Okay, now that’s just disgusting

Progress update on Baby Girl: at seven months and some change, she can sit up on her own, roll around, do a baby push-up, and sort of wiggle around if she wants to move a foot or so away. She clearly wants to crawl, and keeps trying to do this little froggy kick with her legs while she’s in push-up mode. Little did I know that, even without executing a proper crawl, the girl can really move it. She could have picked a better way to show me, though. Oh, how I wish she had.

On Saturday I put her down on her little play mat so that I could get some housework done. I did the dishes; she was laying on her mat and kicking up her heels. I cleared off the kitchen table; she was laying on her side and gurgling at her stuffed poodle. I started sweeping the floor, but had to stop and run for the ringing phone in the next room; no sweat, she was still on her mat, waving her fingers around in front of her face.

Less than two minutes later, I came back into the living room and Gentle Readers, I just about died. Baby Girl had somehow managed to creep, wriggle and roll almost six feet away from her mat in that short amount of time. And there she was, happily playing in a huge pile of swept-up dust bunnies and other assorted funk that was destined for the dust pan. As I stood there in that one endless, horrified moment of discovery, she lifted one drooly, dog hair-covered fist and put it in her mouth.

I tried so hard not to scream. I almost succeeded. Baby Girl got a thorough and immediate bath, but it appears to have been a fruitless effort because she now has a mild cold. Splendid.

You know, the longer I write this blog, the more I wonder why CPS hasn’t contacted me yet for a friendly chat.

Jackass: the name says it all

Oh my dear heavens. I was flipping channels the other night, and I happened to catch part of one of the Jackass movies on TV the other night. My IQ may never recover. I knew what the show was about, but I’d never actually sat down and watched it. You will not be surprised when I say that it was hands-down the most idiotic thing I have ever seen.

After five minutes of slack-jawed staring, I started to feel bad that I wasn’t doing something useful like solving world hunger or organizing my shoe rack instead of watching such dreck. I almost couldn’t look away (I did look away though–five minutes was just about five minutes too many). Worse yet, I realized that I actually kind of did want to see what happened when Johnny Knoxville rode a homemade rocket off the end of a boat ramp. Self-knowledge is a terrible thing.

I guess I can see why Jackass appeals to their target audience: it’s exactly the kind of thing boys love to dream up, though few actually go so far as carrying them out. Heck, I went to Prom with a guy who once set his own butt cheeks on fire. He is now an upstanding and prominent member of this community.

I hope the same holds true for the Sprog. I’m worried about all the shenanigans he will undoubtedly get into, terrified that he’s going to get killed in an ill-advised Crisco/unicycle stunt, but still hopeful that he’ll manage to make it to his mid-20s when his brain is fully mature. Til then, though, I’ve put a parental lock on all Jackass reruns and movies. No sense in giving him any creative ideas.

Discuss: Jackass, boys, and the allure of pranks and stunts.

Prepare to get slimed

My friend Shannon told me yesterday that she’s setting up a clothesline in her backyard. And boy, was she excited about it. She was talking about lumber and nylon rope the way most women talk about their wedding dresses. At first I thought, “Well, okay, pioneer lady. Whatever floats your boat.” Then I did a little research online, and Shannon? I am here to eat my hat. A clothes line, it turns out, is a wonderful way to preserve clothing, save money, and decrease the risk of a house fire.

In fact, what I read was so convincing that I’m going to look into getting one of my own. I even found an online store dedicated entirely to—you guessed it—clotheslines and related stuff.

And while I was poking around (admittedly, on Fark), I came across a recipe for homemade laundry detergent that costs nearly nothing to make and is said to clean magnificently. Bonus: it looks like something from the props department of You Can’t Do That on Television.

My husband is usually pretty tolerant of my (okay, sometimes) half-baked plots to save money and be nice to the planet, so hopefully I can convince him to let me give this a try. Perhaps I’ll woo him with the prospect of recouping the money he just spent on plane tickets to go to a gaming convention in Seattle this summer. Wait a minute, forget the sweet-talking. I just gave him the green light to fly cross-country to an event that has “Can I bring my light saber” in the FAQ. Surely that earns me a pass on the clothesline, right?

Discuss: Do any of you use a clothesline or make your own laundry soap? Do you find it easy to keep up with, and does it save you much money? Any tips?

Party like a rock star

Yesterday was the Sprog’s 4th birthday. Yes, really. Tomorrow he’s going to be 9, and next week he will want to borrow the car. *waves cane around*

Some of you may recall my horror at the price tag attached to last year’s birthday party. And not the memorable stuff, either, like activities or gifts. Nope, I spent $60 on assorted Spider-Man decorations that were destined to sparkle for one brief moment and then get tossed aside, not unlike your average Hollywood starlet. And that was just the paper junk. I spent another $50 or so on food, invitations, and games.

Not this year, I told myself. It wasn’t just that I wanted to spend less; it was that I wanted to spend my money on things the Sprog might actually care about. I also wanted to make it as stress-free as possible– a resolution strengthened mightily by an article I saw on Friday that discussed the outrageous amounts of time and money some parents are investing in all-out blow-out birthday bashes for their children.

Read the article—seriously, it’s gruesome. And while you’re at it, check out the link provided to Birthdays Without Pressure, which has even more unbelievable anecdotes. My favorite was the $10 million bat mitzvah this one guy threw for his daughter. Dude rented the Rainbow Room and hired Aerosmith, Don Henley and 50 Cent. Of course, it’s not hard to finance that kind of shindig when you’re (allegedly) a fraudulent war profiteer, but whatever: details.

Most of us don’t have that kind of cash, honestly earned or not. And even if we did, should we really be spending $5,000 on a kid’s birthday party? I can see $1,000 for a really special occasion, like a quinciañera or a Sweet Sixteen. But otherwise? I dunno, why not just get the kid their own Visa now, because living within their means is clearly going to be a foreign concept.

We have a lot more money in the bank this year than we did last year, but time is at a premium. And like I said, there’s no reason I have to stress out for the Sprog to have a fun birthday. So yesterday afternoon, I invited immediate family, grandparents, and his two best friends over for cake and ice cream. I put up a few decorations and made an earnest, but homely, birthday cake (see right). No party games—I just let the kids play with the Sprog’s toys while the adults chatted and ate cake. Then we opened presents. Then my mother and I drove the three boys and Baby Girl to the bowling alley for a few games. Then I took them to McDonald’s for Happy Meals. Then we dropped them off at home. The end. And you know what? I spent about half as much as I did last year, but with only a tenth of the time and stress, and everyone had a great time.

My expenditures were as follows: $3 for plain red paper plates and cups, $2 for Star Wars balloons (splurge), $4 for a Darth Vader pin that said “Birthday Jedi” (splurge), $4 for a 4-pack of cardboard Darth Vader masks (splurge, but the kids loved them), $1 for a birthday candle, $2 for cake mix and icing, $3 on yellow decorator icing with a tip, $18 for bowling, and $18 for three Happy Meals, plus dinner for my mom and I. So, $55 total, and only about $10 of that was total frippery. Not too bad for a party with 15 people in attendance.

And do you know what the best part was? Because we pared things down this year, we had a lot more time to enjoy the party with the Sprog and our guests, and we were also able to budget a little bit more for his birthday presents (a bicycle and a Star Wars pop-up book).

The Sprog was thrilled with the bowling and the Happy Meals, elated to have a Star Wars themed birthday party, and he was (thankfully) impressed with my dippy attempt at a Star Wars cake (in case you’re wondering, those are Darth Maul and Obi-Wan Kenobi action figures that I just stuck in the icing for effect). He said he felt like a “very special birthday boy” with his Birthday Jedi pin, too. Which he was. And I didn’t have to hire Aerosmith to make him feel that way, either.

Discuss: What’s too much for a kid’s birthday party? Got any birthday party war stories?

All I want for Christmas is LEAD

Why it pays to keep up with the CPSC recalls: I just learned that a novelty inkpen I allowed the Sprog to buy just before Christmas has been recalled because the surface paint on it is chock full o’ lead.

Wunderbar. Now I have to go home and hunt down that stupid snowman pen. I’m cringing to think how many times the Sprog has probably put that thing in his mouth. I’m paranoid about lead, so I’ve always told him never to put toys in his mouth, but I can’t be there 24/7.

Worst thing about all this is that I now feel really skittish about allowing the Sprog his usual treat of one item from the dollar bin when we go to Michael’s (I figure it’s the least I can do after making him stand around while I compare five kinds of pink yarn). Maybe I could ask him to pick something not made from plastic, nor covered in paint? But that pretty much leaves soap, stationery, and grosgrain ribbon. Yeah, I bet he’ll love that. Hm, what to do…

P.S. If you want to sign up to to the CPSC’s e-mail list, go here. You select which kinds of recalls you want to be notified about, and they’ll send you an accordingly tailored email every time there’s a recall. I get about one email a week from them for children’s clothes and toys, so it won’t kill your email storage space.

In which Heather is a centerfold

Okay, not quite. More like a teeny tiny blurb off to the side on one page of the new Parenting Magazine. I confess, I haven’t actually seen it yet, but I’ve been too busy plotting creative ways to blow the check I got from Jeopardy yesterday. Magic 8 Ball says we’re fixing the porch, but it’s more fun to imagine spending it at IKEA giving it to charity buying all the seasons of Battlestar Galactica going to the Bahamas taking over the whole world with an elite cadre of trained chimps. They shoot to kill. Yes.

Er, anyway, if you haven’t seen the blurb, you may have guessed that it’s about my appearance on Jeopardy. When the editor contacted me and said they wanted to do this little write-up, I remember blurting, “You are aware that I lost, right? Badly.” She was aware, and said it was cool that I even showed up that soon after birth. Aw… *kicks toe in the dirt* Well…okay. Go for it, I said.

And there you have it. My fifteen minutes of fame extended by a gasping few seconds (which is only ever a significant amount of time if you’re a History Channel narrator rhapsodizing about how we heaved our indomitable selves up from the sea and breathed air like three seconds ago, if all of the Earth’s history were collapsed into a single day).

What was I saying? Oh yes: to those of you who only came here because of Parenting Magazine, welcome and stick around; I don’t bite very hard. Usually.

Thunder = drums. Of Doom.

It’s Friday night, but it doesn’t feel like Friday night. Man, you could have brought in the groceries with the bags under my eyes today. I suspect I was one of many exhausted parents, though, considering the fury of the thunderstorms we had Thursday night.

I didn’t actually get to sleep until 4 a.m. because the Sprog kept waking up and calling for me every time he heard a big clap of thunder. Not that I blame him, poor kid. I would have allowed him to sleep in my bed, but my husband has to work Saturday and the Sprog is a notoriously bad bunkmate. He kicks, rolls around, burrows into your armpit, grinds his teeth, and snores like a trucker. No thank you.

So I sat in the living room and knitted, and when he called for me, I went upstairs and loved on him. Eventually, though, it got to where I kinda sorta wanted to sleep. Silly me. It looked like it wasn’t going to happen, but then I Got An Idea. A terrible, awful okay, pretty darn good idea.

My husband always insists that the Sprog wear proper ear protection if he wants to watch Daddy play the drums, so we got a pair of Junior-sized soundproof headphones for him. You know the kind, serious-looking and big as a can of Spam on each side. When my husband is wearing the big boy version of those headphones, I can stand literally two feet away and scream at him, and he can’t hear it.

So I went downstairs and snagged the Sprog’s headphones, trotted back up to his room and presented them to him with the solemn promise that he would hear no more scary noises if he would just wear them. Did he want them? He nodded his head so fast he about got brain slosh. Clapped them on his ears, figured out how to lay on his back so they wouldn’t fall off, then smiled.

“Thanks, Mommy,” he sighed as he snuggled down deeper into the covers.

“No problem, sweetie,” I said.

“WHAT?” he yelled.

I pulled the headphones out an inch and said, “Love you, babe. Get some sleep.”

“Okay, Mom,” he said, his eyes already heavy. I turned the light back out, and within three minutes I heard him snoring over the baby monitor as the thunder growled away.

I am a freaking ROCK STAR.

New Kids going around the block again

Oh my giddy aunt. The New Kids on the Block are getting back together for a reunion tour.

I’m probably dating myself here, but WOW does this bring back memories of the 5th grade. My my, remember those skinny ties, stone-washed jeans and screen-printed silk shirts? Be still my heart.

The boy band New Kids on the Block, which sold 70 million albums in the 1980s and early ’90s, has reunited and plans to release a new album and go on

tour. The reunion comes 20 years after the release of the group’s

multiplatinum album, “Hangin’ Tough.” [...]

[Donnie] Wahlberg said he was persuaded to get back together with his former bandmates — Joey McIntyre, brothers Jordan and Jonathan Knight and Danny Wood — when they decided to record new music. Wahlberg said he wrote 80 percent of the new material with McIntyre and Jordan Knight.

“I had no interest going out on a nostalgia tour and singing the same material,” said Wahlberg, 38.

But he added: “We absolutely will do the old songs for sure.”

Sucks to be Joey McIntyre, then, eh? I’d hate to think what they’re going to have to do to him to help him hit those falsetto notes in Please Don’t Go Girl. But then, as this entire tour proves, dignity wears a dog collar when the almighty dollar goes walking.

Speaking of which, I just have to mention the comments on the Boston Herald story, which are hands down the funniest part of this whole thing:

Donny, this Teddy from Howes St remember last fall sox/tribe playoff game we were smoking on yawkey way when I suggested you “put the band back together”. Well I want my cut.Call me…
#234045 – Apr 3, 2008 8:00 AM EDT

Donny, Gerry from Victoria St here I was there with Teddy from Howes St Don’t welch out on the dough man.

#234225 – Apr 3, 2008 9:45 AM EDT

*snort*

I wasn’t the biggest NKOTB fan in the world, but whatever, I’m not passing judgment because I still know every single word to Cold Hearted Snake. Um. And the lyrics to every song on Licensed to Ill. Oh, the 80s.

What do you all think about this tour? Did you like the New Kids back in the day? Hate them? Agonize over which one you’d marry the day they finally realized how special you were?

Oh, and if you’re reading this Jordan, please know that despite my cynical demeanor and disdain for your music, I never gave up on you in my heart. It just wasn’t meant to be, darling.

My husband and I: Just a couple of April Fools

I didn’t blog about this on Tuesday because people always think it’s an April Fool’s joke, but April 1st was my wedding anniversary. Eight years, if you can believe it.

I’ve been a little concerned lately because, what with my now-full time status at work and a new baby, we haven’t had a lot of time to work on our relationship. In fact, between his work schedule and mine, I didn’t actually see him this week until Wednesday night. But whatever stresses we’re going through these days, I have a feeling that the bedrock of our marriage is doing just fine.

One clue to that came after I fell back into bed at 4:30 a.m. Tuesday after an hour of “quality time” with Baby Girl. She had been sort of sniffly for the past few days, but when I went to answer her cries that morning, I found her feverish, oozing green snot, and with a barking cough. Poor baby—is there anything more pathetic than that weak little sick cry?

She needed Baby Tylenol, but I discovered to my horror that there were only a few drops left. There was enough for most of a dose, so I gave her that and watched to see if it helped. It seemed to be bringing the fever down after half an hour, so I suctioned her nose (again) and put her back to bed.

My husband woke up when I came back to bed and asked me if the baby was okay. I filled him in on the situation briefly, and wondered aloud what I was going to do after everyone got up in a few hours and she needed more Tylenol. The husband had to get up really early to go to work, so it wasn’t like I could ask him to go buy it. I figured I’d have to take the kids to Kroger to get more, but I really didn’t want to take a sick baby out on a blustery day.

I fell asleep, but woke up briefly at 6:30 a.m. when my husband kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear, “Happy Anniversary, honey. I went and got you some more Baby Tylenol. It’s on the dresser. I gotta run or I’m going to be late.” And then he was gone. Bless him, he must have gotten up at 5:30 to pull that off, and he had to work a 12-hour shift.

I had read once that one thing that kills marriages is when husbands and wives stop doing nice little things for each other. By that measure, I guess we’re doing pretty well after all.

Happy (belated) Anniversary, babe—here’s to many more years of April Foolishness.