The Christmas Crafting Hall of Shame

When a 5-year-old makes you a popsicle stick picture frame decorated with wagon wheel pasta and gaudy drips of glitter, it’s sweet and endearing. Because, you know, they made it themselves with their wee little fingers, and all for you. Aww.

However, when you’re pushing 40 and the quality of your crafting is still analogous to the Proverbial Preschool Picture Frame, then people will begin to wish you’d just bought them some toasty warm Isotoners instead of, say, the Nativity scene made from hot-glued pipe cleaners. Do not be that person.

Granted, I have received many lovely hand-crafted items for Christmas: scarves, cross-stitch samplers, decorative plates. But I have also received some homemade stuff so heinous that only my loyalty to friends and family prevents me from giving you the dirty details.

Well, maybe just the one: my ex-aunt (through marriage) got the idea one Christmas to doll up all us gals in matching shirts that she decorated herself. These shirts, they were epic. Picture: a white sweatshirt with a fat carousel pony stenciled on it it. The pony and its striped pole are colored in with gold, green, and red glitter. At the top of the pole is a green plastic jewel the size of a kumquat, with real live ribbons cascading artfully down from the bottom of that jewel. I wanted to break her BeDazzler over my knee.

I was a teenager deeply into ironic grunge fashion (oh to have those years and that body back), so you may imagine that I was willing to set myself on fire in order to avoid having to wear that shirt. My mother’s glare was more convincing, though, so I put on the stupid shirt and grimaced for the camera. I will never run for public office because I know that picture is out there somewhere, waiting to surface.

And let us not forget that kissing cousin to ugly crafts: giving people baggies of chocolate chips or mini marshmallows accompanied by a witty poem that identifies them as something like snowman poop. You know exactly what I’m talking about. There’s nothing wrong with this sort of thing as long as it is a) not intended to be a substitute for an actual gift and b) something that someone would actually want to have. But I absolutely draw the line at the Santa’s Sock poem, which requires that you bag up one of your husband’s dirty, hole-y sweatsocks and give it to someone else. On purpose. Why on Earth would you inflict such a thing on someone you presumably like? “Here, Margot, Merry Christmas! it’s a filthy sock! Because that’s how much I value our friendship.”

So if you spent the week before Christmas hot-gluing googly eyes to candy canes, and you are not an elementary school teacher? Please reconsider this course of action for next year. There are plenty of ways to give gifts that inimitable personal touch, and most of them do not require an ill-advised trip to Michael’s.

And now a reward for you faithful readers: Here under the bandwidth-friendly cut, you will find a gallery of some of the ugliest, weirdest, laziest and just plain tackiest homemade holiday crafts I could find. Some of these people are unrepentant repeat offenders and are therefore featured more than once.

Bittersweet justice for pardoned abuse victims

Last week we got the news that, on his last day in office, Gov. Fletcher had pardoned nine women who had finally snapped and killed the men who abused them. (One of the women was convicted for killing her child, though her abusive husband later confessed to the murder.)

Too bad they had to wait for justice clear through the Brereton Jones administration and all the way until the last day of Fletcher’s. Jones commuted their sentences, but only in his last days in office, and Fletcher has been saying he’d review their cases since 2005. Curiously, though, it just never seemed to happen.

I have to wonder why he was willing to pardon his political lackeys and declare he was doing the right thing without regard for consequences to his own career, but couldn’t muster that same outraged bravado on behalf of these battered women until the election was over and done with. Color me unimpressed.

And then yesterday we learned that Saudi King Abdullah pardoned a teenage gang-rape victim who had been sentenced to 200 lashes for being out in public with an unrelated man (just before she was kidnapped and assaulted); her sentence had been more than doubled in retaliation after her angry lawyer went to the media about the case.

The pardon was most likely a result of intense international pressure, plus a desire on the king’s part to shunt attention away from a judicial system that’s still broken, even after recent reforms.

Look, I’m glad those women were pardoned. Better late than never, right? But I am so tired of victimized women waiting for justice until politicians have either nothing to lose or everything to lose.

Paying for the sins of my youth

Something you should know about me: That little voice that tells people to perhaps think twice before speaking? I do not have it. It’s as if the gene for ADD is sitting squarely on top of the Shut-Your-Fool-Mouth gene or something.

I’m better about it now, but when I was a kid I’d open my mouth and the first thought that popped into my head would fall out like a wad of half-chewed sandwich. Got about the same reaction, too.

The worst example of this ever: one time when I was about five years old, my brother’s best friend was over to play. When the friend’s mom (whom I had never met) came to pick him up, I answered the door. I gasped and said, “I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE FAT!”

My mother looked like she wanted to roll under the couch. The mom at the door squared her shoulders and said “It’s okay, children just say what they see,” in a fragile sort of voice.

I don’t remember my punishment for that little incident, but it’s probably better that way.

Fast forward 23 years.

I was feeding Baby Girl a bottle a few days ago while the Sprog ate his breakfast. Then he decided I was hungry, apparently, so he walked over to the couch and started feeding me Cheerios. Awwww, how sweet, right?

He went back to his bowl, picked up another handful, and came back over to me for Round Two. He put two Cheerios in my mouth, then yanked his hand back, pointed at me, and taunted in that sing-song playground voice, “Yoooooou’re gonna geeeeet faaaa-aaaat! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

I royally chewed him out for being so appallingly rude, of course, but in the back of my mind, I was thinking, “You know, I kind of had this coming.”

Discuss: Do you ever see some of your worse personal traits manifesting in your children? Does it affect the way you discipline them?

Fisher-Price goes Mr. Hyde over doctor kit

Not cool, Fisher-Price. Not cool at all.

You know, my kid loves their stuff: He has enough Little People play sets to populate a Little Manhattan, and a Hot Wheels fleet to match. In fact, when the Sprog’s great-grandmother was asking for gift ideas, I recommended that she buy the Fisher-Price medical kit, since he loves to pretend that he’s a nurse who helps sick people like Daddy. Could there be a more perfect present?

Unfortunately, I had to call her back a few days ago and ask her to return it to the store. See, I just came across this blog entry on Consumer Reports. Turns out, the arm band on the blood pressure cuff is chock full o’ lead. Which raises the question: how come I had to call my grandma and ask her to take the toy back? Wasn’t it recalled?

Nope! It just so happens that federal laws only address the amount of lead in paint and surface coatings. They do not regulate the amount of lead in plastics, though, so Fisher-Price is home free.

Almost. Illinois has a new law that plugs up all loopholes in the federal law, so that all materials in toys are covered. State officials in Illinois heard about what Consumer Reports found, did their own testing, and confirmed that the kits with red arm cuffs were lead-laden. Fisher-Price promptly pulled all such kits from stores—but only in Illinois. They can still be legally sold anywhere else in the country, and you’re just out of luck if you haven’t heard about it. Especially since the Fisher-Price website says precisely squat about it.

According to Consumer Reports, when a Fisher-Price spokeswoman was asked about it, she said, “If consumers in states other than Illinois have concerns about the red blood pressure cuff, they may contact Fisher-Price at 800-298-0638.”

That’s real classy, Fisher-Price. Way to put people before profits, there.

Fortunately, many major stores (including Amazon.com) have voluntarily stopped stocking the toy. None of the major retailers in Lexington carry it in their brick-and-mortar stores or feature it on their websites: Toys R Us and Wal Mart yanked it from their shelves nationwide when they heard about the Illinois recall; Target, Sears, and JC Penney don’t have it, but the customer service reps I talked to didn’t know if that was related to the recall.

I think it has to be, though. I bought the Fisher-Price medical kit for my nephew last Christmas, and Shopzilla turned up pages and pages of hits. When I checked last night, there were only two hits. So at least the threat to kids is somewhat minimized.

Still, I find it infuriating that the toy can be purchased at all. How are we as consumers supposed to protect our children when the CPSC with its one tester is hopelessly overwhelmed, and home lead testing kits are unreliable at best?

Well, for one thing, you can contact your Congressman and urge him/her to support tougher federal laws governing lead content.

You can also subscribe or donate to Consumer Reports so they can continue to do the excellent work they do.

You can sign up to receive an email from CPSC whenever there’s a new recall.

You can buy toys that are made in America from companies that make toy safety their top priority.

And finally, you can call Fisher-Price and let them know what you think about their outrageous behavior. You have a voice and a wallet, and you know how to use them.

Virginia, I hate to tell you this…

Don’t say I didn’t warn you: if you have elementary-age kids bopping around the room while you’re reading this entry, you might want to either read this later or wait til they’re off playing Legos.

Right then. Now, a snippet of a recent conversation I had at work (as best as I can remember it):

Me: Would you think I was a joyless freak if I said I’m not teaching my kids that Santa is real?

Nameless copy editor: No Santa at all?

Me: Well, the Sprog will still get presents from “Santa”, but he knows that they’re really from mommy and daddy.

Copy editor : Why? Religious reasons?

Me: Sort of, though I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Santa. I just can’t bring myself to tell him about it and know it’s not true. Think it’ll permanently scar him?

Copy editor: *raised eyebrow*

Me: Well, I mean, would it scar him any more than he normally would be with my screwed-up parenting?

Copy editor: Yeah, the Santa thing might not be what breaks him.

* * * * *

So there you have it: my husband and I are not going to teach our kids that Santa Claus is real. I’m aware that this is not going to be popular; when I told my parents about it, my dad looked at me like I had just owned up to stealing the last can of Who Hash.

But you know what? I’m not trying to kill the Sprog’s joy—he still gets presents from Santa, but he knows we’re the ones bankrolling the Christmas morning bounty. This can only be a good thing, since somewhere around, oh, October, he began breathlessly exclaiming, “Mommy, I want that for a Christmas present! Can I get presents, Mommy?” every time he saw a cool new toy.

That bothered me—not because I begrudge my kid a good Christmas gift, but because it was sad for me to see him so wrapped up in getting stuff. That’s not what Christmas is about.

When the Sprog asked what Christmas was a few weeks ago, I told him that it was a birthday party for baby Jesus, and that it was a special day to spend with family. I’ve been trying to emphasize the “giving” aspect of the season, too: he’s been saving his pennies to give to a children’s charity, and I’ve been selling him on how happy he will feel when other people open the presents he got them.

So far, my efforts seem to have have worked pretty well: he knows the story of the Nativity, is very pumped about collecting money for the charity, and is nearly incontinent in his desire to watch people open the presents he picked out.

And as for Santa and the “magic of the season”? There’s still plenty of both to spare. The Sprog and I have been conspiring about how we will make special Christmas cookies together and leave them out for Santa—and then we will totally fool Daddy into thinking Santa really came and ate them, only it was really us after all, ha ha ha.

I have seen it argued on some message boards that not believing in Santa will cripple the Sprog’s imagination and compel him to be a tax accountant when he grows up. But I’d argue that his imagination is getting a pretty darn good work-out when he’s pretending along with Santa-related stuff, even though he knows it’s just make-believe.

Of course, this isn’t just about religion and charity: By not teaching the Sprog that Santa is real, we avoid the temptation to threaten that Santa won’t bring him presents if he misbehaves. I’ve seen many a parent depend on this little crutch, and though it’s frankly tempting, I’d rather not. If I tell him to behave, he’d better do it because I said so, not because Santa’s hand is hovering over the Smite button.

Besides, I think we can all agree that I’m being merciful by sparing the kids the agony of visiting Santa at the mall:

(For more freak-out schadenfreude goodness, check out the Scared of Santa gallery.)

How to peel 50 boiled eggs a minute (and other useful tricks)

I was supposed to get my Christmas tree decorated last night after the kids went to sleep. Instead, I was pulled into the sucking black hole that is Instructables. It is, no kidding, at least as addictive as Parent Hacks, if that tells you something.

Want to peel 50 boiled eggs in under a minute? This site shows you how.

Need to keep an eye on things from afar? Make a remote controlled camera from a cellphone.

Tie a necktie with a perfect Windsor knot in under 10 seconds? Watch the master and learn.

And Guinever, this one’s for you: excellent instructions on how to make a 3-D Dinosaur birthday cake. ;)

I should probably make some kind of snappy one-liner to close up this entry, but I’m pretty sure you all have been sucked into the fathomless vortex of Instructables by now and won’t surface any time soon. Oh yes. I know its insidious pull.

The straight dirt on cloth diapering

Some of you long-time readers might recall my resolution to use cloth diapers on our baby. Well, it’s been over two months, and I just wanted to report back on how things are going.

In a word, things are fabulous. And you know they’d have to be, for me to stick to a resolution that forces me to do two extra loads of laundry a week (and rather labor-intensive loads of laundry, at that).

For the first week and a half after we came home from the hospital, we used disposables. Partially because she was way too small for her cloth diapers, and partially because I couldn’t figure out how to put her gDiapers on her so that her umbilical stump would remain uncovered. After her stump fell off, we put the gDiapers on her, and those carried us through admirably until she was finally big enough to fit in the Mother Ease diapers when she was a month old.

The gDiapers work pretty well, but they’re more work than both disposable and cloth diapers. My big gripe is that the nylon inner liner almost always gets soiled when Baby has a dirty diaper, so you have to change out the disposable pad and deal with the nylon liner. Usually, dealing with the liner meant rinsing it out under the bathtub tap, spritzing it with some Dreft, and throwing it in the laundry basket. Still, that’s more hassle than I’m used to.

The disposable liner, if you will recall, can be flushed, thrown in the garbage, or composted (if it’s just a wet diaper). We did all three, and never had any problem. And it only ever took one flush; I tended to save them in a Kroger bag until someone else had to go to the bathroom, then flushed the liner down then so that no water was wasted. And indeed, I saw no rise in my water bill.

Moreover, the gDiapers are trim and cute as a button. They very, very rarely leaked for us, and my girl is a prodigious wetter. They did start to consistently leak at one point, and I realized it was right after a growth spurt, when she was taking in (and presumably putting out) a lot more formula. So we tried the Mother Ease diapers on her again, and they fit just fine by then.

Which brings me to the main event: the Mother Ease diaper review. What can I say, I love these diapers. I talk about these diapers the way I used to talk about Johnny Depp last week in high school. For one thing, one size fits 8 lbs.-35 lbs., though the first week she was wearing them, Baby Girl looked a lot like one of those weighted bowling pins you’re supposed to knock over at the county fair.

They aren’t hard to care for, either. I’ve seen recommendations for both wet pail and dry pail, but we use a wet pail, since formula poop is a force to be reckoned with. Ye gods.

Anyhow, you just change the diaper and toss it in the pail, then wash a load every three days. It was hard at first to remember the steps to follow in the laundering, but we soon got the hang of it.

They take up a good bit of space in the diaper bag, but it’s manageable. And as I said, I don’t mind the small trouble of carting them around because the benefits are worth it. We have spent almost no money on diapering supplies since Baby Girl began wearing her cloth diapers, and she has had zero diaper rash since she came home from the hospital (though she got a nasty one there because they gave her milk-based formula). But the best thing of all, the reason I will recommend these diapers to anyone, is that they are virtually leak-proof.

We have only ever had her diapers leak a few times, but it was always because of user error on my part: you have to make sure the diaper is completely tucked into the nylon cover, or the wet cloth will wick moisture onto the baby’s clothing. Once we got the hang of that, though, we’ve had no leaks, even after the trial by fire.

The Sprog brought home that nasty little stomach bug that was going around a few weeks ago, and Baby Girl had horrible diarrhea for nearly a week because of it. At first I decided to use disposables until she was back to normal (I thought my washing machine was going to blow a belt with all the diaper laundry that week). But you know what? The disposables couldn’t handle the diarrhea. Not even close. It went up the back and out the legs every single time for the day or so that she wore them. It was revolting. So we switched her back to her cloth diapers, and *poof*, no more blow-outs. Not a one. Not even a drop. It was awe-inspiring. And only one of her diapers has any staining at all, even after all that (I should note: I got the idea to use my leftover gDiaper disposable pads as doublers for the cloth diapers, and they really helped soak up the waste and kept Baby Girl’s bottom drier.)

So, yeah, these Mother Ease diapers are great, and I’m so glad we decided to go with cloth. In fact, we’ve saved so much money on diapering that we can afford to get our cable TV turned back on now. To me, the benefits could not be clearer: buy cloth diapers, have a happy and comfortable baby, save lots of money, get Ninja Warrior back. EVERYBODY WINS. Except for all those contestants who totally eat mud on Ninja Warrior. That is so awesome.