We Aren't Perfect

The Kardashian Barbie Doll

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 03:54:00 +0000

I'm a recovering Barbie-addict. I played with them until I was like 16, and I still would if I didn't have all boys. I'm a little burnt out on trucks, pirates and Spiderman, so anytime we're at someone's house and they have little girls, I'll immediately wonder if they have Barbies. I even have a method:

I'll make eye contact with the girl. Whether she's across the room or simply in the seat next to me, eye contact will be made.
I'll smile sweetly and gesture for her to come closer.
Once she's within my reach, I'll pull her closer and ask--without moving my lips, mind you, in case there's a mean older sister not minding her own business--if she has any Barbies.

(Huh. I've never actually written it out before; it kind of reads like someone trying to score crack.)

That said, I have to say the prospect of a Kardashian Barbie Doll creeps me out. I don't care if it's the only doll in a sea of excavators and superheros, I won't touch it with a ten-foot pink brush. Sure, Barbie is no stranger to controversy. The Dallas Cowboys Barbie caught a lot of flack:

(But comparing a professional cheerleader to a sex tape goddess isn't even a logical argument.)

"Cher in Bob Mackie Barbie"

(Let's be honest: Bob Mackie gets away with stripper garb because he's Bob Mackie)

"Jazz Barbie"

(I've been to a jazz show on Broadway. Yes, they dress like this. And yes, like Barbie, they look like strippers.)

"~~Tramp Stamp~~ Totally Tattoos Barbie"

(Much to my husband's dismay, I like tattoos. I even have a few. But there's no way I'd get near a Slag Tag.)

Regardless of how many poor choices the marketing team at Mattel has made, short of a "Playboy Barbie" line coming out, nothing tops the poor message that a Kardashian doll sends. Can you imagine the conversation?

Little Girl: "Mommy, who is Kim Kardashian?"
Mom: "Well, she and her sisters are on TV."
Girl: "Why?"
Mom, chewing lip uncomfortably: "Well, because they're famous."
Girl: "Are they singers?"
Mom: "No."
Girl: "Do they play sports?"
Mom: "Uh, nope."
Girl: "Do they dance?"
Mom: "Technically yes, but not in the way you're thinking."
Girl: "Well, why are they famous?"
Mom points across the street: "Look! A firetruck!"

Indeed, Kim's sex tape and the need to carry $10,000 handbags brought them much fame and wealth, but it's not the best message to send young, impressionable girls. Point is, do not buy the Kardashian doll. Send a message to Mattel. Or call them at 1-800-524-8697. Let them know they can do better than this.

I mean, come on. Her as a Barbie???

Tantrum Over Beer

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 04:54:00 +0000

Like you, I'm not a perfect mom.

I've had diapers disintegrate and fall off my children. I've angrily quizzed the pharmacist as to why the Benadryl isn't making my toddler sleepy, and yes, to the glaring woman at Best Buy, I DO think Theodore of Alvin and The Chipmunks is extremely gay. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

I'm not perfect, I never pretend to be, and sometimes, like yesterday, my extreme suckyness finds a new low.

While grocery shopping with my youngest, I had an argument with him in the liquor aisle...over liquor. Relax: We don't give any to him. He steals beer bottles out of the recycling and chugs the swill. In all honesty, there's beer in my house maybe twice a month. But when it's here, watch out. Sticky-fingers baby on the prowl. And then at restaurants he tends to shriek for it, or when we do have people over and there's beer served...the child is obsessed. My pediatrician said it's the hops that some kids like...or something. Then I got a long lecture, yaddya, yaddya, yaddya.

No, I don't give my kids alcohol and I sho' don't like shouting matches with my two year old over Sam Adams vs. Coors Light:

Me: "Ok, honey, one more aisle and then we're done". (Takes a shortcut to dish soap via liquor aisle.)
CJ, squealing in delight: "Beeah! Beeah! Beeah!"
Me: "Shhhh. Stop it."
CJ: "Beeah, mama! Look! I wan' some! Mama! LOOOOOK!"
Me: "Knock it off. Not getting you beer."
CJ (Shrieking, furiously grabbing onto the shelf holding Coors Light): "I WAN SOME! Mamaaaaa......beeah!"

Me, looking around quickly, pulling his death-grip off the shelf: "Stop it! No beer! You're two years old!

I pause though, eyeing the Sam Adams Light. I grabbed a six-pack and set it in the cart.

CJ, hitting the six-pack: "No! I wan dat beer!" He says, pointing to the giant gleaming silver case of Coors Light.

Me: "No! Be quiet! I hate Coors Light!" He kept screeching and kicking furiously. Noticing the look from the curious store employee, I leaned in closely and narrowed my eyes, making my most intimidating, don't-you-eff-with-me-face, and hissed at him:

"If you stop shouting, mommy will give you some when we get home." He stopped.

I'm such a loser.

Veteran Mamas Needed

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 02:47:00 +0000

I'll admit it: There are worse things in life than a 5 year-old boy who loves to be with his mommy. Like famine, disease, another Kardashian reality show...But I really can't take it anymore, and I need some insight as to how I should deal with the ~~obsession~~ attention. (Before you go on, yes I know this won't last forever and yes I know there will be a day when I'll miss this, but for the sake of my sanity I must have coping mechanisms.)

When I leave the room for more than one minute--really, I've timed it to reassure myself I'm not a raving b*tch mother--G starts calling for me.

When I look away for more than three seconds, G starts asking me to watch him do his latest trick. Sometimes it's a clever one, but usually it's whatever he can come up with on the spot, such as "hey mommy look, look, look! Watch me eat this grape. It's so awesome."

When I set the timer and have one-on-one time with him for 45 minutes, he wants 90 more.

When I read him four books, he wants 10 more. Then whines and complains I never spend time with him.

When I snuggle with him at night for THIRTY MINUTES, he wants more.

He always wants more and more and more and it's never enough. I'm sure this is normal; when I told his pediatrician he kind of nodded and smiled as if to say, "Yeah, and?"

But the boy is insatiable, and unfortunately for him I have another child, a house to run, nursing school, work, and a husband. I only have so much to give. I love him dearly, think he's the coolest 5 year old on Earth, and I miss him when I'm away. But the non-stop following me is really starting to take a toll on my teeth. I've been gritting them more and more lately and I'm afraid my mouth will start to resemble a meth head's.

Help.

Controversy Over a Genderless Pre Teen

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 18:55:00 +0000

There's a couple in California who want their pre-teen to pick his/her own sex. Yes, you read that correctly. At present, the child is being pumped full of hormone blockers to delay puberty until he/she decides which gender path to choose. Once that decision is made, hormones will be given to start puberty. This is like the Canadian couple who are using their baby as a social experiment by raising it gender-less. Morons.

What the eff? This couple needs a firm smack upside the head. Hey, if someone wants to experiment with his or her own sexuality and God-given gender, have at it. This is a free country. If you want to play Creator, go for it. I'll never treat you differently and I'll teach my children to respect all people, regardless of their lifestyle. But when it comes to parents allowing their kids to choose such a life-altering decision at a young age? That's where I draw the line.

Let's for a moment lay aside the health concerns of synthetically prolonging puberty. How many impressionable 12 year old girls know for certain they want to live as men? Or vice-versa? And what if this child is teased for a certain behavior and made to believe he/she should live as the opposite sex, only to grow up and regret such a profound choice? The onset of menstruation alone has many a girl wishing she was a boy at least once a month. Hell, I still feel that way sometimes and I'm 35. But do I want to change my gender? No. Would I have been emotionally equipped to make that decision with finality at 12 years old? NO.

What say you? Am I being far too close-minded, or does this couple perhaps need a massive smack upon their giant idiotic heads? I'm convinced these parents aren't concerned about true happiness for their kids; I think they want their own reality shows and have a sure-fire way of getting sleazy VH1 producers to notice them.

The Mind of A Mother

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 02:07:00 +0000

Sometimes I wonder if I had enough time to keep a journal, what it would read like. Going one step further, what would it read like if I waxed Virginia Woolf and wrote in narrative mode, penning whatever dialogue I had with myself. Would I share such thoughts with people I knew? People I didn't know? Would I risk being committed to a psychiatric facility for the sake of my blog?

What the hell; I like living on the edge:

Morning:

What is wrong with them? Don't they know how to be normal? (Thought as my kids spew diarrhea jokes at top volume in Home Goods.) If I back up five feet and look horrified, will people assume the kids aren't mine? Ugh, what's that smell? Oh. Well, it's not that dirty. It hasn't soaked through to his pants yet. Besides it's probably just a shart. No need to change a diaper over one of those. That's for rookies.

Lunch:

If I throw some grapes at them, it will cancel out the Happy Meal. Wait, I don't have any grapes. What about strawberry-flavored gum? I only have one piece left, that will create a fight. Stop! This is ridiculous! I have some Mango Tic-Tacs right here. There are plenty to go around.

Dinner:

This is really embarrassing. He won't stop screaming for my beer. I give the kid one taste off my finger and he's hooked. Good lord he's acting like a junkie looking to score a hit! In the middle of Applebee's! He's only two years old; maybe there's something wrong with him. "Hi, Doctor, I think my toddler is an alkie." Oh yeah right, like I'll take him to the doctor and talk about that. Our health insurance expired 30 days ago.

Late Evening:

The cats won't stop puking! I really hate them sometimes. They puke up their food and it's not even chewed! What are they, bulimic? I can't handle this anymore. Hairballs everywhere, piles of puke, they don't even like people. What if I left the back door open? What if they never came back? That's insane! Cats always come back. I'll have to go up by the Boundary Waters. But that's a lot of gas...but if I don't have to buy cat food or litter anymore...

And that is why I don't keep a journal.

She Must Beat Them

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Tue, 30 Aug 2011 21:06:00 +0000

I'd like to think I have a handle on my kids. Sure, there are the occasional outbursts in public, sometimes so unbelievable that I pretend I'm the nanny, but for the more manageable ones I'm not opposed to public time outs and major ultimatums. ("If you don't knock it off I'm going to throw all of your toys away when we get home.")

But I'd say that more times than not, I'm in control. And yesterday during the first part of our trip to Home Depot, I still believed I had it goin' on. (I can't think of a worse place to bring kids than a home and garden store.) But armed with a lollipop to keep each in line while I shopped, I smiled happily. They were in check. Hell, I should write a book, I thought.

Until I saw her: A mother with 6 kids. Six. Twin toddlers in a double jogger an older boy was pushing.The other three were in the cart. I don't think anyone was over 10. I first spotted them in the paint, which outside of plumbing, has to be the most tantrum-producing aisle in the store. But her kids were quiet. The kids in the cart were sharing a book and the toddlers munched on goldfish. I smirked. Anyone with a brain could see a meltdown was imminent.

Suddenly a loud screeching made me jump, and people around us scrunched their faces up in horror. I looked for a wild puma in heat, but it was coming from my toddler. "STOP IT!" My five year old shouted, kicking the cart too hard and stubbing his toe. As he howled in pain, my toddler somehow maneuvered out of the belt and grabbed as many paint sample cards as he could, throwing them into the air. G cried harder and threw his sucker at C, which caused him to shriek again. People glared. A grandma clucked in disapproval. Then an orange Home Depot vest was running, waving me away from cleaning the cards up, desperate to get me and the Puma out of the store.

Then I saw her again, at the checkouts. Her son was helping her unload the cart, and somehow all 6 kids stayed in check as she payed. One asked for a candy bar. "Not today." She said simply, and that was it.

I stared. "Wow, you have your hands full!" I said, "are they all yours?" Of course she had to be the nanny.

"Yup, all mine." She smiled back, shaking her head in mock dismay.

I looked at my two who were literally trying to kill each other. I hissed at them, baring my teeth. They ignored me.

As we headed home, the kids started to whine and moan for food and water with such drama you'd think I hadn't fed them in 6 weeks. I thought of that mother and shook my head in disbelief. How did she do it?

Then it occurred to me. I nodded in satisfaction and cheerfully turned the car into McDonald's: She must beat them.

Focker Me

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 18:22:00 +0000

Yesterday, my 5 year old had one of his best little buddies over to play. While his mom and I chatted upstairs, we suddenly noticed that it was far too quiet. With the bedroom door closed and behind it three rambunctious boys, we looked at each other with raised eyebrows and wondered.

But one thing led to another, and we forgot about checking on it. When my girlfriend and her son left, I turned to G.

"So, G, did you have fun?"
"Yup." He nodded, munching on a grape.
"You like playing with him, don't you?"
"Yup. He's awesome."

I leaned in closer. "So," I said, lowering my voice and waxing Jack Byrnes in The Fockers, "why was it so quiet in your room before?"

He looked up at me. "Huh?"

I narrowed my eyes. "You know, when the door was closed." I narrowed my eyes more.

He smiled sheepishly. "Oh, yeah. Well it was just because we, I mean I was reading books to him."

"Oh yeah? Which books?" I demanded.

Oblivious to his mother's endless idiocy, Gio grabbed another handful of grapes. "Well, I readed him Star Wars, Curious George, that pirate book, you know, just all my favorites."

Oh. "Uh, good job, honey." I mumbled lamely, ruffling his hair. He smiled brightly up at me and skipped off to his room.

I'm an asshole. I suppose if this mom thing doesn't work out I can always look into moonlighting for the secret service.

Mother of The Year

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 18:09:00 +0000

My two year old is still (still) STILL getting up at night. I've posted about it here and there and basically, he's just really naughty.

And spoiled.

C has been taught since birth that crying will get you lots of snuggles from daddy. Mommy's the tough one. But for the last 7 months, due to a series of dramatic events I don't care to delve into, the boys and I have been living with family until new housing was secured, which has blessedly just happened. For 7 months, as we squeezed into a basement and sweated it out, the baby punked us. He screamed and screeched and got away with middle-of-the-night tantrums.

Now, we are in a new home and the boys have a wonderful, bright, colorful bedroom complete with bunk beds. C is on the bottom, and up until 2 AM (the witching hour), he's blissfully happy with his Elmos and blankie. ~~Initially~~ Stupidly, I thought he had been cured. (Yes, I think of him as 'ill'. If I don't I may leave him at a fire station.)

But of course, he still gets up every night. So, like with my first son, I enlist the Supernanny tough-love method. (G went through this same crap at 6 months, year and a half, two, and three. And G would stick his fingers down his throat until he puked. I never cracked.) But unlike with G, this time around I am a single working mother of 2 and in full-time nursing school. So the tough-love, while effective, only works when done by the book. Here's an exact excerpt of last night:

2 AM, C: "Maaaaaaa-maaaahhhh!"

Me (shouting): "Go back to sleep!

Silence. Exhausted, I settled back into deep, triumphant sleep.

3:30 AM, C: "Rrrooowwwwww!" (cat howling in terror, two year old screeching in delight.)

Me (sitting up in alarm, blinking furiously in my well-lit bedroom): "What the...wha....?"

C, giggling sweetly: "Oh, hi mama! Loo, mama, loo! Titty! Titty!" And I gasp in horror as he hangs from my clothes in the closet, falling on top of the cat, who moans in pain.

It was at that moment I realized that C had been up and running free in our two-story home, unsupervised for 90 minutes, probably longer. And much like an alkie coming off a bender, I slept through all of it.

Mother of The Freakin' Year.

I'm sure this is what I looked like. Sans the fake tan, alcohol, and lack of panties.

French Vogue Model: Bait for Pedophiles?

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 03:48:00 +0000

Ok, stay with me. I know that blog title was pretty heavy-hitting, but just take a look at the spread of the ~~baby~~ model in French Vogue. Comment dite vous PEDOPHILE ALERT en francais?

I'm not sure how the Parisian family court operates, but I'm sort of hoping someone is sent over to the parents' home to do a little Q&A. Like, what the hell were they thinking?

(Look how they had to adjust the material to create a hip line, a full bottom. Barf.)

This is beyond Brooke Shields when she did Blue Lagoon or the Calvin Klein ads. "Nothing comes between me and my Calvins!" Her subtle *wink* to perverts across the world that she was indeed panti-less under those tight jeans. (Except those of us who have had a short stint in the modeling world, ahem, really know said jeans are usually wrenched on over some sort of spanx that would rival medieval attire. But I digress.)

Back to French Vogue. This is really, really sick. It makes pageant girls look almost tame, and I've always viewed pageant moms as pimps. Sure, there's the odd tween or teen who wants to strut the runway and win that crown, but what child wants to endure grueling fittings, non stop travel, diets and nazi-esque coaching when she could be out playing? It's the same with Thylane Blondeau and her not-so-smart momager, who's shooting back with her own defense, which I find paltry and tepid.

I just did a post on my other blog, Watchdog Mom, about Sunday's Teen Choice Awards on Fox, and their long list of R-rated movie nominations. It's the same premise: When are we going to let kids be kids? Forget the metaphor of "pushing the envelope". We stopped that a long time ago. This is full-blown sex-on-demand for pedophiles, and it's being bulldozed down our throats.

And when will it end?

The Breastfeeding Doll: Uhhh....What?

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Sun, 07 Aug 2011 20:27:00 +0000

There's a Spanish-made doll out there that helps little girls simulate nursing. It's called "The Breast Milk Baby". There's bra type 'bib' girls put over their shirts which has little flower-shaped petals the baby doll can suckle. And suckle it does. There's an audible "sloop sloop sloop" sound the doll makes; and then mommy (in this case a 4 year-old mommy) can burp her fed baby.

Mama say what?

I'm totally cool with breastfeeding. I nursed two hungry boys. When I hear about moms getting the evil eye in public while they nurse, I get a little angry. It's OUR right to feed our kids when they need it, and unless we're traipsing around with an engorged boob hanging out, look away and mind your own bi'ness. But this whole doll thing is insane, and here's why: Girls do not need any more encouragement in this culture to grow up faster than they already have to. From padded bras and swimsuit tops for 8 year olds, to thongs in the tween department, our little girls are going from preschool to high school and nothing in between.

Yes, it's good to encourage breastfeeding, but I seriously doubt that crazy doll would have made me more likely to nurse my kids. If I had girls I would not want them anywhere near a toy that drew deliberate attention to their still-flattened chests. And have we thought about play dates? Are these moms letting their girls 'nurse' their babies at the park? School? On the bus? Ick!

My cousin has three girls (all under 3 if you can handle that), and she likes this doll. She likes watching her eldest pretend to nurse her baby dolls while she breast feeds her infant. I get that; when my oldest son was 3, he tried to nurse his stuffed puppy while I fed his brother. (I only put a stop to it when he tried to do it on the subway.) Kids want to mimic adults. But this is just wayyyy too soon. If we were in a time where teen pop stars on Nickelodeon weren't performing in lace corsets, and sex was the bottom line for all advertising, maybe I wouldn't be so opposed to it. But now, in 2011, where sex rules? I see it differently.

What's next? Toy dolls who need to be reminded to take their birth control? Wear a condom? Take their genital wart meds? (Ok that last one was little much, but you get my drift...)

Breast Milk Baby Doll Teaches Girls About Nursing: MyFoxNY.com

One Big Acid Trip

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Fri, 05 Aug 2011 04:00:00 +0000

My 5 year old is quite enamored with pirates. It's actually bordering on obsession, and I'm afraid I may have to have him analyzed. He now wants a peg leg. As in a real peg leg. And he's been asking me for weeks.

"Honey," I started gently, "do you know what a peg leg really is?"
"Yeah. And I really want one. Please, mommy? For my birthday?" His birthday is in June.
"Well the only way to have a peg leg is if you lose one of your real legs. Do you understand?"
He nodded. "Yeah, it's ok though. I'll have the peg."

Acid trip, anyone?

Op Ed: Katy and The Smurfs

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 16:34:00 +0000

The post today is a self-published op ed (hey, it's my blog) about Katy Perry, some Smurfs, a tacky bedazzled dress, and my clenched jaw.

Catch it over at my alter-ego, Watchdog Mom. Get it here.

Jenny McCarthy, I Bless You

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 04:51:00 +0000

So the web is on fire with Jenny's recent Tweet of her larger-than-normal pregnant self. In an age where pregnant celebs look at 38 weeks what I did at say, 9 weeks, it's so refreshing to see Jenny make no apologies for a ginormous belly and double chin.

But seriously, like anyone is ever attractive at 9 10 months pregnant? We don't see the celebs out and about at 40 weeks, waddling on cankles and farting with every step they take. No, we only get the occasional red-carpet frenzy ("Stilletos! She's in stilettos!) or the well-timed 'out and about' paparazzi shot of the glamamama in skin-tight skinny jeans and a belly-hugging tank. Sans armpit fat. Then it's presto, chango, she's gone until the unveiling of her oddly-named offspring in a huge People Magazine spread. With lots of heavy lighting, airbrushing, fans and nannies to corral the spit-up between takes.

So hats off to you, Jenny M. You are the real deal, and while I don't know you personally, ya done me proud.

Paris Hilton's Dog Mansion

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 16:54:00 +0000

Forget her walking out of the interview (seriously, who cares?). Catch the end, right around 4:59, where she talks about her dog mansion. Dog. Mansion.

Girlfriend needs to spend some time in a soup kitchen or a womens' shelter....sweet baby jane, this woman is unreal.

Pissing Off The Elderly

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 18:59:00 +0000

When I'm not chasing insanity, I work as a nursing assistant while I finish school. I realize that since I'm only going part-time as a 30-something mom in the midst of a total career change, I probably won't receive my coveted nursing pin for at least 20 more years (sigh). In any event, I'm working in memory care and with dementia/Alzheimer's patients to hone my skills and learn how take an accurate BP while being accosted by an entourage of walkers.

It's also incredibly rewarding. I adore the elderly, and there's something so phenomenal about working with patients who, in the midst of their decline, offer you a clear glimpse of who they were. Be it a smile, a joke, a hug or a smart-alek comment (and they have many), the bounty of my investment with them is innumerable. I'm also given the daily treat of laughing so hard my sides hurt.

Yesterday, I went in to take some vitals and administer meds to one of my favorite residents. At 90-something, with a coiffed wig and an eyebrow forever raised, she misses nothing and holds back even less. Typical conversations with her usually go something like:

"How's your dinner today?"
"Horseshit! Get me a damned whiskey sour!"

Yesterday, as I sat down next to her she reached out for her daily squeeze. Sometimes she remembers my name, sometimes not, but she always knows she gets a hug and a smooch. As I pulled away, her face crumpled into tears and she started crying.

"What's wrong?" I asked her, hugging her again.

"My daughter! My poor daughter!" She wailed.

"What do you mean? She's fine! She's wonderful." I assured her.

Adamant head shake. "No. It's terrible. She never knew her dad."

Oh. I treaded lightly. "Were you a single mom?" I asked her kindly, nodding sympathetically.

She looked at me strangely. "What?" She snapped. I hurried on. "My own mom was a single mom, and I never really knew my biological father." I then proceeded to reassure her that she did a great job, and had nothing to be sad about.

She nodded slowly and her face un-crumpled. I kissed her forehead. "It's ok; lots of people don't know their dads." I said, putting on my stethoscope.

She glared at me. "What the hell are you talking about?" She shouted. "She knows her damned father! I said she never knew her DOG!"

Toddlers are Thugs

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 14:05:00 +0000

A few months ago, my BFF was pulling her hair out in frustration over her toddler...everything she described could be summed up in one word: Thug.

The first time I had a toddler, I was wearier than this time around. My oldest son, while a really sweet-natured boy, was out of control as a toddler. He threw everything he could find, yelled at cashiers, broke four CD players and two shredders stuffing them full of change, dismantled a WW2 memorial...still, I would count to ten, huff my chest out and vow to be more patient with him. Now, with my second toddler? I'm just pissed off.

Yesterday, my kids and I had to leave the playground because my ~~todd~~ thugler wouldn't stop eating other people's food. It was embarrassing. Yes, we had snacks (which he threw on the ground). From crashing a family's picnic (literally digging inside of their cooler), to finding him with a strange soda (how disgusting is that)...and then there was his flirting with that nice lady, only to start picking through her Subway sandwich once eye contact was made. The child was the Red Fox of sustenance. And like a sociopath, once he heard the word 'no', his long, batted lashes and sweet smile turned into a furious, menacing scream accompanied by some sort of physical assault on his mother.

See? Thug.

The other day at the library he threw such an humiliating temper tantrum that for a moment, just a fleeting second, I totally understood child abuse.

Then there was today at Walmart. Just when I thought I would fold to his glass-breaking screams, an angel-mama appeared, cheering me on to leave him in that time out! Don't let him get away with that nonsense! You go, girl! I acted tough, unwavering...but when thugler caught my eye I found myself making puppy eyes. They said, please, baby, please be a nice boy. Mommy loves you so much! His bottom lip trembled, he reached up for me. "Nyyyce, nyyyce", he apologized and "Mama? Up, peese?" I melted, tired of the last 6 months of nonstop lunacy, and lifted him to me for a snuggle. He buried his warm little cheeks into my neck and I inhaled his little boy scent: bananas, baby shampoo, and honey nut cheerios. Ah, my boy.

Then he yanked my hair back so hard I think I got whiplash.

Thug.

Birth Amongst the Goldfish

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 16:00:00 +0000

No, it's not an independent film title. It's really a story I happened upon over at iVillage. I've met a lot of people who have some pretty interesting ideas of how home births should go. My own opinion is that if you're having someone assist you whose only medical training includes a kiddie pool, maybe you're asking for trouble.

Obviously, I'm not a proponent of home births. I have a multiply disabled brother because of birth trauma, and I worked in Special Ed in college. I know this is a hot, hot topic, and I'm probably setting off the internal alarms of countless mamas. So let's leave that arena and get back to the woman who wants her Koi to swim with her new baby. (Koi are just giant goldfish. Let's be honest here.)

Why? Why, why and why? I don't get it. If she has to have her baby at home, can't she just invest in a really nice inflatable pool? What is the deal with needing all those giant, bug-eyed brainless fish swarm around her hoo-ha? She blogs about it here. I don't get it. I understand the whole water-birth appeal, trying to stay organic with nature and easing the baby's transition into this world. But trying to push out a human being while lying in a tank of fish poop is about as anti-ethereal as it gets.

Is she kidding? Does anyone know anything else about this story?

I'm Here...and There

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 22:06:00 +0000

As I navigate this new territory, I'm trying to get used to lifestyle changes like visitation, shared holidays, mediation, and not wanting to revert back to my old self who would rather throw a toaster at his head than talk through things. That said, I invite all of my readers (and thank you to so many, I STILL get emails and comments after all these months of absence) to check me out at my new blog, Watchdog Mom. It's a little known fact that I also like dip my toes in the arena of parent activism, and I think I have some good stuff to say. Of course, I'm sure I'll offend lots of people as well, but it's the spice of life that keeps me ticking.

More later...

I'm Back (Kinda)

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 21:15:00 +0000

It's been a couple of months since I played the blogosphere. Not one to allow the world to have an invitation into my life, I chose silence instead. The shortened version is I recently seperated and moved out with my boys. Life is hard, plugging along, but such is, er, life.

God is good, my resolve is still there, but somedays I feel like throwing in the towel (especiall with a FT school load and clinicals 2x a week, and oh yes there's that professor who likes to mock me for some reason?), but checking out is not an option. Checking in, however, might be. A weekend away with meals, good drugs, and round-the-clock care sounds awesome. No, not thinking of a Hollywood hotel, something more like a mental institution. Why not? I can hold my own with the best of 'em. In fact, I contemplated taking a photo of myself this morning while staggering around on 90 minutes of sleep last night (baby sick, papers, exams), unwashed hair, luggage under the eyes and slurred speech. Either I get the part in the next Oscar contender based on a starlet in rehab, or I get immediate admittance to a loony bin.

Don't care if that's not the right term. This is not the time to chastise me.

Missed you all, I'll be back.

Won't He Ever Stop Talking??

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 15:43:00 +0000

It's my four-year old. I love him desperately. Sometimes he makes me laugh so hard I cry. His chubby cheeks set my heart afire, and his wit makes a mama proud.

But the child won't shut up.

Even when I tell him it's "quiet time for 20 minutes", he'll spend the 20 minutes talking about quiet time. If I let him watch a movie, he'll ask questions about the movie throughout the whole thing. If I don't answer (a pathetic attempt at pretending I don't hear him) he'll shout his questions to me until I do.

He talks nonstop in the car, at the store, while we read books, play at the library, or the park. My boy is a talker. Granted, so am I. But if I don't get a moment of peace soon, I may ship him off to some silent monk preschool I'm sure exists somewhere in this great country. This morning, my girlfriend wrote on her Facebook page that she can't find her two year old daughter's "off button." I'm looking for one over here, too.

What's Your Dream Gift?

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 01:43:00 +0000

As Christmas approaches, we moms are consumed with making sure everyone else gets at least one item on their list, and as usual we probably get bupkis. So let's have a little fun, shall we? Let loose--what's your dream gift? Not what you think you should want, or what you want others to think you want, but what do you really want? It's ok to be shallow, that's what fantasies are for. I'll start:

1) Mommy makeover. Two C-sections and nursing two hungry boys has done an unfortunate number on my tummy and the girls. I'd like to some lift and removal in those areas. Namely, I'd like to wear form-fitting tops and to bra-shop in the pretty section once again. These days, it's all about coverage, support and durability. Ick. Sounds like a cell phone. (Oh, I'm sorry--is this too much information for you? Then get off my blog. You obviously don't belong here.)
2) A cleaning lady.

3) An agent. At this juncture of my life, it really doesn't matter what kind of an agent. I just want one. Preferably in the publishing/literary arena, but I'm open to all types of applicants. Except Playboy.

4) To understand what my 15-month old is pointing at and screaming for constantly. I have no clue.

5) For my life to finally settle down and for the drama to go away. I want to relax with my boys and worry about little things like grocery lists and co-pays. I want to look forward to tomorrow once again.

6) For people to stop the madness and remember that this is the CHRISTMAS SEASON. Stop yelling at cashiers, stop the dirty looks on the road, stop letting the "stress" of the holidays get the best of you. Don't forget why we celebrate Christmas to begin with.

Your turn...and it better be good.

Hello I'm Pathetic

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Fri, 03 Dec 2010 06:20:00 +0000

Ok, so a couple of weeks ago I wrote about my nocturnal problem. No, it's not THAT...it's the bottle thing again. Love my baby, my darling, spoiled rotten, 15 month old baby, but he is making me nuts.

So it's time to pull the plug. And since I never had this issue with my first son seeing as I replaced the bottle with a pacifier when he was around 15 months old (it worked great and I'll stand by it to the end), I feel like a newbie mom all over again and this is where I call in the troops. 'Troops' being you, my fellow moms, who are smarter and more capable than any parenting book out there. Sooooo...

HOW DO I WEAN A STUBBORN 15 MONTH OLD OFF HIS DAMN BOTTLE?

If you say cold-turkey, I won't do it. I need something less traumatic. Not for him, mind you, for me. My nerves are fried enough I need a little grace here.

Please help me, mamas. I'm tired of getting up twice a night (shut up) and I want him off the stupid bottle. Words of wisdom, please.

Watch It...She's Gonna Blow!

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 15:26:00 +0000

My nerves have been wound a little tightly lately. Imagine a guitar string stretched as far as it will go..kind of like that. And I guess I hadn't realized how badly I need an economy sized bottle of Valium until this morning.
My husband asked me if he could run to the store on his way home from work for anything.

Me: "Nah, it's ok. I'll go."
Him: "I know, but you have so much to do." He said carefully, not meeting my eyes.

Which were narrowing.

Me: "Like what? Just the library with the boys. I don't have class until 6."
Uncomfortable silence, followed by a slightly scared grimace which I think was an attempt at a smile.
Him: "Well, there's the stamps. You said you were going to get stamps."

Yes, ladies, my world is a giant eggshell, and all who know me: Beware.

Black Friday

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 22:14:00 +0000

I want to know how people do it. Moms, particularly. I plan on going later in the day when my kids are secured somewhere and I've had at least 8 hours to prep for the crowds. I'm not going into a mall, strip mall, or anything that has more than one retailer in the parking lot. I plan on Target and nothing more. My question is how do the women who get up at 4 AM do it? Are the bargains really that great? Is it worth it to be pummeled to the ground by bargain-seeking psychopaths to save $12?

I know times are tough, believe me I KNOW it, but my dignity has a cap. That, or my temper. I once went to Macy's on Black Friday 11 years ago when I lived in NYC area, and it was the single most horrific moment of my life. (Ok, maybe not, but it was bad.) But when I saw the rage that coursed through the veins of otherwise average American moms, I grew fearful.

So, in light of the upcoming holiday where we can spend one day dedicated to giving thanks, I beg you, stay home and sleep. Who cares if your child doesn't get the Wii or Kinect or whatever Apple has out this season. A well-rested mother is a mother we can all be thankful for.

I Must Be Crazy

noreply@blogger.com (Crystal) — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 21:47:00 +0000

It's the only logical explanation. Because if I were not truly crazy, then the other reality is that I'm a raging bee-otch, an alternative I am not ready to embrace. But certain things keep sending me over the edge, and I'm wondering if there are any made-for-TV movies about mothers ending up in loony bins due to any of the following:

1. The kitchen table piled with toys. 10 minutes after they were cleaned off.

2. My kids fighting over the remote. Neither of them uses it to turn on the TV, mind you-we don’t even have cable. They just want it so the other can't have it.

3. The floor slippery with banana. How this is possible puzzles me: I haven't bought bananas in a month.

4. More toys on the kitchen table.

5. Being woken from a dead sleep at 6 AM--everyday--by a long, whiny, "Get uuuuuupppp!" and a slap on the arm.

6. Cat puke. Again.

7. The scale.