Let's just say your child eats a rock. Maybe two.

A small rock. Not even a rock, a pebble at best. What happens?

Let's just say that a very attentive (fictional) mother did her best to retrieve the aforementioned group of (two at most) rocks from the gullet of a very beautiful (fictional) child but came up empty. Is that a problem? An emergency room visit? Or a "wait to see what happens later" kind of situation?

As a former mental health gal, I wouldn't slap this hypothetical situation with a diagnosis of pica: it hasn't happened more than once in a month and no pattern of eating nonfood material has been expressed. Additionally, in this hypothetical scenario, there has been no obvious discomfort or avoidance of regular food. In fact, a perfectly normal hypothetical bowel experience occured quite recently. Hypothetically, I think this child will survive.

Hmm. Just a passing Sunday scenario that wafted through my brain. Thought I would share.

Plus, this hypothetical child has bigger fish to fry: staring down some street performing weirdo in a cheetah suit.



Meow.

Message from the "Land of No"

An Open Letter to Mishamo

Dear Misho,

Okay buddy. We need to talk. You’re losing it and so am I. Tensions are high, misunderstandings amuck. I'm not the good guy anymore. I swear you flipped me off last night as I lovingly lowered you into your crib. My imagination? Or is toddler digital dexterity that advanced? Whatever. Message received.

Here’s the deal - The "House of Mama" was built in the "Land of No." For you my dear friend, I can't be the fun child care worker, the goofy therapist, the kooky aunt. I’m your mother. I throw down the law and have to somehow make it stick. I have a job, and you’re it. Sorry to say, there’s not much flexibility in my job description. I can’t cut corners or let you take your bath totally unattended. I can’t call in good dog Carl to watch you for the afternoon.

Here's my pre-emptive list of apologies for your reading pleasure. If and only if you make it to the age of eighteen without loss of limb, your hair, any of your toe or fingernails, and/or your mind.

1. I apologize for not letting you explore electrical outlets. I know. They’re fun. Who doesn’t want to put something pokey and metal into small holes in the wall.

2. I apologize for getting mad when you hit me. It sucks and I think you’re kind of a a-hole right after impact but I understand. I’m this big-ass lanky lady towering above you monitoring your every move. It’s all you got in your communicative arsenal to tell me to eff-off. Touche.

3. I apologize for the involuntary menu of foods and nibbles. Actually, no. I don’t apologize for this. We’re trying to feed you. Work with us and give it a shot.

4. I apologize for leaving each day for work and then expecting you to embrace my existence when I get home. This one probably hurts me more than you. But I do work from home, so the commute is short and you do get my squishies throughout the day. So. Yeah. I shouldn't feel guilty, right? You still love me, right? I'm not hurting you or forcing you into therapy, right? VALIDATE ME! VALIDATE ME!

5. I apologize for resenting Dada because you like him better. Who the hell does he think he is? He comes home at the end of the daily rituals, swoops in and looks like the fricking hero. Dada should write Mama a letter.

6. I apologize for not allowing you to insert things in the orifices of our dogs. This is non-negotiable. You don’t believe me now, but the consequences would never be good. I must resist.

7. I apologize for wiping your butt with a cold moist toilette. That just sucks. Plain and simple.

Overall, it’s not that I want or should apologize for these so called parental offenses, I just understand why they piss you off.

Freedom will come once we can talk things out and you are able to convince me that you won’t kill yourself at every turn. You'll see. Compared to other moms, I am downright revolutionary. Go ahead, hold a pencil in your teeth while climbing the stairs in no slip socks, scale the couch like Jason Bourne about to pounce, eat many things, not all, but a lot of things right off the floor, stand on table tops and find glasses of something for me to rhyme with floor.

Dude.. I rule. You’ll see. And if you don’t, my time will be spent devising ways to embarrass you until my last dying breath.

Go ahead. Test me.

Love Mama.

Desperate for Disneyland

I've been to Disneyland - The Anaheim Disneyland - at least 25 times. My grandparents took me every year until I was 12. After that, I designed my own pilgrimages accompanied by a variety of friends, hired extras, and those that caved: "okay, shut up. I'll go with you." I think I went by myself once. In summary, I acquired a bad habit of running away to Disneyland (so did Bridget Haverty - she has the best D-Land stories. Ever. Homage to B.)

For the grandparent trips, we traveled in an orange 1977 Westfalia poptop VW camper. Photo in green below:



Can't find an orange version online. I think the government outlawed them.

We never stayed at the Disneyland Hotel or even a Super 8, Econo Lodge or Peter Pan Inn. We camped. In Anaheim. At the local Disney-accessible KOA campground. For your 15.00 per night, you're assigned a slab of pavement to park on and a slightly rusted BBQ pit for your meat. Guests can BBQ between certain hours of the day and you're kindly asked to scrubbed down the pit before you leave. There's free laundry, a 24 hour soda machine, a cordoned off area for sex offenders, and a prison-grade playground for the youth. Children would burst out of vans as they checked in late at night. It was interesting. But at least you could see the Matterhorn.

Anywho, back to the present, I'm itching for D-land. Haven't been there in over 10 years. And I'm not talking about D-World. Stop telling me how great Disney WORLD is - that's directed at you Big D. D-World can suck it. D-World had more cash, a brand, and besides, poor Walt had already cashed in before it opened. D-Land started on nothing but grit determination and a desire to run down orange groves and walnut trees.

Anyway, I want to go back. Misho is ready. The Plan begins: Disneyland 2010.

My Brief Love Affair with the Federal Government

I heart my federal passport agency and there is not one iota of facetiousness in this day five blog entry (or whatever day it is). What a delightful group of people. The task without negotiation this week was to renew my passport which went way sour in early September. Of course I procrastinated and left it unchecked in a variety of to do lists: on my white dry erase board to do list, my tiny black leather book for thoughts and to do lists, my work notebook to do lists, and a post it that got stuck in a variety of places over the last few months, my forehead being the most memorable. The least effective, the bottom of my rain boot.

So I had to do this quickly with a looming trip to Canada next week (what the hell Canada, the driver's license isn't good enough for you anymore? Thought we were neighbors. Jackasses.) and then off to Ethiopia at the end of the month. Thought this would be a field trip into the butt end of hell. But these federal folks were not only charming, funny and average looking, they were also the most sincere people behind glass on the planet! I think I was called "sweetheart" not once but twice, and I'm a sucker for nicknames that make me feel girly and physically tiny. Some construction worker called me "baby girl" and I didn't know whether to slap him or giggle.

Anyway, no wait in line, got served pronto, compliments on my photo, offers to give me the "bible passport" that has over 1000 pages to fill. Lovely folk. Started the day off well and it really just got better.

And, looking down from the federal agency wall, was the most charming federal employee of all.

He made me feel girly.

Haiku Wednesday

A special guest appearance from Big D Woo (the husband). Here's what he sent me via email yesterday. Footnote: Ulysses is our big ass dog who found us in 2007. Or as we call him, the homeless man that came to live with us.

Because only haiku can capture something so furious, so complex, and so short -- a toddler

Gloaming -- calm sets, too
Fisted, stomping, fury-love
Run, Ulysses, run

Running out of coherent steam...

Day three of thirty will be a quickie. Two thirds of the Woo are sick. A little Woo and the female Woo. Mr. M has had the nose runs for the past few days, thought it was on its way out but looks like something a little more sinister has come on board. Back swine! Back! Mr. M's combined naps added up to 5 hours today and he just crashed into a coma a few minutes ago.

I'm close behind. Took two Benadryl to dry up the fluids. Yes. I'm blogging about fluids. It's day three people.

I started careening downward about 6pm or so, making nonsense remarks at open play time at Bubbles Academy (it's a real place), like "Misho, no tongue when kissing that baby." Things that cause other parents to carefully guide their children into an accordian tunnel to hide. Then I came home and started putzing around the house, putting things where they don't belong, shoes in the fridgerator, books on the bookshelf (that rarely happens in this house), clothes on the dogs. When I get sick I act like I'm drunk at a college fiesta; finding lame things hilarious (anyone remember the night I replayed the Logical Song by Supertramp over and over at least a 100 times? Good times), and always end up making out with someone by the end of the evening. I have two dogs and my husband to choose from. All are scared.

Achoo!

Here's a cute pic from the past to get us through the night.
Dog and baby. A love story.

Neil Diamond Fills My Empty Brain

Day 2 of 30. Was hoping for something a bit more meaty to write about. I was so excited to share the minutiae of my work and toddler upkeep duties. How fun, right? Wouldn't you all like to ride the back of the Woo through the ins and outs of this celebrity lifestyle?

As exciting as it sounds, not much happened. All quite lame actually. Maybe blogs don't need a daily commitment, but keeping an open mind, let's see. I'll pull out my bucket of judgement at the end of this informal reality venture.

I could bore with a mundane rundown of the day. Not that there's anything wrong with that but I was hoping to squeeze some juice out of these 30 days of self induced assignment. I could tell you about the well coifed, pin-striped bow tied man on Lake Shore Drive intensely watching and waiting for his two pugs to do their business. Just a bit too intensely. Uncomfortably intense. Or I could tell you about the chicago cop talking on a cell phone who slowly rammed his squad car into the Honda in front of him outside of a Starbucks, got out (still on the phone) checked for damage, left the cars in a bumper kiss and proceeded into the 'bucks for a latte.

I pray to god it was a latte.

Or I could let life be, unwritten, unexamined and link to some real meat. Neil Diamond. The Diamond is the oracle that rocks my world. It's like he's singing right to me. It is now the official theme song for the Woo.



I've become "a grown up girl." Not a woman mind you, a grown up girl.

Just where I should be.