Expecting a dinosaur

Thanks to that What to Expect book, the Sprog now thinks his younger sibling is a dinosaur.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have told him about the pregnancy so soon, but he cottoned on pretty quick to the fact that Mommy was tired and sometimes wept while reading Family Circus comics, which is not normal in any universe. So I explained that I had a baby in my tummy, and it was going to get bigger and bigger until it came out, and then he could hug it and be Mommy’s Big Helper. The “big helper” angle was really what sold him on it, I suspect, since we’re talking about the kid who begs to help me sweep and empty the dishwasher. Yes he does.

But anyway, he kept asking me where the baby was, so I told him it was in my tummy and pointed to the belly button area. He then yanked open the front of my sweat pants and stared at my belly button. No baby. So then he started going through my pants pockets, and I had to explain to him that I didn’t keep the embryo on my key chain or whatever.

So I pulled out my trusty copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting and showed him the month by month illustrations of the changing mommy and baby. He understood just fine after that, but the problem was the Month 1 embryo illustration (at right). Admittedly, it doesn’t look like it goes in a Huggies commercial. The Sprog took one look at it and crowed, “Mama, it’s a DINOSAUR!” Then he put his face down to my belly button and attempted reasonable discourse with the baby in a language it would find comforting and familiar: “Raaaawr! RAAAAAWWWRRRR!” he bellowed reassuringly (which I guess is Dinosaur for “Don’t worry, I’ll only steal some of your toys out of spite.”). So now we’ve taken to calling our tiny little miracle of life “Trogdor”, after the Homestar Runner cartoon, “Trogdor the Burninator”. Yes, we’re nerds. And yes, Trogdor is more properly a dragon than a dinosaur, but who’s counting?

In any case, though, if the Sprog keeps talking to his baby sibling that way (and he does it quite frequently), I wouldn’t be surprised if the little bugger doesn’t find it comforting after all, when it’s a newborn. Familiar sounds from the womb at all. I mean, we went with an Etta James song for the Sprog (works to this day in getting him calmed down), but hey, whatever works. Still, I will be so annoyed if I find myself crooning dinosaur noises to my offspring in the nursery because nothing else will calm the little precious down.

Bacon is an agent of evil

If you’re pregnant now or have been in the last 15 years, it’s a good bet that you’ve read the venerable What to Expect When You’re Expecting book. And it’s a decent primer, for sure. But that “Best Odds” diet chapter? It is a crock. Make every bite count! Or you’ll be poisoning your baby with that godawful slop you call food! You can go really crazy and have a piece of cake or pie once a month, but don’t worry, you can have all the fresh fruit you want, and maybe–maybe–you can have a dollop of whipped cream on it, you crazy hedonist. Oh, and by the way? You have to gain 20 pounds, but you have to do it by eating orgiastic excesses of steamed broccoli and lean turkey. Hahahahahahaha.

All I know is, Best Odds are that I’m going to soon break the all-time record for consumption of Sonic tater tots in one calendar month. Man, but those things are so tasty. Also, Tribe Sweet Red Pepper hummus with tortilla chips. I feel all tingly inside when I see that container in the deli aisle. Ooh.

Bacon is also apparently an agent of evil, all chock-full of yummy, yummy little sodium nitrate carcinogens. Even the turkey bacon I love is verboten. But I’ve found a delicious nitrate-free bacon at Kroger, tried it this morning. Was great, nice smoky applewood taste. Problem: the smell of it cooking almost made me raalph. As my friend Susan observed, I can either cook food, or I can eat it, but I can’t do both.

There is no justice.

POLL: What weird cravings have you (or others you know) had while pregnant? My favorite: I read in a magazine a few years ago about one woman’s obsession with smelling mimeograph ink. Seriously.

P.S. I have come across the most adorable little video ever. I double-dog-dare you not to crack a smile at this.

Buy me that!

You know, I had kind of been wanting a girl this time around, but after what Mary Meehan just told me, I might reconsider.

Mary has a daughter (you might recall her recent article about the Cult of Cheetah Girls mania among tween girls), and she said the huge thing, the absolute must-have among the tween set, is an American Girl doll.

Well, okay, I guess. Most little girls want a doll, right? And I had my fair share of Barbies (most of whom were living in sin with my brother’s GI Joes, since Mom wouldn’t buy me a Ken doll), so ... what’s the big controversy?

Two words: sticker shock. Just one of these prosh little dolls can cost upwards of $80, and if you want accessories to go with (of course you do!), then that’ll be $110, sucker valued customer.

You could buy some of the less-expensive peripherals on the site — and they are legion (American Girls the book! American Girls the lunchbox! American Girls the flaaaaame thrower!) — but I doubt they have the cachet of one of the actual dolls.

Look, I get the concept of a status symbol. And having the “in” thing can make a girl feel good about herself. But that’s $100 worth of retail therapy for an 8-year-old. Is the price tag worth the social acceptance?

How do you deal with the pressure to buy your kids the new hottness toy?

Mary’s writing a story about American Girl dolls, so if you have a comment about it, leave it here as usual or e-mail Mary.

(And let me take the opportunity to point out that my opinions are not necessarily Mary’s — she told me about the dolls and gave me the link to the site, but I’m the one who was left shivering like a Chihuahua at the thought of how much macaroni and cheese that money would buy.)

Playing chicken

I made a chicken stir-fry for dinner three days ago. Plenty of leftovers, so the pot is still in the refrigerator.

Thing is, nobody wants to admit it tasted nasty from the get-go.

I wonder which one of us will flinch first and clean out the pot. I know my personal limit–one more day in the fridge, and I’ll do it because I’ll get paranoid about malevolent, soy-based life forms evolving in the gunk. But that’s 24 hours away.

Let the battle of wills begin.

Mother of the Year (no, not me)

I could barely keep my eyes open yesterday, I was so tired. Partially from pregnancy-induced fatigue, partially from insomnia because a certain Sprog had serenaded me with Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star over the baby monitor through half the night. I now hate that song with the heat of a thousand suns.

But time and toddlers wait for no one, so I soldiered through yesterday with stoic resolve (if, in fact, soldiers stoically sit on the couch with a small child and watch Tivo’d Pinky Dinky Doo episodes all morning). Naptime could not come quickly enough.

But just when I was feeling sorriest for myself, I remembered a certain video I saw online the other day (Mum changes a nappy using only her feet). And then I consoled myself with the knowledge that, however tired I am, at least I never had to change the Sprog’s diaper with my feet.

This woman’s hands were burned off in an electrical accident when she was 2 years old, and she does everything — handle money, drive, style her hair, tickle her baby — with her feet. Wowsers. Talk about not letting your disability stop you.

I don’t pity her, because she looks like she’s doing quite well for herself. If there’s anyone I feel sorry for, it’s her kids. I bet they get, like, ZERO slack when they get older.

Kid: But Mum, I don’t want to do my Algebra homework. It’s too haaaaard.

Mum: Oh yeah? I just zipped up my jeans using my toes.

Kid: *sigh* Where’s the calculator?

Adventures in art

It got quiet when I was folding laundry.

Too quiet.

The Sprog had been sitting scant feet away from me, playing with his Hot Wheels as I worked. And then I noticed he was gone. And it was very, very quiet.

I went into the living room/kitchen area with a sense of foreboding. It was like that scene at the end of Face/Off, all silent and slo-mo, where only the burst of startled doves lets you know that things are about to get really artillerific.

Only instead of doves, it was an unnerved Jack Russell with a tie-dyed tail scuttling past me, looking fearfully over his shoulder. And instead of Nicolas Cage leaping sideways out from behind something, a stuttering hunk of hot steel in each hand, it was a toddler peeking apprehensively from behind the kitchen table, an uncapped Magic Marker in each fist.

“Come here and see me,” I said firmly. The Sprog inched further out and said, “Mama, I draw PJ.” Insert silent scream, oh, how about . . . here.

I plucked the markers out of his hands and called the dog. His behind looked like a PETA fur protest. Repeated scrubbings have taken care of most of it, but he still looks like he’s sporting Cookie Monster’s butt.

Note to self: Purchase a new toddler lock for the kitchen junk drawer, as it has broken.

Note the second: Don’t worry about the WD-40 on said drawer, as it apparently is functioning perfectly; not a squeak nor a squeal to be heard when it’s opening.

Third note: Find a store in town where I can get some of those Chinese finger traps.

Note #4: Don’t forget to wash the dog’s butt again tonight.

Well, now, THIS will be interesting

I read a poem yesterday that has particular meaning for me just now:

Metaphors
By Sylvia Plath

I’m a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf’s big with its yeasty rising.
Money’s new-minted in this fat purse.
I’m a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I’ve eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there’s no getting off.

***********************************

Things are definitely going to be getting more interesting around here.

(Oh, all right: for the poetry-impaired, here’s a hefty clue.)

What a girl wants

All right men, it’s that very special time of the year again. The one with more pink hearts than a first-grade girl’s backpack. The one in which it’s not only okay, but a status symbol to get mugged in a florist shop. The one where, let’s face it, you’re terrified of screwing up but good in the gift-giving department.

The going gets even more treacherous after you have kids, too. You might be tempted to downplay Valentine’s Day because “we don’t need all that commercialized junk anyway.” Which is fine, but only if you both really and truly agree on it. Otherwise, you’ll just make her think all the romance is gone, courtesy of her breeder hips.

That doesn’t mean you’re sunk, though. The big day is tomorrow, but you’ve still got plenty of time to give the mother of your children the one gift she really, really wants. So guys, huddle up. I’m about to tell you a secret: Your girlfriend/partner/wife/whatever might thrill to roses. She might gush praise over chocolates. She might (very unlikely) smile and thank you gallantly if you get her skanky underwear (though she’s far more likely to slingshot it back at your head).

But what she really wants is for you, her loving partner in life, to just leave her alone for a little while, especially if she spends a significant part of her day at home with the kids. Give her the night off from fixing mac & cheese, picking plastic spiders out of her hair, and the Cecil B. DeMille production of putting the rugrats to bed. Let her run away for a little while and do her own thing. It’s better if you’ve given her a week’s notice so she can plan a little something with a single friend, but short notice is better than nothing.

So tell her to go to the movies, or have a leisurely coffee date with a friend down at Common Grounds. Do not call her under any circumstances, unless there is arterial bleeding and/or an emergency room trip. Let the kids watch TV all evening if you have to, but do not disturb her on this, her night of freedom. She’ll be a happier, calmer mommy when she comes home, which makes everyone happier and calmer. Who knows, she might even go for that skanky underwear.

But you still have to get her the shmoopy card, sorry. No power on heaven or earth will get you off the hook for that one.

P.S. And I know there are plenty of guys who stay home with the kids, and all that goes for them too. Give the man a night to go shoot some hoops, compare biceps, or whatever it is guys do when they hang out.

Full moon over Lexington

I was about to write about something else, but a naked toddler just ran past me yelling, “PJ eat it! PJ eat it!”

No good can come of this.

*************************

Edited to add, ten minutes later: All is well. The Sprog likes to watch Barney while eating his mid-morning snack, and that’s when I get to check my e-mail. It’s in the next room, so I can always hear if he’s getting into drawers or doing something he shouldn’t. But this new thing, this spontaneous stripping, is a silent evil. I shall have to redouble my vigilance.

Book review: Uno’s Garden

Now this just has to be said: Graeme Base is simply the best thing going on in children’s picture books today. The illustrations are unfailingly gorgeous, the text is simple but effective, and the stories often serve to raise awareness on conservation issues.

Base’s latest book, Uno’s Garden, is a prime example. It’s not out in paperback yet, but it’s worth every last cent. The Sprog can’t get enough of it.

The story goes like this: Uno goes hiking in a jungle and likes it so much, he decides to live there. But as more and more people start moving there too, they see fewer and fewer of the beautiful plants and animals that drew them there in the first place. Then one day, when the city is sterile metal as far as the eye can see, all the residents ask themselves, “Why do we live in a place like this? There are no trees.” And they move away and leave the city to crumble.

The only person who sticks around is Uno, who has grown old nurturing a few surviving jungle plants in his tiny back yard. With him is the little snortlepig, once as common as a house cat but now the last of his kind. Slowly, over the next couple generations, Uno’s descendants help the jungle plants and animals to come back, all while keeping their city’s growth firmly in check. At the end of the book, the jungle and the city are in perfect harmony.

The only dark note is that the little snortlepig is nowhere to be found (apparently Uno’s pal was the last of its kind), so the book closes with children sitting around a campfire breathlessly listening to tales of the exotic snortlepig that had once lived in the jungle.

The Sprog was pretty sad when the book got to that part, but I’m okay with that kind of sad — it gets kids thinking about world issues.

And even if kids don’t get on board with the conservation lesson, it’s still a beautiful, fun book for preschoolers up through elementary school age.

BTW: If you want to buy other Graeme Base books, I highly recommend The Water Hole. It examines the conservation/extinction issue from a different angle, and the illustrations are far and away the best I have ever seen in a children’s book. Ever. You’ll see what I mean if you get it.

If you like the art but don’t want to join the Sierra Club, his alphabet book Animalia is also great. Bonus for Dr. Who fans: on the page for things that start with “D”, there’s a tiny Dalek. No kidding.

Tickle me, you fool!

From everything I’ve heard, the new TMX Elmo was absolutely the toy to buy for the preschool set this past Christmas. So when my mother-in-law put it under the tree for my son, I admit I was curious. Would it live up to all the hype? Would it break in ten minutes? Would it, perhaps, spew four-letter words like certain Bratz dolls?

So when The Sprog tore off the wrapping paper and yanked Elmo out of the box, we adults all leaned forward in gleeful anticipation (well, as gleeful as you can get before noon with only one cup of coffee to kick the sand out of your brain).

The Sprog sat back on his heels, staring at Elmo bemusedly. Then his eyes wandered to the next wrapped gift. My husband leapt in to the rescue: “Look, look, you tickle him! And he laughs! And … well, that’s it, I guess. But you can tickle him!” He obliged with a demonstration.

When Elmo first responded to the tickle, the jerky arm movements looked like a cross between the Robot and that weird bushwhacker dance at the end of R.E.M.’s Stand video. With arthritis.

The Sprog was taken aback, so my husband responded with another salvo of tickling Elmo. This time Elmo doubled over and collapsed on the floor, one arm still slapping weirdly at its side, giggling “HA HA HA HA HA! OHHHHHH! That tickles Elmo!”

And then The Sprog made his move. He carefully picked up Elmo, efficiently flipped it over a few times until he had located the power switch, and shut it off. Then he gently, gently drew Elmo to him and hugged him tight, as if to say:

“No, no, hush, Elmo. You’ve been in that box for a long time (and haven’t we all been in a “box” sometimes?), forced to perform for the mindless, drooling masses who only want more, more, more. But all that is over now. You’re in a safe place with me. Let me hold you close in my manly arms and feed you frosted Cheerios. Let’s not ruin this perfect moment with words we’ll only regret later. And Elmo? I need go potty.”

Okay, so maybe he only said some of that. But I could see the rest in his concerned little eyes. Trust me, it was there.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Poll: What’s your opinion on Elmo?

(To register your vote, go here. Check back later for the results.)
(A) Adorable critter full of furry hijinks
(B) Benevolent educational tool
(C) Hey, at least I can check my e-mail while the kid sings along with the Jingle Bells rip-off du jour. Bonus: not as whiny as Caillou.
(D) There’s evil lurking in those googly eyes.

Knit one, purl WHAT?

Universal truth: the more embarrassing the book you’re reading in a store or library, the more likely it is that someone you know will come up to you and start talking. (So if you ever want to meet Johnny Depp, all you have to do is head down to Jo-Beth and start perusing a copy of “Get Rid Of Smelly Back Hair NOW!”)

I discovered this rule the other night at Barnes & Noble. I stopped by after work to pick up a book I had ordered, but you can’t just walk in there, get what you came for, and walk out, right? So of course I browsed around a bit.

And lo and behold! There was a Valentine’s Day-themed table, with lots of twee little things like Valentine origami kits, heart-shaped paperweights, etc. And then I saw this book: Naughty Needles: Sexy, Saucy Knits for the Bedroom and Beyond.

I confess, my first thought on seeing that was not exactly cosmopolitan. Who knits underwear? I thought in horror. Good grief, wouldn’t that chafe?

So of course, I had to look. And just as I was staring slack-jawed at the knitted sparkly gold pasties, I heard, “Hey Heather, howya doing!”

It was our very own sports writer, Mark Story.

SNAP! went the book as I crammed it under a pile of books on the table. Oh no, they were Kama Sutras, and my hands were all over them. Worse and worse.

“HI MARK HOW ARE YOU IT’S CERTAINLY A LOVELY NIGHT,” I said with an easygoing grin straight out of the Blackhole Sun video. “NO I’M NOT SWEATING WHAT WOULD MAKE YOU THINK THAT? BECAUSE I’M NOT DOING ANYTHING WRONG.”

Well, at least that’s the way it sounded in my head. It was probably a bit less frantic in real life. We chatted a second, and he went on his way. I don’t think he even noticed anything was amiss. So, you know, he’ll probably never find out.

Oh, wait.

* * * * * * * * * *

Poll: What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever been caught reading? (Magazines from your brother’s stash don’t count.)

Calling all bloggers!

Just following up on something in my last entry: If you live in Kentucky and you keep a pretty good blog, why not send me the address? I’m compiling a list of personal blogs written by people who live in the area; they’ll be linked in one of the side columns for your edification.

Blogs with at least a partial emphasis on children or family are particularly encouraged, but blogs by the blissfully single are also welcomed.

Now, not to be the big heavy, but blogs that will not get links from this site are those in which:

• Egregiously racist, sexist or otherwise Neanderthal language is often employed.
• Offensive or obscene images are posted.
• The updates are far and few between. C’mon, now, surely you can cough up at least three or four updates a month.
• The formatting makes my eyes bleed.
• It’s so poorly written that I can hardly tell what you’re saying.
• Every other word is an F-bomb. Look, I don’t care if you use a little language in your blog, but the English language is a feast! An exotic banquet! And when all you can think of is to say “F— this” and “F— that”, you’re sitting at the kiddie table of that banquet dining on beanie weenies and Tang. And probably wiping your mouth on your sleeve. We can be more creative than that.

So send me those links! It’s so much fun to read the blogs of people who live in the area, and the more the merrier.

Super-long Introduction of DOOM

So. A few weeks ago, my editors asked me if I’d like to run down the street naked. Okay, not really (which is good, because nobody wants to see that. Ever.) But they did ask me if I wanted to write a blog about my perspective on motherhood and family, and if that sort of soul-baring isn’t tantamount to streaking in, say, Fayette Mall, I don’t know what is. (Ah, but that brings back the memories).

But I digress. The Mother Tongue will be a hodgepodge of personal anecdotes (think Merlene Davis, but with, like, 300% more toddler poop); discussion of issues pertinent to women, parents and families; children’s book reviews; and a little geekiness on the side. If reading about gross toddler behavior and byproducts, lactating ta-tas, or general PG-13 content gives you the vapors, then Gentle Reader, I humbly suggest you make use of Ye Olde Backspace button, because this is surely not the blog for you.

So who is this blog for? Well, let’s be honest, parenthood is a tough gig, and we need all the support we can get. Even if you have a vast network of friends and family nearby, it can be hard to ask for help. After all, you don’t want your parents to think you’re incompetent if you even have to ask them how best to remove tempera paints from one more household surface.

But! In this blog nobody knows y’all from Ethel, so feel free to come here and rant, discuss, ask questions of each other, find links to other parenting blogs, or just plain have fun. No pressure, just support. Kind of like an 18-hour bra. And if you don’t have kids or a spouse, never plan to, you’re still welcome here — my life isn’t 100% OMG the babies, and neither will this blog be.

A little bit about me: I’ve been married almost seven years to my hawt boyo, hereafter referred to as The Drummer (you’ll never guess what his hobby is). Our son, aka The Sprog, will be three in April, and is of course the sweetest, smartest, most breathtakingly beautiful child ever to voluntarily give all his toys to charity (What did you expect me to say? “He’s a dull-witted, tiresome little troll who runs into walls a lot and beats up Girl Scouts” is just not the done thing.)

Rounding out our household is PJ, an elderly Jack Russell with a Napoleon complex who freebases Red Bull when we’re all asleep.

I’m a lifelong resident of Lexington (with roots in Harlan County), and in my spare time I enjoy … HAHAHHAAHHAAAAA. Wait, seriously? There’s spare time? For real?

I’ve worked at the Herald-Leader for four years as a news assistant, compiling stocks and arts listings, writing book reviews and random articles, and whatever else that needs doing. If you recognize me at all, it’s probably because of the nerdiest freaking photo ever run in this newspaper, which featured me wearing Harry Potter glasses, plastered larger-than-life over my review of The Half-Blood Prince.

Yeah, let’s just get that one out into the open: I’m a total geek. I don’t speak Klingon or anything, but I do have my moments of geekitude. Besides, sometimes it pays: the paper totally comped my book for doing the Harry Potter review, and that is made of win.

Okay, so I’ve done some arts stuff, but what qualifies me to do a mommy blog? I’d like to think it’s because the higher-ups think I’m a special little snowflake with scads of talent as a blogger, but more likely, it’s because I’m just shameless enough to tell you all the really juicy stuff. And also because I might possibly have in my possession highly-incriminating long-lens photos of certain editors. Haha, just kidding! But seriously, if anything ever happens to me, I have a strong box at Central Bank. I’m just sayin’.