If You Can't Say Something Nice, I'll Do it For You for $10 and a Foot Massage (The Remake)

I just learned that today is Stop Cyberbullying Day. An educator said so. And I am not one to disagree with a teacher. (Okay, yes I am. But not on this.)

So I thought in its honor, I'd do something I never do: Reprint an old chestnut post back from the early days of Mom101 when there was some trolling business going on around the momosphere. Is it helpful? Not in the least.

Enjoy.

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My superhero weakness is empathy.

When I was little I saw it as my sworn duty to befriend every new kid, every chubby kid, every weirdo booger-eating kid in my class. It’s always been second nature to put myself in other people’s shoes.

I credit good parenting for this. Also, Davey and Goliath.

Now as an adult I still feel compelled to make people--friends, strangers, the Bangladeshi cab driver--feel good. Let me be clear: I'm no Pollyanna. I can be as cynical and self-loathing as any writer on my side of the Brooklyn Bridge. I agree that The Bachelor is at its best when some blonde chippie runs off the set crying. And I’m certainly not above a good Paris Hilton jab because frankly, she’s worked very very hard to earn it. To not make fun of Paris Hilton probably hurts her feelings and now you know how I feel about that.

And if you come after my family, I'll cut you, bitch. I totally will. I have a baby nail clipper in my diaper bag and I'm not afraid to use it.

I suppose it's a bit paradoxical that now this relatively nice person finds herself here in the World of Blog--a forum where anonymity brings out the inner douchebag to a degree that gives PMS a run for its money. I could surely gravitate to the dark side, join the troll patrol. Snark comes easy to me. But when it comes down to it, I've got a kid. A really good one. And I don't plan on messing her up just yet. Which means I don't want her coming across something I've written and thinking, Mommy is mean.

Or worse: Mommy is mean. Yay!

So in honor of Thalia, I'm spreading some love from my insignificant little subdomain. I call it Say Something Nice Day at Mom 101.

In the future, maybe we'll have an entire Say Something Nice Month with its own website and a big section in the Hallmark store and a few treacly public service announcements. (Hey, maybe we can get Lorraine Bracco!) But for now I'll start with a day. A day devoted to saying nice things about ordinarily disparaged topics--all with as little irony as I can muster.

I'm just that kind of girl.

Richard Simmons
I sat across the aisle from him on a plane ride from LA to New York. While I admit that he was so, um, energetic that the cabin (quietly) applauded when he fell asleep, he couldn't have been nicer to the flight attendants. They each took turns sitting beside him and, hands pressed into his, confessed their every dietary woe. He listened attentively and with genuine compassion. He also offered each of them free advice, like "don't eat the bread."

New Jersey
If there were no New Jersey there would be no Judy Blume. And if there were no Judy Blume, I would never have been the most popular girl in fourth grade for one week, thanks to my copy of Forever which I shared with my entire class in the hallway ouside the school library. (Especially page 64, heh-heh.)

Cher
I'm all for gay marriage, and as such, I'm all for the music they play at their weddings.

Those Motivational Posters
I guarantee you that those inspirational posters you find around the office have helped more than a few people out of some tough spots in life. I myself have looked at that You Don't Fail Until You Quit poster many a time and thought, you know, they've got a point there. Know why? Because you don't fail until you quit! It's true!

Mullets
You've got to step back a minute and appreciate the loyalty that some people devote to a hairstyle that's been out of style going on twenty years. These are strong, confident people, people at peace with who they are. Couldn't we all take a lesson here?

Kids Who Go to Band Camp
Sure it's a good punch line; Universal milked it for like three American Pie sequels. But we need to encourage kids to play the clarinet or the tuba or the harpsichord so that they can grow into adults who play those instruments. Without music, what would people dance badly to at their high school reunions? And how lame would porn be?

Bridesmaids Dresses
At least you don't care when you spill your drink on one.

Jared From Subway
Let's give the guy some credit, he lost 250 pounds without eating a single crappy ricotta cheese dessert.

The Advertising Team Who Writes the Ads with Jared From Subway
Take my word for it, they're not happy about it either. I'm sure the client is all, "Guys, you have to use Jared. He's testing really well in focus groups." And the team is all, "Fine, but I'm not putting it on my reel." Then they watch Nike ads and weep openly.

Fudgie the Whale
When I was a kid, Carvel ran commercials that said, "This Father's Day, get your dad a Fudgie the Whale!" Year after year, my dad would joke, "Where's my Fudgie the Whale?" After I turned 16, my best friend and I talked a gullible Carvel manager into hiring us as cake decorators. When I wasn't snarfing down the chocolate crunchies directly from the tub, I made my dad his very own Fudgie the Whale ice cream cake and when I gave it to him he cried. If you make fun of Fudgie the Whale, you hate my dad and you hate Father's Day and you hate America too.

The Bloomin' Onion
If you have a problem with the Bloomin' Onion, you also hate America. This goes double for you, Upper East Siders.

Blogging
I'm stumped. I can think of nothing good to say because all bloggers are narcissistic navel-gazers who write about the most boring crap imaginable that no one, including their own mothers, would ever want to read in a million years. In fact I don't even believe that you're here right now.

Reality Check

"You've certainly been making up for that whole bedrest thing from last pregnancy," my friend told me over the phone last night. And indeed I have.

I've spent the last 8 months or so raising a toddler, working a job, starting a business, running to doctor's appointments, toting the crew to Grandma's and Grandpa's and Grammy's and Uncle Jeff's, seeing friends, carousing with the menfolk, writing a blog post or two, giving interviews, trying (but failing somewhat) to stay up to date on Lost, reading the news, washing the occasional dish in the sink, attending conferences, shuttling between New York and LA, and trying to secure future writing opportunities that evidently I will have endless free time to accomplish the coming months.

In other words: Total denial.

Because what have I not done? Named the baby. Researched double strollers. Looked at one "your baby at week X" page on Babycenter. Dug up the newborn clothes. Done one kegel exercise. Taken a prenatal vitamin in oh...like a million years.

It's as if my swelling belly is the result of some sort of bizarre medical condition that requires me to avoid sushi and up my bra size every four minutes or so, and not a sign that there's a critter in there with my DNA and one day soon, she's going to want out.

And a place to sleep.

Maybe some love and affection.

The occasional breast milk.

But this week, my body forced me to start confronting the change ahead. Nothing like a rabid posse of Braxton-Hicks contractions taking over your uterus in an angry coup to smack your baby-denying self back to reality. For three straight days I've hardly been able to kneel down to extract a dust bunny-coated sippy cup out from under the couch, let alone attack my normally ambitious schedule.

So I'm guessing that means that...yep. A baby is definitely coming whether she has a name or not.

(Answer: Not. Definitely still not.)

And now I'm supposed to slow down.

Boy, am I not good at slowing down. Not good at all.

My Child is Smart. Want to Punch Me Now?

My child is smart.

Can you think of a single sentence uttered by a parent that can draw more ire, more eyerolls, more nasty playgroup talk behind your back?

I realize that over the past several months, I have not once written about the language explosion happening daily chez Mom101, about how completely enthralled I have been watching my daughter go from caca to cracker to Mommy, more crackers pleeeeeease. She even tosses in the occassional thank you with such a self-satisfied upward lilt to her voice it breaks my heart into tiny shards each and every time.

And yet somehow I've been hesitant to broach the topic on my blog, fearful of sounding like one of those moms. You know, the one who has her child signing at 6 months, pushes him into into foreign language immersion classes at 12 months, and starts drilling him on homemade international heads of state flashcards all before he's old enough to eat a raisin without choking.

(That is, an organic raisin. Of course.)

And so instead I overcompensate by saying nothing at all. Or worse, downplaying any achievements she might have, countering acknowledgments of her verbal skills with inane retorts like, "yeah but she doesn't have any hair like your beautiful little girl!"

Eep.

I'm not saying that Thalia's brilliant by any stretch, or even particularly advanced (whatever that means at this age). While she counts to 6 all day long, she counts 2 birds as 6 just the same as she counts 20 birds as 6. Ask her what comes after 6 and sometimes it's 7, sometimes it's apple. The alphabet song begins with A B C D A B C. And the colors of her little play tunnel that she recently identified are apparently red, blue, and orange juice.

See, there I go again: She's highly verbal but....

But what?

It seems we can talk about our children's chronic booger-eating habit. We can talk about their sleep challenges. We can talk about their inability to put anything in their mouths at dinnertime that isn't beige. But gush with awe at their ability to name 74 different animals and you're just not someone I'd care to get to know better, thankyouverymuch. Because "my child can count!" or "my child likes books better than toys!"or "my child can tell a camel from a dromedary!" just sounds way too much like like "your child will be working for my child one of these days. Probably in the mailroom."

So instead, we do this dance of self-deprecation with mom friends, terrified (or at best reluctant) to share those very moments that give us the most joy.

It's like we become the opposite of competimommies -- we become noncompetimommies.

It's not hard to figure out why we do this. Let's face it, it's easier to bond with other women by confessing our insecurities and shortcomings rather than our successes--and I think this goes double when our children are involved. The line between expressing awe and boasting is so fine, so precarious, that it's better not to tap dance within a hundred miles of it at all.

I also have a theory that we, as a society, just don't like achievement all that much to begin with.

Am I nuts? Think back, not all that long ago, to a certain presidential election. If I recall correctly, one presidential candidate was vilified for his command of the English language and Ivy education. His competitor's similar education (not to mention far more privileged upbringing) was only acceptable to the masses given his crappy grades and propensity for making up words.
Was being smart ever cool? Maybe not in our lifetimes. Just ask anyone who has ever considered putting a "my kid can beat up your honor student" bumper sticker on the back of his SUV. But I wish we could make it so for our children.

Because now that I have one--almost two--hell yes I want her to be proud of her smarts, her skills, her successes, whatever they may be. I think it starts with us being proud of our children, and, if we can possibly handle it, each other's. I want so very much for women to be able to put aside our own insecurities and try to find happiness in the happiness of our fellow moms, even if that happiness is rooted in something super-cool that their child is doing that ours isn't just yet.

Can we? Is it even possible?

Let's start here. Tell me - what's your kid up to these days? What's the thing that you've been reluctant to share that makes you smile so hard you think your face will crack? What's the thing that makes you think oh wow, I made this person. He came out of me and now...this!

Spill it. You know you want to.

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Edited to add: I agree wholeheartedly with commenters who point out the distinction between "my child is God's gift to the world" boasting and simply sharing accomplishments. My fear is that we--I--rarely do the latter for fear of sounding like it's the former. Bragging is icky. But being able to express the awe that we all feel as we watch our children grow and evolve and achieve - that's a pretty nice thing.

The Business of Being a BlogHer

I have a confession to make:

I have thought ill of you, my sisters.

Ever since the BlogHer conference in San Jose last summer I honestly questioned whether a large group of women could spend a weekend together without any crying or complaining or social politics--or whether it was simply our destiny as the fairer and arguably more insecure sex.

After that weekend, a quick perusal of the blogosphere indeed would have yielded a plethora of thoughtful posts on the value of the conference, lessons learned, connections made, pasties worn. But scattered among them was all this unnecessary whiiiiiining: Childless women upset about the clique of mommybloggers. Socialists upset at corporate sponsorship. Lesbians upset at finding condoms in their goodie bags. Plus various 8th grade-esque takes on this one snubbed me/ that one seemed fake /that other one didn't spend all night in my hotel room braiding my hair and agreeing to be my bff after which we raided the refrigerator and went to second base with our pillows.

Boo-hoo.

Those of you considering attending BlogHer 07, please don't let this dissuade you. The weekend was utterly enjoyable and spectacular in every way. Certainly my complaints stem from a few bad (discontented, self-pitying, annoying as all sh*t) apples in an otherwise stellar crop of them, however it did leave an unpleasant pesticidal taste in my mouth. After all, would a man ever go to a tech conference - not summer camp, mind you, but a tech conference! - and complain that Guy Kawasaki and Anil Dash seemed all cliquey and my free t-shirt didn't fit and by the way, the gift bag had a sample of Drakkar Noir in it and for God's sake, are the organizers implying that I smell? Are they? ARE THEY?

Let me go out on a limb here and say mmmmm....no.

But this week, after two days spent at the BlogHer Business conference, my confidence is again renewed as I realized that there can in fact be an entire midtown hotel full of highly polished apples with nary a rotten one in the bunch.

The parentingbloggers I really got to know and admire in large part shaped my experience. In particular: Rita who is a bona fide farm girl turned high-powered exec which only makes me want to go read all of her archives because you know there are great stories in there. Laura, one of my new favorite people and I don't just say this because she's Cool Mom Picks' newest rock star writer. Karen who is so gorgeous you literally cannot stop staring at her when she's in your presence (sorry Karen. I know I was staring). Kristin who makes you say right away, "oh, so that's why her blog was called Tall and Lucky. Bitch." Kristen, who had the best energy I've ever seen hands down, for a woman attached at the sling to a 6 week-old--plus she gave me a great "baby brewing" maternity tee which will come in super handy on the subway when my 8 month pregnant belly isn't enough of a hint that you, Mr. Healthy Middle-Aged Corporate Guy in a Suit should stand the hell up and give me your seat before I smear colostrum down your jacket sleeve when you're not looking.

Then there was blushing bride-to-be Mir who has probably still not forgiven Isabel and me for commanding her to go to dinner Thursday night somewhere she would have to spend more than $6, but dammit, she was in New York City, and the frugality was causing us physical pain. And of course the ridiculously popular Chris who was gracious enough never once to roll her eyes when I went on and on about my fears of having a second child, considering she herself has a half-dozen of them.

(Edited to add: Ack, Beth! How could I forget Beth! I have to blame this one on pregnancy brain, considering how hearing her take on the Left Coast got me more excited about the potential of moving there than simply thinking about earthquakes like I normally do.)

Finally there were the conference organizers, particularly Lisa Stone, who is one of the single most impressive businesspeople, with or without ovaries, that I have ever encountered. She's like one of those people who just never seems to get rattled, never seems uncomfortable in her skin, and if you didn't like her so much you'd have to hate her.

The speakers at the conference were motivating and compelling. The panels were fascinating - which says something considering that these days, I have the attention span of a 3 year-old watching McLaughlin Group on a 9" black and white portable. And the other attendees were an admirable mix of women (and a few of the menfolk) from websites, PR companies, small businesses, Fortune 500 companies and the media.

Overall, it felt like an honor to be a part of this amazing community of exceedingly diverse women who just want to achieve--or rather, continue achieving--great things all while helping one another to do the same.

Also? There were Chipwiches during the coffee break. And no less than 6 people who kindly pointed out in hushed tones the Chipwich crumbs all over my boobs after said break.

So you can imagine why this woman is madly in love with women again.

And this last sentence, from what I learned in one of the panels, is destined to bring me a whole lot of traffic. Even if it is from frat boys at 2 AM looking for...well, let's just say not a momblog.

Not Helping

"So Thalia, what should we name your little sister?"

"Ummmmm....Apple."

"Apple? I don't think so. What's another good name for a little girl?"

"Howbout...Ketchup."

"Ketchup! Now you're just being silly."

"Howbout...Cat Food."


Oh well. With 6 weeks to go, I figured it was worth a shot. At least she didn't say Clinton Portis.

Sesame Street: The Lost Pregnancy Episode

Thank God for PBS Sprout on demand. Literally. I thank you, God, for ensuring its place on the Time-Warner digital cable roster. I figure if baseball players can thank you for giving them home-runs, I can thank you for giving me six episodes of Sesame Street at my beck and call while I watch my daughter.

This weekend were viewing an episode in which Telly Monster realizes his hamster Chuckie is not only a a she, she's pregnant. This revelation leads into to a nice little show themed around pregnancy and newborns, including a song about a new baby at Katie's house; show and tell with Ernie in which a 4 year-old boy brings out a pair of baby booties; and a funny little bit where Telly calls a taxi for the expecting hamster.

While the episode was charming enough, it didn't really take on the topic of pregnancy with the insight I would have liked.

Here's how I might have pitched a show with the same theme:

SESAME STREET EPISODE 10455: Knocked Up (2007)

Premise

A pregnant mom-to-be named Liz moves onto Sesame Street. The gang all gets together to throw her a baby shower, while learning about pregnancy.

Segments

-Alan stocks up on Colace in preparation for Sesame Street's newest resident.

-Special musical guest Laurie Berkner sings The Bladder Song and She Doesn't Hate You, She's Just Hormonal

-Cookie Monster eats all of Liz's cookies after which she goes ballistic and rips off his left eyeball.

-The Count counts skin tags revealing the number of the day: 137.

-While the neighborhood kids make shower decorations, Gladys the Cow introduces an animated sequence about milk production

-Maria and Zoe look through Liz's purse for items starting with the letter of the day, P. They find a pregnancy book, Pop Tarts, peanut butter cookies, Pringles crumbs, and potato skins with cheddar cheese, sour cream and bacon (which is made from pigs).

-Journey to Ernie sequence in which Ernie hides from Big Bird in Liz's bra, never to be seen again

-Oscar makes a dollhouse for the new baby from discarded items he finds in Liz's dumpster including empty tissues stained from nosebleeds, uneaten but spoiled fruits and vegetables, and discarded underwear with disturbingly stretched-out waistbands.

-Elmo's World: Elmo hears the familiar refrains of "Elmo has mail, Elmo has mail" and opens his computer to find 246 unread Babycenter weekly emails. Elmo asks a baby about meconium. Mr. Noodle and Mr. Noodle attempt to adopt a child together in a red state.


Wrap-Up

The show concludes with a big baby shower sequence incorporating the entire cast along with special guest stars Harry Connick Jr. and Charo who together sing a beautiful duet of Sunrise, Sunset. Liz opens her gifts and gets weepy when she learns her new friends made sure not to order a cake with fruit filling in it. She leaves the party early to get a head-start on her thank you note-writing, but ends up just reading blogs and taking a nap.

Deep Thoughts

There's something to be said


for documenting that milestone


known as the first haircut


but it's definitely overrated


compared with that other milestone:


the first red lollipop.

The Unfit Parents Club Meets Every Wednesday at 7. New Members Always Welcome.

Nothing out of the usual: Pizza box. Wine bottle. Half-empty glasses. Bottles of Bud.

But wait, what's that? Amidst the adult beverages in the top right corner? Is that a sippy cup? And, dear God in heaven--a high chair?

Is it...could it be...is it possible that this was a....

a...

a...

COCKTAIL PLAYDATE?
Yes, while Tony, Claudia, Nate and I were busy getting completely knackered, staggering through my apartment with lampshades on our head, alternating rounds of "I Never" with strip quarters, and singing teary verses of Forever Young into our empty beer bottles while flirting with the idea of wife swapping--the children kept busy drinking toilet water, playing keep away with the contents of the cat box, prank calling the Department of Homeland Security and commandeering our vehicles for a joy rides through Bed-Stuy around midnight.


And yet - they both managed to keep the barrettes in their hair through it all.

Now if that isn't good parenting, well then sign me up for bi-weekly counseling and a spot on the Today Show.

The Pee-Pee Chronicles

Now that I've been home from LA for a full week and have some time to actually talk to friends and read one email a day or so, the question I've most often been asked is, what exactly were you doing there for five weeks?

I can tell you in a word:

Peeing.

I was peeing.

I peed in office buildings, in restaurants, in coffee shop; in boutiques that took mercy on the wiggly pregnant woman and violated their own no-restroom-for-customers policies with a reluctant wave towards the stockroom in back. I peed in gas stations. I peed in men's rooms. I peed in a scary public toilet on the Santa Monica Beach, praying for dear life that my quivering, atrophied thigh muscles wouldn't give out as I squatted above that condemned commode. I peed anywhere, anytime, from El Segundo to the Fairfax District and all the way north to Burbank without hesitation or apology.

But most of all, I peed at work.

There's nothing quite like that exquisite combination of a third-trimester bladder and a full-time office job. I easily lost count of the times I made that lap from my office to the rest room on the other end of the floor and back. I'm certain I was doing about 6k a day. In boots, no less. I would complain about the distance, but considering the candy machine was right outside my office door, it's probably the only reason I didn't put on more weight than I already did.

Home, sweet home. And by sweet I mean the smell of Harvest Spice Airwick.


Hey! You in stall 4! That's reserved for the disabled. And, um...me.

After each trip, no sooner did I return to my desk, settle back into a comfortable position (legs on the desk, laptop on thighs; I'm just not a good, ladylike desk sitter) and get back to work, my bladder would miraculously fill to capacity once again. And so, off I'd go, backtracking from whence I'd just come with a stone-rigid abdomen that, along with the urgency, forced my gait into that of a duck on speed.

Waddle there, walk back. Repeat.

(I know the accounting department was making quacking noises behind my back as I passed their row of cubes. I just know it.)

Each trip down the hall I would think, this is the time I won't make it. This is the time I have pushed my limits by taking one too many phone calls, responding to one too many emails, stopping to chat with one too many coworkers on the way and surely the entirety of the Pacific Ocean that I have somehow consumed in the previous twenty minutes will burst forth from my bladder in a giant tsunami, embarrassing me for all of eternity.

And yet, I always arrived in time to scooch my arse out of some elastic waistband or another in time to relieve myself of a good half-teaspoon or so in the proper way.

Tsunami indeed.

Hello, old friend. It's been what, 20, 25 minutes? You haven't changed a bit.

The view from the throne: It's good to be the Pee Queen.

Needless to say, I got to know that restroom pretty well. Or at least better than any one person should have to, short of she who is paid to clean it.

I soon knew which toilet was the last to be used in the morning and which ran out of supplies first in the afternoon. I became aware of which coworker only seemed able to use stall 2, which one left a flood of water around the sink, and which one used more than her fair share of toilet paper. (Hello? You don't need to wrap 37 yards of it around your hand for it to be effective.) I even noticed that every day between 2 and 2:30, some inconsiderate wench left the seat cover on the seat in stall 1. Helpful hint: "For your protection" doesn't just mean for your protection.

The universal symbol for "Attention drum majorettes: Discard your drumsticks and feminine hygiene products here."

I was in there enough that I seriously considered decorating. Nothing drastic of course. But it would have been nice to hang up a print or two, maybe put up a few snapshots of my daughter. Some fresh flowers would have prettied the place up and certainly some reading material would have been welcome since women can't just walk into a restroom with a book, the same way men do. There could have been something magazine-y maybe, that one could read in short spurts. A paperback humor anthology. Or even the latest issue of The Onion.

No dice.

Instead, I had to settle for the only reading material I could find:

Bow down to the management, your protectors and saviors!

Does anyone else ever wonder why those seat covers are printed with Provided by the Management for your Protection and yet nothing else in the bathroom is? Is it that important for the management to get some sort of acknowledgment for providing you with this particular sanitary item and no others?

The way I see it, it's like saying, When you take a crap, think of the management!

Yeah, I spent too much time in that bathroom.

Way too much time.

She Who Shall Remain Nameless

Yesterday I met a woman in the park who described her panic as she went to the hospital with some mild spotting, only to be admitted, and have her second daughter delivered 7 weeks early. They had no crib, no nursery, and no names.

And then I realized--

We're due in 7 weeks.

And we have no names.

Oh my God, we have no names.

This baby is due in less than two months and we've barely even discussed names. Which only worries me because by this time in my first pregnancy, we had finally agreed on Thalia. And that was after four consistent months of non-stop debating and negotiating and crying (mostly me) and cajoling and the occasional tantrum-having and hair-pulling and door-slamming.

If she had been a boy? No problem. We spit into our palms and shook on boys' names in about four seconds. But for a girl? Nothing. Nada. No dice.

Here was the typical conversation between Nate and I about girls' names last go-round:

Him: What about Gibson?
Me: Gibson? Like Mel? What part of "I'm a Jew" don't you understand?

Him: Yeah but we can call her Gibbs.

Me: Why would we do that?

Him: For Joe Gibbs.

Me: Great.

Him: Then how about Clinton Portis.

Second typical conversation:

Him: What if we name her Jezebel?

Me: Why, just to piss off your mother? I'm not giving her a name just so you can call your family and say haha, guess what we named her.

Him: Okay, then how about naming her Thereisnogod.

Me: Great.

Him: Well you did want a T name...

Third typical conversation:

Me: I like the name Grace.

Him: BWAHAHAHAHA. Grace? That's like the worst name EVER. No. Absolutely not. Who names their kid Grace? I don't even think it's a real name.

Me: You're overreacting a little, don't you think?

Him: Not at all. It's terrible.

Me: You just don't like it because I suggested it.

Him: Not true! Give me another.

Me: No. You'll kill anything I suggest.

Him: No I won't. Come on...

Me: Fine. How about Ava.

Him: Like the chick on Deadwood? NO WAY! THE WORST! YOU HAVE TERRIBLE TASTE! You want everyone to think she's some 19th century idiot? Ava! Hahahaha! Terrible! Horrible!

Me: What? That's a beautiful name. You're a jerk. What the hell are you even talking about, Deadwood?

Him: Ava. On Deadwood. Terrible! The worst!!

Me: That's Alma.

Him: Same thing. Horrible.

Me: Okay, so Ava is terrible but you are willing to name her Clinton Portis.

Him: Absolutely.

You don't even want to know what we went through to pick out the crib bedding.

The name trauma was only heightened by our hospital-affiliated Lamaze instructor who put the fear of God into our class, assuring us that we would not be allowed (would not be allowed!) to leave the hospital until we had an infant car seat and a name filled out on that birth certificate form. And apparently, "my partner is an argumentative pain in the arse and would rather make jokes than help me come up with a name" does not constitute a valid excuse. Trust me, I tried.

The pressure!

Not that it was all strife and mayhem. What we were able to agree on for many weeks--at least until the name Thalia entered our consciousness, pulled up a chair, and refused to budge until we acknowledged its its claim as my daughter's rightful and proper name--was what not to name her. I even saved the list (Yes, I made a list, that happy was I that we could come to terms on something, anything, name-related):

-Courvoisier
-Cher
-Cinderella
-Don Corleone
-Fifi
-Coco
-Roxy/Roxi/Roxie
-Kramer
-Getty Lee
-General Lee
-Constantine
-Jacks
-Madysynne
-Kelly Rippa
-Can of Beans (as much as we both like Tom Robbins)
-Nate Junior
-Jesus

Thank goodness that we can still agree that these names are out of the question. Although I think he does have a fondness for Can of Beans that he won't quite admit to.

Even so, I'm worried that we have a long way to go, longer than the time we have left, for us to open up some dialogue and get past his "who came up with it" issues. I'm hesitant to initiate the discussion for fear that I will lose any legitimate suggestions I have. It's like I have to give him some fake names, just to get Mr. Veto-Happy past his power trip of rejection. Or limit his number of challenges, jury selection-style: Okay, you've already rejected Apple, Mrs. Spongebob and Ingibjorg. One more than then you have to go with the next one I suggest, whatever it is...

Or if only there were a way for me to telepathically transmit my name list into Nate's brain so that he could believe they were all his ideas. That might get us a lot further, faster. But something tells me it's just not an option right now. And time is limited.

To make matters worse, he's still suggesting Clinton Portis.

And he doesn't always laugh after he says it.

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My Inbox: Officially Filled With Love

Well what a nice little weekend it's been so far! Nothing like five straight weeks working 6-7 days a week to make you appreciate sitting down with your daughter to watch the same scene from Finding Nemo 67 times in a row. Even the acid reflux somehow is more enjoyable when you can experience it not from your desk, but from the comfort of your own cat dander-encrusted bed.

But if that weren't enough, I get all these lovely emails to boot. First, one from someone who googled death and Hallmark, found himself at this post, then took the time to write me a sweet note about sinners spending an eternity without God in a lake of fire. I never stop being amazed at the kindness of strangers, taking time out of their busy lives to worry about my eternal salvation at the hands of a loving, benevolent God. This anonymous gentleman was so eager to share his thoughts with me, he didn't even take the time to spell a lot of the words right in his email. Now that's saying something.

Then Kelly from A Child Is Born, not wanting to be outdone, emailed to tell me that I won my very first ROFL award for my Oscar wrap-up. But the best part is that in her post, she managed to compare me to maple syrup. Do you think there will be maple syrup when I get to hell? I bet there's just that Aunt Jemima crap. Wouldn't that be a shame.




And then, just as I'm feeling a bit less of a thinker than my normal self, what with that placenta miraculously snaking its way up through my body and into my skull cavity, Lawyer Mama and Karyn from Vexed in the City each nominate me for a Thinking Blogger Award, putting me amidst some very esteemed company of thinkers.





I've been told that I have several responsibilities that go along with this honor. First, as an ambassador of thinkers worldwide, I must start upping my ratio of crossword puzzle completions to non-completions by finally committing to memory the four-letter answer to Algerian Port. Second, I'm obligated to appear at copious ribbon cutting ceremonies of new Trump properties around the country. And finally, in classic blog-award-cum-meme style, I must think good and hard about five other people deserving of this award.

I'm going to go off the beaten path just a bit here with my choices and spread the Einsteinian love to those who I think truly take blogging to the next level:

1) Prescott of Imperfect Parent. I don't always agree with him, but he does make me think. I like that in a feller. Hell of a site he's got there, and they employ some of my favorite writers.

2, 3) Lindsay from Suburban Turmoil and Mama K at Petroville for having just celebrated one year of their Perfect Post Awards. It's such a cool thing in that anyone can nominate anyone and always leads me to discover some great writers on the first of every month. Score one for true democracy.

4)Asha from ParentHacks, potentially the hardest working woman in the blogging business and the first person I email when I'm like "I don't understand! What's an RSS?" (Admittedly tech stuff is not my forte.)

5) Lisa Stone, author of Surfette and co-founder of BlogHer. Talk about a thinker. She has given amazing legitimacy to that which we do here every day. And I'm not just saying that because I get a check every month for $26.15 from the ad network.

Will Pimp for Food (and Celebrity Contact)

I've just received a Quicktime video of my visit to The New Adventures of Old Christine set and I have to admit, I am too much of a pussy to post it. I know that everyone hates seeing herself on camera but seriously? This is bad. You're better off watching Yvonne's.

Um...

What I meant to say is...

I just received this video of my visit to the set of Old Christine and I just can't believe how glowing and beautiful I look and how intelligent I sound every time I open my mouth. Who says I'm only funny on paper? I quite literally steal the spotlight away from all the actors - the spotlight guy just kept turning towards me with the hopes of catching my attention if only for a fleeting moment. The cast was pissed about it too; good thing he's Union.

And so, you can understand that I feel it would be irresponsible of me to post any sort of video that deflects attention away from the true stars - the talented cast of the show (which you can catch Monday at 8 on CBS, and subsequent Mondays at 8:30. Unless you'd rather watch Deal or No Deal, in which the major dramatic question revolves around the riveting premise: Pick a number. Nope, guess again. Nope, guess again... )

But here's what's really cool:

I just learned that Julia Louis-Dreyfus, along with the show's creator, Kari Lizer will be doing a live press conference with Lisa Stone of BlogHer Monday night at 9 featuring your questions. So...think of a question. Ask it here. Then watch as famous people answer that very question on BlogHer.org or on CBS.com.

You can ask them anything besides "do you know what a blog is?" I can tell you right off the bat it's a dead-end street.

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Okay, now that you know exactly what kind of solicitation will get me to write about a product/brand/sitcom/whatever, let me tell you what won't:

Hello Liz,

I’ve enjoyed reading your blog and I noticed that you often discuss topics relating to food and family, so I thought you and your readers might be interested in learning more about the opportunity to enter the [very famous brand name] Bake-Off Contest...

Because this sort of email will lead me to forward it to Kristen and ask her, really? Where exactly have I discussed topics relating to food and family? I just can't think of any besides the one where I'm annoyed because I can't eat sushi. Is it possible that it's just...a form letter? No! Say it isn't so!

Kristen's response:

Do they have a “best recipe using breast milk category?” Because that might be something worth blogging.

And that is why she has like 600 million readers a day.

Good thing she didn't mention placenta recipes. I might have actually run with that one.

Blogging Against Sexism: One for the Menfolk

As I've been kindly reminded by Cynthia, today is International Women's Day, which means of course the blogworld goes and turns it into something bloggy - Blog Against Sexism Day.

Because I'm exceedingly jet lagged (yes, I'm home! Glorious home!) and have about four brain cells left in my head right now, each of which is committed to other projects (yes, Amex, I swear your bill is at the top of the list. Please don't hurt me.) I want to do my part in the way I can: By letting other people do my part for me.

The following is a list, by no means comprehensive, of some of the great blogs out there penned by Stay at Home Dads. If their entire lives don't speak loudly to anti-sexism, I don't know what does. Also? There are some damn fine writers in that list.

Men can write! Who knew!

Visit them and say yo...thanks for doing what you do. Like fat-bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round.

Sweet JuniperCocktails with Kevin
Cynical Dad
Rebel Dad
Daddy Dialectic
Looky Daddy
Poop and Boogies
Flailing My Arms
Cry it Out

*If I've left you out, by all means say the word and I'll add you. And if for some reason you're on the list and you're not in fact a SAHD, consider it a high compliment that I thought of you in those terms. Or just chalk it up to the jet lag.

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Slutbags

I'm not above using my toddler's clothes to proclaim my--our--family values or political leanings. The way I see it, if it's okay for kids to wear jerseys designating daddy's favorite professional athlete who may one day end up splashed across papers for passing an std onto a minor during a raging coke-fueled night in Vegas, it's perfectly fine for me to dress my daughter in her President Poopyhead tee.

I'd like to think that I've got a sense of humor, as do most of us I presume, when it comes to The Ironic Tee, (T.I.T.?), Official Garment of The Hipster Parenting Movement. I can muster a chuckle when I see a kid's tee proclaiming boo f*cking hoo or anarchy in the pre-k, even if I wouldn't buy it myself. But sometimes I wander into a kids' boutique and come across a design that just calls to my inner sanctimommy and her wagging finger of doom. This is the kind of item that makes me want to track down the designer, the boutique buyer, and then all parents who have actually purchased such a garment, corral them into a circle, put my arms around them, pull them close...then knock their foreheads together hard and scream ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME? After which I'd make them write I do not actually want my child to be a future diva/pimp/trophy wife 100 times in soap across the windows of their mini vans.

A couple weeks ago, I believe I found the shirt that tops them all.

I caught this one in an "if you have to look at the price tag, you can't afford it" kids boutique in LA, where there was an entire rack of 0-24 mo jeans in the $180 range. Which I only mention as evidence of the adage that money does not buy taste.

(Izzy, I hope you're sitting down for this one.)


The only saving grace is that it was on the sales table.

The Crush

He nearly breezed past my office before I called to him, and I could tell that while my face was familiar to him right away, it was not the face he expected to see from five years before.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, it's you! Hey!"

But then his eyes opened wide as he processed the tableau before him: Cluttered office. McDonald's breakfast wrappers on the desk. Toddler reading on a bean bag chair. Pregnant woman at the center of it all, someone he might have known, but she was older. Flabbier. Mommy-er.

He, on the other hand, hadn't changed a bit. Same tan, same hair, same steely penetrating eyes.

My former crush.

He was one of those wild boys: Artistic, independent, rugged. The type to backpack in Tibet one moment then jet home in time for Burning Man, all while making art and music and, most likely, mad love to scores of women. He was totally out of my league, and utterly impractical as an object of my affection: The perfect target. At least back when I was single, styling, and any circles under my eyes stemmed not from 6 a.m. baby wakings but 6 a.m. walks of shame with the occasional bold-faced name.

Our relationship never progressed beyond stares that lingered too long and hugs that were just a little tighter than most. It was enough.

"Yeah, pregnant again," I shrugged as I hoisted myself up from my desk chair with as little grunting as I could muster and waddled over to the doorway.

There was a brief awkward hug as he craned his neck over my shoulder to stare at Thalia, clearly the biggest change of all. Even more than the McDonald's biscuit crumbs on the desk. He didn't say hi to her. He didn't try to curry favor with her. He motioned vaguely towards her as if she were a chair. Or maybe a ficus. "Who's this?" felt more like "What's this?" Her mere presence seemed to leave him grasping for words, for comfort.

We quickly switched topics back to the common denominators - travel, writing, work, life in general. The conversation was brief and filled strained pleasantries that reminded me of that Dan Fogelberg song that always makes me tear up against my will around Christmas every year. Except he wasn't an old lover, I hadn't married an architect, and I wasn't about to sit in the car with him drinking champagne and laughing til we cried. He was just a guy I kind of liked once, who had once made me think maybe, just maybe, if the timing was right...

And then he said goodbye and slipped away, back down the hallway, perhaps trying to figure out how my life had gone in a direction so very different than one that the freewheeling single, urban chick he had known once in his life might have predicted.

I'm not generally surprised nor regretful when I perceive doors that were once open, closing shut as I outgrow their usefulness or reach new stages in my life.

What shook me, however, was how this one seemed to slam with such a resounding, thunderous boom.

Things Pregnant Women Take For Granted That They Can Do, Until They're at the Office Around the Clock and Can't Do Them, Grrr....

Scratch the nipples

Burp loudly and often

Eat Pop Tarts for lunch

Nap

Pass gas

Readjust the boobs

Research baby names

Stick your fingers under the underwire in your bra to provide some momentary relief

Dig the wedgie out

Take off the shoes

Cry on a whim