Attention Shoppers!

I’m a flincher.

A minimum of fifteen times a day, I flinch. If it’s not at my son trying to walk, it’s screaming. If it’s not that, it’s the cats trying to eat the thawing chicken or the driver in his lane that keeps coming too close to mine. Seriously, I flinch. A lot.

When I leave the house with my kid, the flinching is increased by at least threefold. Hopefully, these are things that other moms are tired of saying over and over and over, too.

Next time you go in for a checkup, ask the triage nurse what various random communicable illnesses are going around. I guarantee that you will be answered with the following, and probably more: swine flu, strep throat, rotavirus, stomach flu, tuberculosis and the common cold. Is this to scare you? YES. Why, you ask, would I be such a hateful, mean, scary person? So the person or two that thinks it’s alright to touch babies hands and faces DOESN’T. I don’t know what’s on your hands. Maybe you’re a sneezer with no Kleenex. Maybe you’re not a post bathroom trip hand washer. Heck, maybe your hands are clean as a whistle. I prefer not to play germ roulette. And, to make things worse, my kid has a habit of sticking his hands in his mouth-nose-diaper-toes-and all over the cart, so even I don’t know where his hands have been. Seriously.

At the zoo, there are signs everywhere to indicate that you should not feed the animals. Well, I don’t have all that fence to hang a sign. My kid is only six inches wide and a foot and a half tall. My point? Don’t feed my kid. Not cheetos, not sandwich, not crackers, and not lollipops. I don’t know where your food has been (or your hands. See how this all lines up?)

Moving on, don’t guess genders. There is some universal anomaly that causes almost every person that guesses genders to be DEAD WRONG. Boys can have long hair, and girls can be bald as, well, babies. And it hurts their mommies feelings if you guess wrong. It makes us feel like we can’t produce a kid that looks like they should, and that’s just silly.

For all the old women out there: if you don’t know me from Adam, your age will not help you in your argument for the things I am doing wrong. My child does not walk, and therefore does not need shoes and socks in eighty degree weather. Sandals will suffice, and he’s much more pleasant when he’s not overheating. I don’t care if you don’t like that I’m buying formula, and your snide comments about his lack of hat are not going unnoticed, just ignored. There have been medical advances. Read them.

And last but not least, I have three kids. Two stepkids, and one that I brought into this world. One, two, three. See? I can count them. Which means you don’t need to. I am aware of the current state of the economy, I am aware that my husband is in the Army, and might as well be bringing home magic beans, he’s that underpaid. I am also aware of the cost of healthcare, dentistry, pre and post natal care, and how tired another kid will make me. Here’s a quarter, call the Octo-mom or Kate. They used their girlie areas as clown cars. I just want to make a decision without the woman in line behind me at the grocery store or the guy in the sexual aids aisle weighing in on my decision.

Thank God For Small Favors...

I don't have much in the way of funny lately. The Scoob and I are both pretty sick with a flu bug, and we're just trying to pass time on the couch watching Top Chef and House Hunters reruns. But I got a video of him doing this:

Pretty Mommy, Why Are You In Sweats?

I’m wearing flip flops. And they aren’t wedges, sparkly, or from Banana Republic.

Have you set your coffee cup down? Do you, in the words of the great Mike Myers on SNL, need to “Tawlk amongst yaselves”? Probably not yet, you don’t. But now, I’m going to say something that might prompt you to.

I’m also wearing yoga pants.

Now, you may be thinking that I’m sitting in front of my home computer, which is absolutely true. Earlier, though, I wore them through Target. I wore them through Target with my hair in a ponytail. Not even a cute holder for the ponytail, just a plain elastic band. Which, to be honest, is kind of unfair, because I have really good hair.

And I’m sick of it.

I love being able to do things with my hair. I can curl, straighten, and blow dry with a round brush to my hearts content. However, the only person here to see it is Scoob, and it’s just as easy for him to put American cheese slices into my uncoiffed hair. So I just don’t. The want for the Early Thirties Mom-Bob is creeping its way into my ponytail covered, unhighlighted dome and scaring the heck out of me.

It’s not just the hair, people. Although I have begun to revere yoga in an unhealthy way, count calories until my eyes cross, and am taking diet pills, I just can’t seem to get the change I ache for.

Although I’ve been assured that wanting some serious image change is all part of the early motherhood-life crisis, I can’t help but feel a bit…well, off about it. I’m sitting in a chair at my own pity party, and it’s a bit depressing. I know. You can stop reading if you want, and I will completely understand. It’s just that, well, I feel like a frump, and I don’t know how to break the mom jeans, ponytail head, flip floppy cycle from hell.

How do others break the stay at home mom ho hums? Anyone?

Take THAT, Parents.com!

On the twelve-lane, no speed minimum or limit, rocky and scenic road of raising a baby, the sign most often posted is regarding milestones.

Everyone wants to know about the milestones. The pediatrician, friends and family, people in line behind you at the grocery store…they’re all wildly curious about The Milestones.

I have to tell you, after Scoob sprouted 8 teeth by seven months but didn’t say “mama” until he was ten months, I stopped paying attention to milestones. I quit worrying whether or not he was going to walk, talk, sing, or get a college degree according to the approved timeline. In this house, we follow quite another schedule.

Want to hear about it?

He shared. He picked up his Goldfish cracker, looked at it, put it into my mouth and smiled. Then he opened his mouth for his goldfish cracker. It remains to be seen whether or not he will be keen on the reallocation of things that don’t come a billion to a box.

When he’s not choking down handfuls of crackers, he dances. Oh boy, does this kid dance. To Count Basie, and then to Soulja Boy. (Yes, we are a fairly musically diverse household.) He dances. He dances to my husband playing the guitar. He dances to my ringtones. He dances when I sing. He dances to the music in his head while in the johnny jump up. And (most notably) he dances so furiously to The Blackeyed Peas new song that he ends up hitting his head on the side of the playpen. Hard. This kid channels J Lo and Sebastian Bach simultaneously. The kid is a shimmyin’ and headbangin’ all the live long day.

Then, when he’s not dancing, he high fives. I hold my hand up and say “high five!” and he slaps my hand and squeals with glee. Glee, people. You might hear it and think that Tibet is free, he’s that excited.

He tries to hold conversations. Yesterday, when I went to get him from his nap, I said “Iiiiiit’s MAMA!”, and he said “No. Dada.” I’m so glad we’re back to loving only Dada. It is Dada that got the epidural and expelled the nine pounds of life. I was only there eating cookies.

The icing on the cake? I changed his super skinky diaper and allowed him to finish shakin’ his rump to Mambo Number 5. When I turned to pick him up, his diaper was OUTSIDE his playpen.

I guess he needed his ass unencumbered to give the mambo its proper respects.

Whore, Whore, Whore of the Jungle....

When I get sick, I get kinda whiny. Okay, I get really whiny. I don’t want to do anything, I don’t want to talk to anyone, and I want to hide from the world on my couch, watch Top Chef and Wife Swap reruns with my kid. Unfortunately, today, I was cursed with the dreaded “going shopping for one absolutely necessary item” trip to Wal Mart. To perk up the fact that I had to drive 30 minutes to get to Wally World for diapers (yes, we’ve moved THAT FAR OUT into the sticks), I began to look for a toy for my son. At least to make the trip fun, you know? While perusing the toy aisles, I came across this:

www.amazon.com/Bratz-Wildlife-Doll-%252d-Yasmin/dp/B001PBFJ8G/ref=sr_1_1

Dude, are you kidding me? Now if you’ve read some of my other blogs, you may already know that I have a deep seated hatred for these dolls. I realize that some mothers think this kind of thing is perfectly acceptable. I, however, am not one of these mothers. If I’ve offended you, I’m really sorry, but this is borderline plastic porn.

Seriously, I think this company is still giggling at the “Let’s get Sandra” joke. At least, that’s what I have to assume if I’m going to keep my sanity. If not, this thing is actually geared toward kids my stepdaughter’s age, and that’s just insane. So, in true “Contemplations of an Army Wife” style, it is, in fact, time to make a list of why this is BULLSHIT. I'm so glad we were on the same page.

1. The Bratz are, most emphatically, NOT the “Only dolls with a passion for fashion”. Barbie pretty much started that trend. She had the house, the furs, the evening-sportswear-trendy and homemaker outfit lines. Barbie is GLOBAL, for pete’s sake. Is there a Bratz doll wearing clogs, holding a milk jug and a tulip, standing in front of a paper windmill? Didn’t think so.

2. Yasmin comes with a “collectable spotted leopard”. First, I’m surprised that the overpaid pedophilic bastards coming up with this doll can spell leopard. Second, what the hell makes it collectable? It’s not Christian the Lion, it’s a plastic, housecat lookin’ addition to a boxed set of nonsense. If that thing is a collectable, I have a rescue cat whose retardation came compliments of a Wal Mart bag (ironic, no?). She is also a collectable. Please feel free to e mail me with your bids.

3. She is wearing THIGH HIGH BOOTS. Yep, you got it. If you need a second to look at the picture again, that’s fine. I’ll wait. Back? Good. It’s okay, I’m enraged about it, too. I might even be willing to give the manufacturer the benefit of the doubt, and assume that they are supposed to be knee high boots. I find myself at a loss, however, as this doll as a point A to point B, heel to where-the-sun-don’t-shine situation. There seems to be no indication that these boots are anything other than straight off of Hollywood Boulevard. So there will be no benefit of the doubt, other than I can only assume that this doll will, at some point, be sold with a doll sized bottle of penicillin.

4. Her belt buckle is strategically placed in her crotch, and her other “outfits” are gold and copper lame`, and her earrings are reminiscent of Usher’s “Yeah!” video.

These terrifying plastic skankos are made by the same company that produce Fisher Price kitchens and baby Shrek dolls. I wonder if those fourteen year olds with the pregnancy pact had these in their old toy boxes? Congratulations, MGA, you have helped me decide that I am NEVER having a girl. Anyone have one of those Kama Sutra position to choose the sex of your baby books? If so, please scan and e mail the boy positions.

Holy Crap.

How My Fake Yoga Became A Real Habit

We're being healthy. I hate it.

My husband has an exercise ball. It’s this huge, white, monstrous abomination of a thing, and it taunts me. It just sits there, looking all round and exercisey. I’m pretty sure that it’s working in cahoots with my new DVR, because every time I see something interesting on Fit TV, it involves that damned exercise ball. When this ball isn’t cahooting with Fit TV, it’s cahooting with my husband, pleading with me to do crunches on it while he cheers me on. I don’t believe there is a way that I can stress enough how much those crunches will not be happening.

It’s part of this regime we’ve been hitting ourselves in the foreheads with, including farm fresh veggies, lots of fish, and copious amounts of water. We’ve gone sugar free, lite mayo, olive oil, whole grain. And my husband, he wants it to be this working together thing. I eat tomatoes raw, he decides he likes them. I cut up cucumbers, he adds balsamic vinegar, and proceeds to tell me that I married Wolfgang Puck. I watch Top Chef, he asks me to pan sear monkfish (which kills me, because I am actually a Chef, and he worked at the Waffle House. Plus, I'm pretty sure he doesn't know what monkfish is.) The whole thing is absolute insanity. But I'm trying. This morning, I put yogurt and cantaloupe together, like it was going to create some sort of wondrous concoction equivalent to biscuits and gravy.

It didn’t.

So I need something, right? Some part of this neo-health atrocity that’s all mine. Gotta be tricky, though, if I’m going to outsmart my in shape arch nemesis…I mean, the love of my life. Then it came to me.

Yoga.

Yep, Fit TV has redeemed itself from the exercise ball incident, in the form of Namaste Yoga. The voice on the show is relaxing, I can light candles while I work out, and the twice daily stretching is doing wonders for our love life.
Best of all? Although my husband does his absolute best to mock it to death, he’s absolutely terrified of it. Not only will he not participate in it, but he calls it “Naam-ass-tee”, and goes outside to mow the lawn while I do it. If I space the show out enough, I can get two hours of quiet from one twenty minute episode. This is exactly the kind of thing I’ve been looking for.

Screw you, exercise ball.