nary a sign of my impending doom on the horizon, as Snoodie chilled out in the shopping cart, while I got my shop on with all due success.

As we made our way toward the check-out line I noticed a handicapped restroom right off the shopping floor (a detail that will soon become important - please make a note of it) and, deciding that pregnancy qualified as a certifiable handicap, decided to duck in. I set Snoodie down with strict instructions NOT to lick the walls and settled down to take care of business...

...which was just around the time that I managed to recall Snoodie's newest preferred pasttime - opening doors.

As my boy made a bee-line for the handle, I put on my best firm mommy voice and informed him in no uncertain terms, "Snoodie -DO NOT OPEN THAT DOOR!"

But it was to no avail. Before the words were even out of my mouth, Snoodie's hand had reached up, turned the handle and flung the door wide with a self-satisfied grin.

I sat there, mid-stream, and stared out the door - watching as the faces of smiling shoppers took in the scene and transformed into masks of horror. There was nothing left for me to do but cover my face in shame while simultaneously praying for a spontaneous fatal heart attack.

Eventually, a kind-hearted soul from the blender aisle took pity on me and came over to help Snoodie shut the door. I wrapped up my efforts and informed Snood that we were going home to research military schools that would accept 15-month-olds, before gathering what shreds of dignity I had left and exiting the bathroom.

I wheeled my purchases towards the cashiers, ignoring pitying glances from my fellow shoppers, and managed to check-out without further incident.

And then I went home, pulled out my list of "places where Snoodie and I are no longer welcome in Los Angeles" and made another entry.

New Year, Same Snood

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 02:08:00 +0000

We're back from Christmas break at Chez Grandparentals in Florida - an experience that I can only describe as - "The Greatest Vacation That Ever Was."

I give most of the credit to my husband, who was all over the Snood while I dangled my tootsies in the hot-tub all day, salty snacks in hand. Honorable mention to my two nieces (aged 10 and 12) who were totally devoted to the kid.

Is there any question greater in this wide world, I ask you, than,

"Can I please change the next diaper?"

ANSWER: No, there is not.

If anyone in the greater Los Angeles area has two children of approximately similar ages who they would like to lend to me for several months, please contact me immediately.

Now that the New Year is upon us, I've decided that it is time for a Short Fat Dictator announcement!

Come May of Twenty-Ten, SFD Headquarters will be moving from a 'double-team' defense to 'man-on-man' as we are due to welcome a SECOND dictator to the brood. At present Snoodie the First is wildly oblivious to this development and continues to happily enjoy his waning days as the King of All He Surveys.

*ANNOUNCEMENT END*

Now that David and I have been cast out of our Floridian paradise we find ourselves trying to adjust to our return to real life. Gone are the rooms filled with helpful family members! Lost are the seemingly endless opportunities for adult conversation! Oh, 5:30pm dinners at an endless array of chain restaurants - - I think I'll miss you most of all! (FUN FACT: the Outback "Bloomin' Onion" contains approximately three days worth of calories and fat -- AND IT IS ONLY YOUR APPETIZER!)

Now, instead of partaking in these simple pleasures, David and I are attempting to restore some equilibrium here at home, a process that involves BOTH trying to reduce our grease intake by approximately 900% AND (perhaps more crucially) attempting to get the Snood back on West Coast time.

Now, I have to say that under normal circumstances, my boy is a championship sleeper. Back when he was little more than 7-weeks old, my sister-in-law came to visit. She took one look at him and announced with a true air of authority:

"That boy's ready to sleep!"

She went on to work her "I am the mother of four - do NOT mess with me" voodoo on him and he's been sleeping beautifully every since...

UNLESS - he has jetlag.

Currently the three-hour time change (East to West Coast) is kicking his mini-behind. David and I have opted for the "cold turkey" approach, which involves keeping him up until his normal 7:30pm bedtime at all costs.

This is how we find ourselves at present living with a two-foot-nine version of Jack Nicholson's character from 'The Shining'.

From the hours of 4 - 7:30pm he wanders with the glassy eyes of a maniac, alternately laughing hysterically and then falling to the floor to wail inconsolably. There seems to be nothing we can do to interrupt this cycle and so we just seek cover and wait for bedtime to come.

Still, it's all a small price to pay for 9 days of relaxation. 9 days in which I consumed roughly six times the number of daily calories any human being needs for survival. 9 days of sleeping until EIGHT A.M. daily. 9 days in which I can count the number of diapers I changed on one hand. Like I said, "The Greatest Vacation That Ever Was".

And to think - there's only three-hundred and fifty six days until I get to do it again!

Snoodie Go Boom

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 20:13:00 +0000

The Snood is currently sporting a fat lip, a 2-inch scrape across the bridge of his nose, and a golfball-sized carbuncle just short of his hairline...

...which means we're running just about par for the course this week when it comes to facial injuries.

The thing is, my kid leads with his head. Which, unfortunately for him, means encountering the world (and all the solid objects it contains) face-first. Back when he was still crawling, it seemed his only clue that it might be time to cease forward motion was the sensation of his head colliding with the wall. And it showed, as bruises, bumps, and bonks of all shapes and sizes began sprouting from Snoodie's once pristine visage at an alarming rate.

I clung to a desperate hope that, once Snoodie started walking, his consta-wounds would abate. I'm sad to report that quite the opposite proved to be true. It seems the fact that the Snood's 99th-percentile head rests atop a 34th-percentile body all but guaranteed that his face would be the first thing to make contact with the ground when his initial efforts at two-legged motion went awry. His early walking attempts went a little something like this:

STEP-STEP-FACEPLANT-REPEAT.

And, sure, eventually the guy got surer in his stride.

The problem is that the only thing this sure-footedness seems to have changed about the situation is the velocity at which he wipes-out.

We were spending Thanksgiving in Texas just after the Snood had just started hoofing it with real confidence. David and I were all standing around outside with Snoodie's Grandma and Aunt Tess. All of us stood watching him happily toddle up and down the sidewalk, until he suddenly lost his footing on some uneven pavement and went down.

The assembled group rushed toward him in a panic, but I calmly assured them there was no cause for alarm! These sorts of things happened all the time! It wasn't until I went to scoop my crying son off the pavement that I realized that there was blood pouring from his mouth in large quantities and came face to face with the realization that we had ushered in new era of wounds - the bleeders.

Now, whenever the Snood and I are out on the town we are routinely greeted by a chorus of "Oh no, sweetie, you've got a boo-boo!" and "What happened to his face?" It's reached the point where I am seriously considering changing supermarkets for fear one of the concerned checkers will call child protective services on me.

But I've come to realize that try as I might to slow him down some, there doesn't seem to be any stopping my Snoodie. He continues to hurl his adorable countenance at the world with reckless abandon and has now decided that, like some mini-mountaineer, he will scale all surfaces he sees, adding distance to the ground as a complicating factor in his falls.

But as I look over the kids in my neighborhood, the scabby-kneed girls in princess gowns climbing trees and the scrappy boys leaping off their bikes to protect our houses from alien attacks, I try to remember that injuries are part of the growing process, and part of the bloody-good fun of it all. So, I do my best to let Snoodie explore as he wants as I keep my band-aids and bags of ice at the ready. Plus, I can always comfort myself with the knowledge that if and when I do need to change grocery stores, there's another one just a few blocks further down the road.

Plague, Plaguier, Plaguiest

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 04:23:00 +0000

Now that my house is finally filled with the suitable amount of Christmas whimsy and I have successfully purchased approximately nine thousand Christmas gifts AND I have shipped said gifts to approximately eighty-six different destinations - - - I'M BACK!

Oh, I forgot to mention that I have also baked roughly 9 million holiday cookies. If anyone out there has a craving for a sugar cookie shaped like a gingerbread lady who's had an emergency frontal lobotomy, please contact me via the comments section immediately.

Now that the Christmas insanity is beginning to wind down, I've finally found the time to sit down in front of my laptop and tell you all a little tale I like to call: "What I Did on My Thanksgiving Vacation".

What I did on my Thanksgiving vacation was --- I contracted the plague.

I realize that I have previously claimed in these pages to have contracted the plague, but to use one of my husband's favorite expressions....I WAS WRONG! That was not the plague. That was a mildly terrible head cold.

What happened to us the week of Thanksgiving....THAT was the plague.

It all started on a Friday, the morning before we were due to fly to Texas for the holiday. David got up to collect the Snood from his crib and the next thing I heard was the always terrifying exclamation, "Uh-oh." I sprang from bed and headed for Snood's room, secure in my knowledge that nothing good could be afoot. I arrived just in time to see David extracting el Snoodo from his barf-covered crib, which he had thrown up all over some time in the night.

It was deeply grotesque.

BUT! As soon as we'd de-pukified Snoodie in the bathtub, I have to say, he seemed no worse for the wear. He ate a huge breakfast and didn't have any fever, so David left for work and I got busy packing for our trip.

Things were still looking good as I put Snoods to bed that night, and I thought we might be in the clear......until David arrived home from work looking decidedly green and announced he "wasn't feeling so good." I banished him to the couch in a sad attempt at quarantining the virus and settled down to get some sleep...

...only to be awakened at 10:30pm by a sudden and overwhelming need to projectile vomit out any and all food I'd ingested since 1983.

I won't go into too many details about the next several hours. Instead I'll simply quote my father, who describes the experience saying, "The thing about the stomach flu is you're afraid you're going to die until you become afraid that you are not going to die." Yeah, it was kind of like that. At some point during the night David was awakened by my sounds of distress and opened the door to the bathroom...

He took one look at me and uttered a horrified, "Oh...no" before retreating to the relative safety of the couch.

By 6:30a.m. I'd given up on any hope that the sweet relief of death might take me away and I peeled myself up from the bathroom floor. I told David that we could still make our flight, if he would take full charge of the Snood. In response, he began vomiting in my general direction.

TRIP POSTPONED.

Realizing we could neither travel nor remain upright for long enough to care for our own offspring, we begged Snoodie's babysitter to take him for a few hours. She agreed, simultaneously proving the existence of a loving God and allowing us to head back to bed for the remainder of the morning.

I now interrupt this blog entry with a little segment I'll call HELPFUL HINT TO THE AIRLINES: If you make it your policy that people must fly the same day that their ticket is issued OR face a quadrupling of the price of their ticket, you practically force families with sky-high viral loads to board your planes. And that's annoying. Thank you.

Nine hours after I first woke David up, we limped like so many deranged zombies onto our flight.

Luckily, the flight was uneventful and three hours later we poured ourselves out of our seats and into the loving arms of my husband's family.

And the horror came to an end.

OR SO IT SEEMED.

Have you ever read the above book about 10 people who arrive at a mysterious island, only to be picked off one-by-one by an unseen killer? Our Thanksgiving was kind of like that.

After some debate about whether or not we should cancel our trip altogether, David and I put our collective imaginary medical degrees together and surmised that since Snoodie was already showing symptoms that probably meant he was no longer contagious. Yeah, that was not so much accurate.

One by one the members of my husband's family fell. My mother-in-law was the first to go, throwing up the whole way home from a visit to Dallas. David's dad succumbed next, spending all of Thanksgiving day curled up in bed, his occasional moans our only assurance that he was still alive as the rest of us feasted. My brother-in-law then spent that night with his own gastro-pyrotechnics. My sister-in-law came home the next night, excited to announce her engagement. She barely had time to flash the ring to the assembled family before heading off at a full sprint for the nearest toilet.

Then the calls began to come in:

"You know, just after we came over to see you guys poor Melissa got terribly ill....."

"Uncle Bob was barfing for two days after you stopped by with the baby....."

By the end of our time in Texas we calculated that the Snood has claimed upwards of twelve victims. Not bad for a guy still in diapers. We apologized profusely as we packed up our belongings for the trip home...

...the only one of us who seemed immune to the shame was patient zero himself, the Snood. As he looked over his assembled victims, waving weak goodbyes from their sick beds, I could almost swear I saw a glint in his eyes.....

Oops

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 01:42:00 +0000

So, this week we flew back from our Thanksgiving travels only to be faced with the startling reality that we had exactly 13 days until we leave for our Christmas travels. YIKES!

I went into a full-scale impending Holiday panic and begin spreading Christmas cheer by coating every available surface in my home with holly, ivy and whimsical Santa figures. Next up - the baking!

All this to say that there is no new blog this week. BUT - there is some good news!

I've been sitting on the tale of the Snood's terrifying reign of bio-terror that left a swath of vomit over three Texan towns before heading East for quite some time now and you'll get to hear all about it next week. Full disclosure, people, this tale will NOT be for the faint of heart (or the faint of stomach, for that matter).

See you then!

An Open Letter

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 16:32:00 +0000

Dearest Department Store Santa:

I want to start off by making it perfectly clear that I understand that your job is difficult.

I know, I know - lots of people act like they get it. They pretend to sympathize with just how hard it is to be you, never having walked a mile through your "sno"-covered hell! But I am not like the others, Santa! I really do understand -- because for five years running, I worked every holiday season as a costumed elf, helping my very own Santa listen to the cares, woes, and materialistic demands of hordes of hideous little boys and girls. So Santy, I've felt your pain.

I know that children puke on you regularly. I get that it's hard to be merry when you are having to pose with some kid's pet ferret. I've felt the sting first-hand of that 15-year-old kid who outweighs you by forty pounds jumping on your lap, only to make obscene gestures as you pose with him, completely ignoring your query about whether or not he's been a good boy this year. Santa, you're not gonna find more empathy for you anywhere - but, dude, I gotta say, I took my kid to see you yesterday at the mall and I have a few helpful suggestions:

OK, the first tip is actually from my mom. She feels your outfit was incomplete without a Santa hat. (You might already be aware of this note, as Mom grumbled quite loudly after our interaction with you, "We don't like you, Santa...AND GET A HAT!")

Next - your Santa's Wonderland (tm) policy that bans me from taking pictures with my own camera, while understandable, perhaps would be easier to swallow if not delivered by your greeter with the implied threat of physical violence. It's not real Christmasy.

My final note is really the most important. Santa, I realize that when the blond Easter European lady in front of us demanded that she and her gigantic Ukranian husband be allowed to sit on your lap with their dog (the oddly named "Lovely Blackie") you were probably desperately in need of a well-earned break. But when you attempted, as a result, to shut down the line, thus asking the girl behind us in line, who was BLIND, to wait for an additional hour for a photo with you, I had to conclude that you are THE WORST SANTA EVER! Fortunately for all involved, as your nervous elves attempted to explain to the girl's tearful mother that "Santa really needed to go feed his reindeer..." you seemed to sense the crowd turning on you. There was a palpable feeling in the air that the assembled group of mothers might, in fact, be willing to beat Santa senseless in in front of their own children if you did not have a change of heart. And so you posed with the little girl before shuffling off in a huff, returning my call of "Bye, Santa!" with an angry glare. Come on, Santa, totally not cool.

In conclusion, I am sympathetic to your plight, Mr. Kringle. But please, don't shoot daggers at me from behind your whimsical round glasses OR be mean to blind children because it makes you suck as a Santa (and also, quite possibly, as a person) and puts a real damper of the whole "Christmas Merriment" vibe we're going for when we choose to take our children to the mall to have them photographed with you.

That is all, Santa. Hope this advice has been useful, and most importantly, have a really nice Christmas and don't forget that Hawaiian vacation I asked for!

Sincerely,

Your friend at www.shortfatdictator.com

Turkey Day

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 23:35:00 +0000

Here at www.shortfatdictator.com the turkey coma set in early, which may explain the lack of wisdom on the wonders of parenting a toddler this week.

Instead of blogging tonight, I'll be lying on the sofa, rooting on the Giants, and lamenting a host of poor choices back at the buffet table.

Look for the blog next Wednesday, when we return with a tale of Snood-borne bio-terror certain to amaze and terrify! Until then, Happy Thanksgiving to one and all.

The Terror Surfaces

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 15:12:00 +0000

There is a creature who lurks on the Western edges of Los Angeles.

This beast is so terrifying! So unrelenting! So singular of purpose! That he can only be called........SNOODZILLA!

Like his Japanese lizard-beast counterpart before him, Snoodzilla has but one mission in life, and that is the complete and merciless destruction of all he surveys. Due to the fact that this particular fiend has chosen to live in our home, my husband David and I (like panicked citizens of Toyko) can do little more than point helplessly at the rampage as we cower in his wake.

From the moment he first opens his eyes in the morning, a Snoodish campaign of terror commences. We awaken with each dawn's early light to the dulcet tones of the creature furiously shaking the bars of his crib, demanding his freedom. David and I stagger from bed and make our first futile attempts to appease him.

We lift him from his crib and find the poop is abundant. To get a better sense of what follows next, I urge you to now stop reading this blog, find a large and preferably rabid alligator, and then attempt to change its diaper.

* TIME ELAPSES *

It's not easy, is it? The best we can hope for is to achieve a complete wardrobe change without Snoodzilla

leaping head-first from the changing table, and/or
seizing the baby powder and using it as chemical warfare, and/or
flinging his poop towards us like a rage-fueled monkey.

Assuming we have survived the above (I am not exaggerating when I say that I have TWICE left the changing table actually bloodied) Snoodzilla is now dressed and down on the ground. His small, yet hungry eyes, scan the room, searching for his first target of the day, usually the bookshelf. I pull David in front of me, attempting to use him as a human shield as "Goodnight Moon", "Googlie Farm", and "Touch and Feel Baby Animals" go whizzing by our heads.

Including a short break for his morning bottle, the bookshelf takes about six minutes to completely decimate. When he's sure that he's emptied it completely he sits briefly on the pile of fifty or so books, satisfied with the destruction he has wrought.

We've been awake for about fifteen minutes.

Not long after, David beats a hasty retreat to the office, leaving me alone with the Beast.

Snoodzilla's victory over the bookshelf seems only to have whetted his appetite for destruction. I dash out of his way as he makes a bee-line for the diaper basket. He crawls inside for maximum damage potential and soon neatly stacked diapers are being hurled in all directions. En route to the living room, where there are two more bookshelves to empty, he makes a pit stop to upend the laundry bin and spread our dirty drawers throughout the house. Then it's the playroom, where there are toy bins to be attacked without mercy.

Now, you may ask, "Why don't you just stop him?"

Well, let me ask you this? Why didn't those folks over in Toyko "just stop" Godzilla? I'll tell you why - because he is REALLY, REALLY SCARY - especially when you make him mad!!

So, instead I choose to stay out of the way until the spree of devastation has run its natural course. Knowing that, after thirteen hours or so, Snoodzilla will inevitably tire and collapse, I let him do his thing. After I've gotten him back into his crib for the night, I lie amidst the debris, exhausted.

David arrives home from work and I must assure him that NEVER FEAR - our home has not been ransacked by a gang of meth-fueled burglars, NOR have I accidentally detonated an unexploded WWII-era ordinance I found in the closet, it's just that...

...SNOODZILLA WAS HERE!

Boo Mania!

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 16:08:00 +0000

When it comes to listing one's favorite holiday, I've have always had a deep and abiding suspicion of those people who choose Halloween.

For me, a holiday with no large meal and/or exorbitant gift exchange directly associated with it has always seemed just kinda third rate. Sure, I understand that this, the spookiest of all holidays, comes with the serious upside of allowing one to spend an entire week consuming candy in lieu of meals, but what can I say? It's been years since October 31st has really lit my fire.

HOWEVER! Having recently spent my first Halloween as the mother of a toddler, I must admit, I've had a...change of heart.

As months of previous entries here at www.shortfatdictator.com will surely attest, there are about a million downsides to having a baby. There are the sleepless nights, the Sisyphyean realities of diaper changing and laundry duty, the complete surrender of your existence to a small and unreasonable human...I could go on and on. But the good news is this - just when things seem darkest, there always seems to be some sudden and unexpected upside. For example, the opportunity to dress one's offspring in a hilariously adorable outfit completely against his or her will. Which is AWESOME!

When I was little, my mom was the queen of Halloween costumes. She would start taking orders in late August; then for the next two months the sewing machine would be rockin'. The resulting costumes were fantastic - a clown with giant home-made foam shoes and a red mop wig; the statue of liberty recreated down to the smallest detail using half a dozen hand-dyed sheets; and a pint-sized Wonder Woman, complete with blue starred shorts and a pair of bulletproof cuffs.

Now that I had my own child to costume, this September I vowed to carry on my mother's noble tradition. I would get out my Brother sewing machine and I would create my very own costume-y magic! I decided on a circus theme. With Snoodie's stocky physique and bald-ish head I imagined him as the perfect little strong man. I would be the bearded lady and for David I would whip together a fantastic Ringmaster's get-up from scratch!

It was approximately Mid-October when some reality began to set-in. It occurred to me that my shirtless tattooed mini-strong man might start to get rather cranky as evening temperatures were hovering near the mid-fifties. Also, let's be honest, there was the even more pressing reality that I can barely sew, which was putting a serious hurtin' on my plan to stitch together a three-part circus masterpiece.

Luckily, as I was going to bed one week before the big night, I had a vision! A vision of my friend Mindy's toddler wearing an adorable and more importantly pre-made lobster costume. Halloween - SAVED! By the weekend I had the hand-me-down costume in hand and IT...WAS...ON!

Halloween finally arrived and the three of us hit the streets! Total prep time: six minutes. Total cost: 12 bucks (spent at the local kitchen supply store). Result: Unspeakable awesomeness!

(chef, lobster and diner)

All night I just kept saying to my husband, "I forgot how great Halloween was!"

Instead of cramming myself into someone's crappy apartment with a bunch of people dressed as recently deceased celebrities, having to fight my way through a throng of slutty nurses on the way to get a beer, I was out TRICK-or-TREATING!

Our neighborhood was transformed into a Halloween wonderland with kids in costumes, friendly neighbors handing out candy, and general merriment abounding. Snoods was, frankly, overwhelmed by the whole experience and spent most of the evening in the role of "deeply perturbed crustacean". Nonetheless, Halloween success was undoubtedly achieved!

Back at home we de-lobsterified Snoodie and put him to bed, handed out some candy to a gaggle of adorable young'uns, ate sweets by the handful and then hung our "OUT OF CANDY" sign on the door and were in bed by 9:30pm.

I apologize to you, 31st of October, for all my past maligning! I am ready to dub thee the GREATEST OF ALL THE HOLIDAYS! At least until next month when my head is turned by the sweet, sweet lure of cornbread stuffing with sausage, turkey with gravy and PIE!

I suggest you enjoy your victory while it lasts Halloween....

I shall return

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 19:45:00 +0000

Hey Folks!

Yes, I have not posted in a while, but I have a semi-reasonable excuse. I have a writing deadline on November 4th, so there won't be any new posts until after Halloween.

When I do return, look forward to an appropriately spooky story chronicling the terrifying creature currently bent destroying my home. They call him....SNOODZILLA!

Happy Halloween to one and all!

P.S. I will add, briefly, that if there is anything better about having a kid than getting to dress him up in a costume against his will and then parade him around for the delight of the neighbors on Halloween, I truly haven't discovered it.

Party All the Time

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 22:05:00 +0000

My husband David and I complement each other in many ways, but our mutual destruction is assured unless we can figure out some way to curb our shared love of SEVERE over-planning.

The following is the actual schedule that faced us as we headed into last weekend:

FRIDAY -

MORNING - Shop for, decorate and clean house for the surprise birthday party of a family friend I'll be hosting this evening. A sit-down dinner for 10.

NOON - Make tragic, weekend-screwing mistake of checking Craigslist and discovering there is a murphy bed, which I have been wanting for our guest room, on sale for a great price. Order said murphy bed, thus assuring own doom.

NIGHT - Throw friend's birthday party in state of high-frenzy. Remove guests from home before falling into bed at midnight leaving kitchen disaster in our wake.

SATURDAY -

PARTY NUMBER TWO! It's the BIG Snoodie First Birthday Extravaganza!

MORNING - We know we're scheduled to visit a sick friend to visit for most of the morning - so best to get a jump on the day! We're out of bed with Snoods at 6am! As David attacks the kitchen fiasco, I begin making giant mound of cupcakes (pausing only to run to the neighbors to frantically beg for cupcake liners, which I have neglected to purchase during yesterday's maniacal shopping outing). Snood yells miserably from his play yard for sweet freedom, but we eagerly explain how worth it this all will seem once he sees the great Feast of Snoodie we are preparing!

LATE MORNING - We cease work to visit the aforementioned friend. Upon return (around 11am), I realize we have approximately 8 hours of preparations to complete before the party starts at 4pm. BUT, instead of helping with this, David now has to leave to go get a UHAUL and pick up the ill-advisedly purchased murphy bed. He estimates that the entire undertaking will last about 2 hours...

AFTERNOON - ...he is wrong. By early afternoon I am texting him frantically.

12pm-

ME: Where r u???

DAVID: Turns out Murp bed actually belongs to ex-boyfriend. He dsn't want 2 sell.

1pm-

ME: Where r u now???

DAVID: Convinced b-friend - getting cashiers ck. then heading bck to buy bed.

2:30pm-

ME: Where r u???

DAVID: Disassembling bed I'm gonna B a while.

By 3pm I give up on the texting and decide I better concentrate on frantically shoving detritus into every conceivable inch of closet space in our home, while simultaneously attempting to speed-ice cupcakes and hang birthday banners.

3:55pm finds David back at home! The two of us unload the final pieces of our massive new murphy bed into the guest room in the waning moments before our first guests arrive. The early arrivers help me take out the garbage and set the table before - THE PARTY BEGINS!

4pm - David emerges from a 60-second shower and joins the gathering revelers. The party is an enormous success! I've taken a friend's good advice and kept it small and super-simple. Snoodie crawls around with a handful of other babies and then shoves an entire cupcake in his face. BIRTHDAY ACHIEVED!

9pm - Our guests have departed and David and I lay semi-conscious in our backyard only to realize that we now need to start packing for a two-week trip that begins first thing tomorrow morning. I offer my husband seven million dollars if he will just let me die in the middle of the lawn instead, but he refuses. And so, I get up and follow him into the house, where we start pulling out bags and throwing in a haphazard collection of clothing before crawling into bed around midnight.

SUNDAY

5am - Wakey! Wakey! We're out of bed in the dark before dawn to head for LAX looking like rejects from the cast of Zombieland.

So, the weekend nearly killed us.

BUT now that it is behind us we are thrilled to have our new murphy bed and glad to be on our nice vacation. And as for the birthday party? As I mentioned in my last post, one friend advised me that all you really need to come away with to deem a 1st Birthday Party a success is a picture of your baby wearing a hat and covered with cake.

And to that I say - - - CHECK!

Happy Snood-day to You!

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 15:11:00 +0000

This Friday is Snoodie's FIRST BIRTHDAY!

(please do not panic, you are not actually invited to a first birthday party)

Preparations are officially underway for the Feast of Snoodie! And by preparations, I mean that I am on my way to Party City to purchase some streamers and perhaps a balloon or two.

As the date for the party draws near, I've been getting advice from all corners about what a child's birthday party should involve:

"One child for every year the kid is old!"

"Get a bouncy house! Everyone loves a bouncy house!"

"Start late! That way everyone has had their nap!"

"Start early! Get it done and out of the way!"

Perhaps the most poignant thought on the subject, however, came from my father.

He informed me in no uncertain terms that if he ever learned he had a only a month to live, he would spend each day of that month riding an exercise bicycle in the center of a children's birthday party. This way, the month would seem like several years and by its end death would be nothing but a sweet relief.

So, I've been warned.

The touchstone I keep returning to is that, whatever we end up putting together, Snoodie won't remember it. I mean, the first couple of birthdays are just trial runs before the child has any actual ability to retain the experience, right?

As a friend pointed out, for birthday number one all you really need to come away with is a picture of your baby wearing a hat and covered with cake! So, I'm adding cake mix to my list and heading off to shop!

Check back next week to see the disturbing cartoon baby above replaced by an actual photo of Snood enjoying his very own birthday cake! (If no such photo appears, please send help immediately.)

Snood Glorious Snood

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 14:52:00 +0000

When my husband and I were first dating we would meet up each Friday night at a different restaurant in Los Angeles. At the time, we were unencumbered by childcare costs and/or mortgage payments and so we could afford to splurge on some pretty nice dinners.

Each week, one of us would do extensive research before making a reservation.

We'd meet up for a cocktail before dinner and talk for an hour or so about the restaurant choice. Upon arrival, we would discuss the menu in detail before ordering. When the food was served, we'd pass our plates back and forth as we discussed the merits and missteps of each dish. After the date, we'd head out, holding hands as we lovingly revisited the meal, course by course, while strolling towards the car.

At some point, about 6 months into our relationship, I turned to David with true concern and said:

"I'm worried that our relationship is 90% based on talking about food."

He pointed out that many couples he could name made it work on less, and we set a wedding date.

Since then, the arrival of ze Snood has put a serious hurting on date nights. These days we eat mostly at home. The first year plus of marriage has reveled a whole new side of our eating selves. For example, David has had to work double time to keep track of the long list of food rules I adhere to, which includes:

No raisins in anything. Ever.
No cold foot that could be served hot (i.e. shrimp on ice)
No "surprise cruch" (i.e. chicken salad with large hunks of celery)
No condiments (this includes ketchup, mustard, relish and hot sauce)

I could go on all day.

David, on the other hand, is basically the human equivalent of a goat.

He will head to the fridge and open a tupperware container of dubious origin any night of the week and give it's contents a whirl. While I have never actually seen him devour a tin can, let's just say I'm not putting anything past him.

So it's been interesting to start introducing Snoodie to solid food. So far, I think he takes after his dad. It started with rice cereal, which he devoured with gusto. We moved onto fruits and veggies, which he ate with glee (brief product endorsement: the BEABA babyfood maker is awesome - I never would have imagined myself as a "make your own babyfood" type but I am a convert!).

And now, as he approaches his first birthday Snood is eating it all. It's a feeding frenzy in my dining room. I am beginning to give serious though to simply sitting Snood in a high-chair, putting a bowl a food in front of him and then turning on a high-powered fan and blowing the food in his general direction. I am almost certain this system would result in more food consumption and less mess than we are currently experiencing.

We've even starting heading out for date nights again!

Gone are the fancy reservations and the five courses. These days we specialize in dinner at 5:30pm. As we have a maniac in a high chair along for the ride, our dining choices are limited to loud restaurants with friendly servers and we tend to order more burgers than filets, but still we're getting out and firming up the very core of our relationship, our first true love, the thing that made it all happen for us...

...FOOD!

What I Did on My Summer Vacation!

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 14:28:00 +0000

Well, it looks as though summer has come to an end, news that is melancholy on all fronts EXCEPT ONE! Yes, folks, this year, the arrival of Labor Day brings with it a single bright light - - - the return of www.shortfatdictator.com!

*sounds of rejoicing*

I fled the blog sometime back in August, in order to devote massive amounts of quality time to dipping El Snoodo in sunscreen, before heading out in search of water sources in which to plunge ourselves.

But now that fall is in the air, I hereby declare myself ready to fall into autumn's cobwebby arms and begin, once again, to blog about my questionable parenting choices!

First, an update since my last post - - the plague has finally abated (though, not before Typhoid Snoodie managed to pass it on to his grandmother, his parents, my cousin, my sister, his babysitter and two family friends).

I tell you, this cold was one for the record books. We were laid so low by it that at one point my husband turned his goopy eyes to me and said in-between hacking coughs,

"We're never going to be well again. This is it for us."

I gave him some chocolate and sent him back to bed, figuring that it was probably useless to try to explain the unlikelihood that the two of us had managed to catch the world's first incurable cold. And, as it turned out, we were not chosen to suffer endlessly. Eventually, we all recovered and managed to crawl from our sickbeds and back out into the sunshine.

One other delightful development since my last post is that Snood has come a long way since ARP! In fact, he is now performing tricks on command!

Our relationship now involves little more than the following exchange repeated without end:

Me: How big is Snoodie?

Snood raises hands above head to indicate bigness.

Me: SO BIG!!!!

It seems simple but, let me tell you, after eight months of attempting to decipher a series of ever-loudening cries without success, this first glimmer that Snoodie actually speaks English is pretty much the best thing to ever happen to me.

So, that's the news for now! Start looking for the blog again on Wednesdays. Lots more tales to report in the weeks ahead as my little Snoodie turns one!

Sick

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 22:43:00 +0000

We've got the plague.

It all started at the tail end of our super fun summer vacation to New York. There was a family wedding last Saturday night and so, of course, my sister Anne and I decided that, since we were baby-free and David has agreed to designated drive, it was our moral obligation to tie one on old school-style!

(insert woo-hoo type sound here)

The wedding was the greatest kind of wedding there is, and by that I mean a wedding at which the bar is open for cocktails before the ceremony even begins. Anne and I got our game faces on and headed for the bar!

CUT TO:

Six hours and countless Budweisers later David finally managed to drag Anne and I from the dance floor, where we had been performing an unsightly and age-inappropriate version of FLO-RIDAs "Low" to the bemusement/horror of our assembled relatives and we reluctantly agree to head for home.

As we poured ourselves into the car, I called to check in with my folks, who had left a bit early to relieve the sitter.

The bad news was that the report from home was was not good. The good news was that I did manage to discover the ultimate sober-up quick catchphrase the moment my mom said to me:

"There's something wrong with Snood."

We raced home to find our poor little guy moaning and feverish and ended up heading to the E.R. after Snood's fever passed 104 degrees. We delayed our flight back and several nights of missed sleep later, finally managed to limp back to L.A with a sniffling Snood (who, it turned out, just had a nasty virus).

And that is where we find ourselves now.

EXCEPT! I forgot to add that during the above events David and I both caught the Snoodie-plague and are now both horribly sick - - just in time for Snoods to start feeling better!

I sat Snoodie down and explained to him quite calmly,

"Snoodie, Daddy and Mommy feel like crap. And since we took such nice care of you when you weren't feeling well, how about you do me a solid and just mellow out for a few days until we are feeling better, OK? Maybe just play quietly while Daddy and I catch up on some much needed sleep?"

He didn't go for it.

So now our existence is reduced to wandering the house zombie-like, with strange fluids leaking from our heads as we half-heartedly attempt to stop Snood from licking the fireplace grate, while simultaneously breaking down on a cellular level.

We are hot sheeting the bed, with one of us chasing Snoods around until we can't stay vertical for another moment and then diving into bed and yelling to the other, "It's your turn! I think I saw him heading for the kitchen!" before passing out again.

Because...we have the plague.

One of those...

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 23:05:00 +0000

You know that feeling when you're driving along a highway, let's say the 405 South for argument's sake, and you're feeling just swell!

You're making great time and you're so darn proud about it that you can't resist turning to your friend or loved one in the passenger seat and saying aloud,

"Wow! Traffic sure is moving better than I expected!"

Almost before the phrase has left your lips, of course, brake lights appear in front of you, stretching as far as the eye can see. You curse yourself for angering the gods of traffic, who are now punishing you for your hubris.

Well, a few Thursday nights back, I was lying in bed with my husband David when I turned to him with a self-satisfied grin and said,

"You know, honey? I think we are really getting a hang of this parenting thing!"

(Cue Disaster Sequence)

It was July 4th weekend, in fact, and since David had the rare Friday off we both decided it would be fun to take Snoodie to the beach!

We were wrong. It was not fun to take Snoodie to the beach.

This was mostly on account of the approximately ninety-four thousand other Los Angelinos who had ALSO decided the beach sounded like fun on that holiday Friday.

In fact, our outing to the beach did not, in fact, ever actually involve the beach. Instead, it would be more accurate to describe said outing as a trip to western Venice Boulevard, where we sat for forty-five minutes in 100-degree traffic with an angry baby.

The only possible upside to be found in the entire misadventure was the distinct probability that Snoodie picked up some new vocabulary words from listening to daddy and mommy interact with their fellow drivers.

After pulling over in a Marina-Dey-Ray parking lot to feed Snood an ill-advised car-seat-based lunch, we headed home, covered in sweet potatoes and hoping for a better day tomorrow.

But a better tomorrow never came.

Instead, the next afternoon we headed over to friend's house for what else? A Barbeque! What could be more fun on the 4th of July????

As it turns out, if you happen to be us, sticking sharpened bamboo under you own fingernails might be more fun than our 4th of July BBQ experience.

Let me say up front that this was NOT because there was anything wrong with my friend's lovely barbeque. The source of the trouble was that, an hour after arriving at said barbeque, we realized that we'd forgotten the diaper bag. Which meant we'd not only forgotten the diapers, but also....the Snoodie food.

Considering that, at that point, we were forty-five minutes from home with a wet angry baby, we realized that our only option was to put our baby's needs first and head immediately for home.

Oh, no wait, I'm wrong!

That's what the sane and normal parents did in that situation. David and I, on the other hand, felt the fact that we were really hungry, combined with the fact that the food was ALMOST READY, meant that we should stall Snood until after we'd eaten.

At some point I am sure that David and I are going to learn that attempting to stall the Snood is NEVER a good idea and that, in fact, once he's reached a point where he's vocalizing his frustration, IT'S TOO LATE TO STALL AT ALL!

This is how we found ourselves, ten minutes later, running for the car holding two large plates of barbeque and a wildly shrieking Snoodle.

(shrieking Snoodle file photo)

The car ride was spent trying to prevent black beans from flying off our plates as we careened down the hills yelling, "You're OK! You're OK!" in response to screams that loosely translated to:

"Are you idiots kidding me? I needed to eat like an hour ago! When are you two morons ever going to learn that when I say I'm hungry it doesn't mean try to shove some deviled eggs from the buffet into my mouth! I mean DINNER! NOW!"

Forty-five minutes later we made it home with frazzled nerves and limped inside holding a now wimpering baby, half covered in flying Barbeque, starving and disheveled. We crammed some baby food into him and were about to settle into what remained on our plates of cold BBQ when David looked around and said,

"I don't see the diaper bag."

I ask you, now, to play along with a little game I like to call the www.shortfatdictator.com guess-a-thon!

Can you figure out the reason why David couldn't see the diaper bag?

(begin irritating game-show type music)

(end music)

If you guessed,

"because we did bring it to the Barbeque and had it there all along!!"

then buy yourself a case of Turtle Wax, because you are RIGHT!!!

Following this realization, David got back in the car, drove 45-minutes back to the BBQ, retrieved the diaper bag and then drove forty-five more minutes home, while I put an angry Snood-monster in the bath and got him ready for bed.

That night, too exhausted to even limp outside to look at the fireworks, the two of us sat shell-shocked, shoveling half-crushed plates of cold barbeque into our faces and drinking to forget.

Oh, and we also added a new amendment to our marital contract. The next time I turn to David in bed to praise our parenting skills, I asked him to immediately smother me with the nearest pillow to spare me the horrors to follow.

He agreed without a moment's hesitation that it was the only plan that made sense.

Coming Soon

megables@gmail.com (Margaret) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 17:27:00 +0000

Are you someone who never gets tired of empty promises and endless excuses?

Well, then this is the blog for you!

Project B has become rather all consuming of late and I travelled to New York this week, so things at www.shortfatdictator.com are running a little behind.

But! I am currently tucking into a fridge full of beer and feel confident that the nervous condition I have developed of late will be cured once I readjust my blood alcohol level, at which point the blogs will flow like honey!

See you soon.....