Toddler PMS

I had heard about the terrible twos. Heck, I thought I had experienced them. But ohhhh no. Oh no no no no no.

I have been misinformed on many counts. I thought this was a period of mild defiance, with maybe a tantrum thrown here and there for effect. I thought this was something I might not have to experience at all. My Thalia? My sweet, loveable, charming funny little girl? Nah.

Crow: Tastes a whole lot like chicken.

What no one told me is that terrible is just understated spin, a false description offered in lieu of the more accurate (although less alliterative) appalling or egregious, a lie propagated to keep the childless from remaining so. Certainly humanity as we know it would die out, Children of Men style, should the general population catch wind of what's in store for them a mere 30 months after labor and delivery. Like hemorrhoids aren't deterrent enough.

This stage is fact not the terrible twos, or even the egregious twos. It is nothing short of Toddler PMS.

(Has anyone ever called it this before? I 'm sure they have. And they'd be accurate.)

Or perhaps it's just a case of satanic posession. Neither would be hard for me to believe, although I would like a firm diagnosis so I know whether to call an exorcist or pump Thalia full of Motrin and crank up the Sarah McLaughlin music.

I want something to eat mommy.

Okay, would you like ravioli? The fun ones, shaped like stars and hearts?

Noooo! NO RAVIOLI! WAHHHH!!! RAVIOLIIIII! NOOOOOO! I DON'T WANT TO EAT RAVIOLIIIIIII AUGHHHHHH!

Oh I'm sorry, did I say "live earthworms in a pool of monkey brains?" I swear, I thought I said ravioli. Sometimes I confuse them.

(sniff, sob) I want cereal.

No sweetie, cereal is for breakfast. What else can I get you?

CEREALLLLLLL! WAHHHHHH!! CE. RE. ALLLLLLLLL!!!!

How about a peanut butter sandwich?

NOOOOOOO.... WAHHHHH! I W-W-WANT CEREAL.

You can cut it yourself.

(sniff) Yes. I want a sandwich. (sniff) I want to go cut it. (brightly) Carry me mommy! Carry me and I will cut the sandwich all by myself!

The spirit is willing but the feet are weak.

I want to spread the peanut butter on the bread. Then I want to lick the peanut butter off the knife.

No sweetie, no licking off...

WAHHHHHH! I WANT TO LICK IT OFF THE KNIFE!

Fine, fine. You can lick the knife. (Am I a pushover parent?)

NO!!!! I DON'T WANT TO LICK THE KNIFE!!!! NOOOOOOO WAHHHHHHH!!!

Okay! Don't lick the knife! Geez. Fine. I'm going to give you some carrots with that.

NOOOOO! CARROTTSSSSS!!! WAHHHHH! NOOOOOO!!

Or melon?

Melon! I like melon! I want some melon. I want some melon! So good. Can I cut it?

Sure. Of course. I'm glad you're happy. Here's the knife...

NOOOO....I WANT CARROTTTTSSSSSS! I DON'T WANT TO CUT THE MELON. WAHHHHHHH! I WANT CEREAL! CARRY ME! WAHHHHH!

It's especially fun when you throw a baby into the mix. Fortunately Sage is a good-natured one. At least during daylight hours. But there was a moment tonight in which I did have to insist that only one child was permitted to cry at a time.

And just in time for preschool interviews. Good times.

Skip This One if You've Got an Elephant Bumper Sticker on the SUV

I've gone far too long recently without getting my political mojo on here. That ends now.

(Sorry in advance to apolitical readers who just like it when I'm funny. I promise more Rock of Love II commentary and the new Candy Land rules according to Thalia to come.)

This week I had an opportunity to do a little assignment for a publisher that wanted to create a basic chart for their readers on where each candidate stood on mom-centric issues. While I'm grateful for the project and really liked the people I was working with, I have to admit a bit of frustration about the nature of the assignment in the first place. Narrowing down a candidate's sixteen page health care proposal to one easily digestible bullet point is akin to asking someone to buy a car based on a single attribute.

Shiny.

"I'll take it!"

Oh, our poor no-attention-span society.

What the project forced me to do however was to really delve into the candidates' websites - all of them - and get to understand their plans, their differences, their similarities, their fuzzy math, their rhetoric, and which ones are truly batshit crazy.

(Oh pleaseohpleaseohplease let Huckabee be the Republican nominee. Huckabee in '08! Whoo!)

So in doing the research (and I swear I was totally objective and journalistic) here's what I found on each of the Republican candidates' websites regarding women and families and children:

Nothing.

Not a thing.

Unless you count fetuses which are apparently a very big deal.

There's no Supporting Parents and Caring for Children category laid out with like 8 zillion super specific proposals as there is on Clinton's site. There's no comprehensive Working Families category as on Edwards' site. Heck, Obama has a simple, all-encompassing category entitled Families. You'd think Romney, McCain, Guiliani, Huckabee, or Paul could manage that.

Goose egg.

Not one of them mentions affordable childcare. Not one of them mentions the Family Medical Leave Act. Not one of them mentions sizeable deductions for stay-at-home parents, the promotion of telecommuting, or preventing workplace discrimination against parents and caregivers. Of course there's a bit here and there on education, most of which has to do with charter schools and voucher programs, often code for government-funded parochial schools. (I learned a whole lot about code this week.) And then there's Huckabee, whose dedication to music and art programs I actually found admirable until he goes and calls them "Weapons of Mass Instruction." Because dude, it's awesome to take a phrase meaning "nukes that can destroy life as we know it in four seconds" and change one syllable to mean "hey kids, let's play the recorder!"

(Whoo! Huckabee in '08!)

Mitt Romney's site was actually almost promising with a category called American Culture and Values. But apparently American values have more to do with "enforcing our nation's obscenity laws" than supporting paid maternity leaves.

What the GOP candidates do seem to have instead of info on families is info on faith. Oh, there's loooots of info on faith and how faithful and wonderfully God-fearing and pious and super-faithful they all are in their faithy-faithfulness.

Also gun owner rights. Because as we all know, Jesus said, "Ignore the mothers for they are not as important as the gun lobby."

Or something like that.

Now I'm not saying that everyone is going to be pro-choice. But man, shouldn't everyone be pro-family? I mean they didn't even mention the FMLA. Try googling any GOP candidate with FMLA. Or take my word for it...don't.

The way I see it, anyone with a "Women for McCain/Romney/Huckabee" t-shirt is just being used. Because clearly, McCain/Romney/Huckabee is not for women.

Okay, so now you know (with probably too much detail) who I don't like. Who do I like?

I don't know.

For once in my life, I am hopelessly on the fence. I think a President Clinton, a President Obama, or a President Edwards could each do outstanding things for our country.

But I will say this:

After really tearing into all of their websites, Senator Clinton absolutely blew me away with the comprehensiveness of her proposals, the detail of her plans, and her thorough understanding of the issues and how they play out within the political machine, and exactly how each plan could be paid for. Blew me away. Just read her agenda for working families if nothing else.

When she says she's ready to hit the ground running, she's not kidding.

Hm.

Home.

When you arrive at your beachside hotel in Mexico, a woman glides by in a swim suit and an appropriately casual and drapey cover up thingie looking tan and glistening and make-up free and ethereal, all while your own shoulders are up to your ears. Wet splotches circle your underarms, there are food substances of unknown origin on your pants, and ouch - did your skin just cause permanent retinal damage in the desk clerk? Sorry señor.

Slowly, slowly you settle in. You relax a little more each day. You turn down the offer to read a paper. You forget to charge your phone for four straight days. You forget to check your email. Heck, you forget your email password.

It doesn't matter that the kids are up at 6 every single morning because there's a beach bed under a thatched-roof cabana out there with your name on it. The day's activities consist of wave jumping, amateur sand castle construction, "motorboating" in the pool, and falling deeper in love with your two little girls. Sometimes you even take a break from all the hard work to just stare at the sliver moon in the daytime sky.

At night? Tequila.

(Also a truly surreal bit of "entertainment" in which Mexican So You Think You Can Dance rejects recreate dance routines from movies like Dirty Dancing and Evita. The highlight was most definitely a medley introduced with "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN...A GREAT HOLLYWOOD FAVORITE...THE GREASE!")

You find your routine. You find your mojo. You're on first-name basis with the beach waiters and you know exactly which bartender mixes the best margarita. You're not rested exactly, but you're not anxious either. Soon enough, you're that woman, the one meandering barefoot through the open air lobby as the pale arriving tourists pull up their knee socks.

And the moment that the transformation is complete always falls on the exact day it's time to go home.

Rats.

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Eh, it's not all bad. I've got Julie's virtual shower to celebrate (you're invited too!) and a whole new season of Rock of Love. Plus I get to be a dick walking around with a tan in zero-degree wind chill.

Vamos-ing a la Playa

I'm about to head to a beautiful, beachy, south-of-the-border vacation with the kids, the nieces, the brother and sister-in-law, coupla grandparents, and not the computer. Hopefully the babysitting with be as plentiful as the margaritas, and the cough we've all had for the last six weeks will disappear along with my pasty white thighs.

(And I don't just mean the pasty part. I would like the entire pair of thighs to disappear, although somehow that seems incongruous with both the notion of free-flowing margaritas and the laws of physics.)

In the meanwhile, I thought I'd entertain you (using that term loosely) with a few totally random thoughts that have been floating around my head this week in between bouts of buying way too many kinds of suntan lotion.

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I have not forgotten about all of your thoughtful questions for the VP of toy safety from the Toy Industry Association. I got back her answers like a day before the blog world went on holiday hiatus and I promise to post it after I get home. Let's just say it's very interesting.

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Yesterday I took Thalia to the most awesome kids hair salon - seriously, go to Doodle-Doos if you're ever in NY. One of the first things they ask you when you come in is which video you'd like them to put on for your kid.

Correct answer: "Diego please."

Or: "Got any WonderPets?"

Or: "Eh, I'll just read to her. Thanks anyway."

But the answer of the mom who came in right after us didn't quite fit the bill. You'd have thought that the stylist asked her what tuburculosis-tainted phlegm-ball streaked with fecal matter and doused in the HIV virus he should feed to her son. W-W-W-WHAT? she sputtered. A VIDEO? DON'T YOU KNOW THAT THE AAP RECOMMENDS NO TV FOR CHILDREN UNDER TWO BECAUSE IT REPROGRAMS THEIR LITTLE BRAINS?

To which I just had to jump in and contradict her with a few dubious studies that cast doubt on the recommendations before adding, "Eh, there's a new study every week. You just have to parent by instinct."

Just because I'm a smart ass sometimes. And I felt bad for the stylist. Plus it was fun watching her brain short circuit and start to ooze out her ears.

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I am experiencing utter amazement that in this lifetime, I have lived to see a woman at the top of a Presidential state primary.

It makes me teary. And that should make you all like me more.

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Want a secret tip for rushing a passport without paying the billion (roughly) dollar surcharge that professional expediters charge? My brilliant politico brother told me to contact my member of congress, and that it's a little-known service offered to constituents.

Sure enough, the delightful Diana of Nydia Velazquez's office made a call, and next thing you know, we're at the passport office ushered past the beaurocrats, past the people camped out for five hours, past the four year-old that Thalia wanted so badly to hug, right to the front of the line.

Diana even called the next day to follow up and make sure all was hunk-dory. So...everyone send lots of money to Congresswoman Velazquez's reelection next term.

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As for Thalia, that girl is unflappable. When the shy girl ran behind her mom, terrified of the teeny little 2 year old hugging machine with the outstretched arms, I explained to Thalia that she was just hiding. Thalia reacted by putting her hands over her eyes and counting to ten and yelling "here I come!"

God I love her.

And Sage, I love you too. But you're not as funny just yet.

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Julie is awesome and Julie works her butt off for Cool Mom Picks, and Julie is being showered with $900 worth of seriously swanky gifts for the new baby she will have in her arms this time next month. (Did I just freak you out Julie?) If you or a new mama friend want to win the very same $900 worth of gifts, check the Cool Mom Picks homepage for details and you just might.

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While I'm away the BFF turns forty. Go wish her a happy birthday.

Oh shoot, this means that this year I turn forty too. Time to get a Porsche and start screwing around with the pool boy.

Attention Telemarketers: I WIN (you f*ckers)

Dear Dish Network, Citibank, Chase, Bank of America, the person who wants to speak to the person in charge of the energy bill, the recorded message that tells me something about Bush making it easier for homeowners...just before I cut you off, the New York Post, the NY Daily News, the NY Times, Acura of Manhattan, every mortgage company on the planet, non-profits (even the good ones), the Police Benevolent Association, ghost callers, Harry & David, IDT x 100, "My Hot Leads" in Addison, TX and your 80 other aliases, Axiom Energy who illegally impersonates Con Edison, and the PBA again just because your tactics suck:

I win, mofos. My home phone is no more.

As much as I've enjoyed you interrupting me all hours of the day and night, I can not muster one more polite "I'm not interested and please take me off your list."

Truly, I wish I were the person with the hilarious comeback. The woman with the guts to use Seinfeld's, "Why don't you give me your home phone number and I'll call you back there tomorrow night." Or even ballsy enough for this. But I'm not. Generally I'm sympathetic to the fact that there's a person on the other end of the phone just trying to make a buck. Maybe a student. Or a stay-at-home mom. Or a divorcee who's trying to support her kids.

But then the final straw came last week, the guy who called at 10:13 at night to tell me about Dish Network's new whatever, waking the baby and forcing me to scream I DON'T KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS IN INDIA BUT IT'S AFTER 10 HERE AND YOU HAVE A LOT OF FUCKING NERVE.

At which point he scolded me. And told me I should be ashamed of myself. And I yelled back. and we both yelled over each other for a good minute about who should be more ashamed until I realized that I had stooped to the level of people who have arguments with strangers at Yahoo games. And I hung up.

So I'm done. Finished. Buh-bye land line. End of an era. It's been swell knowing you and I will certainly miss the confidence that I am not developing a brain tumor every time I dial my grandmother. But you know, brain tumor...telemarketers. When you weigh one against the other,

well, I've made my decision.

Best,
Mom-101. Unplugged.

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PS The People have spoken. I think that 08 is the year I campaign for, and with your help, WIN the worst blog of all time award. I appreciate the support and encouragement.

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PPS A huge congrats to Greg on his brand newest baby girl. Although damn, how come everyone else gets a sleeper except me?

Another Happy, Happy Day in the Inbox of Mom101

Today from Google Alerts:

Worst Blog of All Time / Bloggers Choice Awards
Mom-101.Blogspot.com. A blog about pregnancy, parenting and life as a mom. http://Mom-101.Blogspot.com...

And That's Where Babies Come From.

We may not be the best parents, but I swear we're not keeping Thalia up late to watch Saturday Night Live Either. And yet, the ghost of Chris Farley lives within her.

Mommy...remember when we went to the park?

I do, Thalia.

That was fun! And mommy...remember when I did a somersault and you said, do a somersault Thalia, and I did it all by myself?

Yes Thalia, I do remember that. What about it?

That was so fun!

I'm not entirely sure why everything now starts with "remember when..." We did not get a Babycenter weekly email describing the "Remember when..." stage and frankly, I'm considering asking for a refund. But as she turns 2.5 tomorrow (wow!), this is indeed the stage she is in.

Mostly the events are small: Remember the time I woke up and I was crying? Remember when we had a pajama party and made popcorn? Remember the movie about the Rat who made the soup?

But this week's remembrance took the cake:

Mommy, do you remember when I was in your belly?

I do, Thalia. I remember very well when I was pregnant with you.

And do you remember then how I was in your belly and wanted to come out? So I yelled, help! Help! And then you took me out, and then I was in an egg and I came out of the shell and I didn't yell help help anymore and then I was in the hospital and then you held me in your arms?

Actually, Thalia, that's not totally the way I remember it. But you know, I was pretty tired. It's entirely possible.

You Say You Want a Resolution? Well, Ya Know...

I have spent a lot of time thinking about resolutions over the past few days and the conclusion I have come to is this:

New Year's resolutions are stupid.

I mean seriously, can you think of a single worst day to start the so-called first day of the rest of your life? You're tired, you're possibly hungover, you're cold. So maybe I vow to get in shape this year but meanwhile the only thing that's going go to down easy after I wake up with throbbing temples and a mouthful of cotton is two Advil and a supersize order of McGreasy McCarbs.

(Mmmm...transfats.)

A whole nine hours into the new year and a trip to the scary drive-thru near the Tillary Street BQE on-ramp later and resolution number one is already shot to hell.

And then, as I look out the window and check out neighbors taking their annoying as all shit New Year's Day jogs or heading to the gym for a cleansing New Year's Day yoga class and some stinky tea, it's not motivating in the least. All it really makes me want to do is bean them in heads with my McWrapper.

But really, it's not that I don't like resolutions as a concept, it's that I'd rather take them on as I think of them, and not letting an arbitrarily created Roman calendar date determine the starting point. I quit smoking on December 26, 2001. I didn't wait three days. I didn't wait until the post-9/11 life in NYC got back to relative normalcy. I didn't wait until I had a boyfriend or a plane trip or a family reunion. I just thought, now is good. And so it was.

Also, I prefer to start a new year on a more positive note, and in a way, I think that resolutions are simply a confession of all your weaknesses, although presented with a positive, self-help kind of a spin.

So instead I want to look back on what I did right this year and what I hope to continue doing well, and maybe even better. Like being a more patient parent than I ever thought possible. Prioritizing the people in my life who need or deserve my attention. Thinking twice before hitting the send button on a snarky email. Learning to be a better go-with-the-flow-er when the times demand it. Turning off the TV once in a while. Knowing that sometimes it's okay to just chill, and not always be productive every waking moment of the day.

And of course, limiting the McGreasy McCarbs to either sick days, hangover days, seriously bad bad days, and maybe one free bonus day. Just for fun.