Mama Pajamahood

2006-08-01T09:03:00.000-07:00

The Mama Pajama is currently o-u-t, out. Chances are this site is done as I've been considering a new site - one that will better suit me, my family, my delusions and rants. Thanks to anyone who has stopped in for a visit. If and when the new site is up and running I will post a link here.

Fodder for the Therapist (Hers, Not Mine)

2006-07-05T13:45:00.000-07:00

The mooing dog folks must have read my haiku. Yesterday we strolled on down to our town's Fourth o' July BBQ festivities and next thing we knew - family portrait.

It's hard to tell from the above but the Mamacita is proudly waiving her mooing dog fan. So proudly in fact that moments later an official looking photog-type bearing a non-instant camera of great proportion swooped in to snap a photo of her alone. I'm pretty sure she's their new mascot. Moo.

On the other hand, just one day earlier found this very same Mamacita in a not so much with the pride state of mind. Clearly she does not connect the receipt of her very first passport with her newfound jet set status. After many attempts (including one we were sure would work except that, oops, the camera was out of film) by our cameraman/postal worker we hit pay dirt.

Theron's official passport picture is a passable if somewhat uptight likeness. However, the shot we liked best, for its artistic quality of course, was this one now prominently displayed on our refrigerator.

I think a couple of international shopping adventures will rectify this case of obvious torture.

Explaining the Lethargy, a Haiku

2006-06-29T14:24:00.000-07:00

tears for mooing dog

hungry all the damn day long

hooray PMS

Too Much 'People', People

2006-06-15T17:28:00.000-07:00

Apparently I've been reading too many trashy tabloids.

Today I bought a new pair of sunglasses because the Mamacita had 'misplaced' yet another pair. The one pair I could locate had been stretched and chewed to such a state that the arms extend outward at an approximately 120 degree angle. Maybe Dumbo could keep them on his head.

Not wanting to spend too much on the Mamacita's newest Stretch Armstrong substitute I went to my favorite discount store and, after trying on a few pairs, found the ones. Normally, I have a pretty strong aesthetic and while I'm not saying it's the chicest of the chic or the coolest of the cool, it is me.

At home, I presented each of my purchases to Geoff for his admiration.

New wallet. Love it.
New skirt. Cool.
New sunglasses....Uh, helloooo...new sunglasses....
Ewww - I hate those! They're so gay. (And no, he did not at all mean homosexual. And yes, he totally sounded like a 16-year-old Valley Girl while saying this.)

He then proceeded to show me this and this and this. Holy insipid celebrity styles! Looks like duct tape and Dumbo glasses for me.

Why I Majored in English Lit

2006-06-09T14:33:00.000-07:00

Delinquent again.

I blame the Colorado Real Estate Commission. They've stolen my sense of humor and replaced it with mind numbing facts.

For instance, I can now prorate for taxes paid in arrears like an accountant on Coke (beverage or otherwise). I can identify the negotiable terms of a Contract to Buy and Sell Real Estate from sixty paces. I am also able, without hesitation, to define for you a property lien and suggest to you many ways by which you can clear those dirty buggers and render your Title squeaky clean and cloudless.

Cloudless. I'll give you cloudless. Cloudless is the sunny-damn-skies waiting on the other side of next Thursday when I swap my financial calculator for a radio flyer and a certain blue-eyed co-pilot.

That's cloudless Mama mind.

Mistaken Identity

2006-05-27T19:07:00.000-07:00

It has been a long week marked by my first foray into an all-day, every day classroom since...well, since high school, people. Also, a week marked by the Mamacita's second illness (cold/ear infection). Not stellar. But there was this one thing...

(Day Two of Intensive Real Estate Seminar) A woman from class stops me in the bathroom. 'You know that guy sitting next to you,' she asks.

Mmmhmm.

'Well, I'm very astute about this sort of thing and I think he has a crush on you. He kept looking over at you yesterday and then today he sat by you.'

Ok, then. The guy in question is a newbie college grad who looks about fifteen of his presumptive twenty-two years. He's good looking in a young, rob-the-cradle-and-pay-with- your-soul kind of way. Also, very East Coast. Very metrosexual. Anyway, he could be ZZ Top on a Harley for all I care. My post-pregnancy self loves her a little unexpected admiration once in a blue moon.

Never mind that the informant in question hardly qualifies as astute - by the measure of a classroom anyway. We're talking crushes here. That's an entirely different layer of insight. I'm willing to give the benefit of the doubt.

Feeling a little puffy in the ego department I came home and relayed this tidbit to Geoff. 'You're his Mrs. Robinson,' he said. I can't discern which was more annoying, his absolute indifference about the purported crush or his comparison of me to Anne Bancroft.

Anne. F*cking. Bancroft.

What, am I aged? Surely Ms. B was far beyond my years when she played the role of the quintessential older woman. So I do the research. Cue the immediate ego deflation. Anne Banrcroft was thirty-six as Mrs. Robinson. I'm thirty-four.

Assume Astute is right. I'm not this kid's peer, I'm practically his Oedipal complex! I. Am. The. Older. Woman.

What fun is being the object of affection if it makes you feel ancient? I should take it a like a woman but apparently I am of stunted emotional growth. If only the body had followed suit.

Koo-Koo-Ka-Choo.

Cake-A-Palooza

2006-05-21T07:22:00.000-07:00

File this party under 'C' for chocolatey good.

Open Letter to My Toddler

2006-05-19T15:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Theron,

I should start with congratulations. You survived your parents for an entire year - it's all uphill from here. When I say, "It's been one helluva (EARMUFFS!) year," I mean it. And I mean it in a way that only first time Mamas and Daddies will understand.

Stumbling through your infancy was by far the most confusing, scary and exhausting thing I've ever done, cliche' notwithstanding. But as the cliche' goes on to say, I wouldn't trade this last year for anything. Nada. It's true. A lifetime supply of designer hoofcovers doesn't even scratch the surface of my interest.

Because meeting you - you, my Bearsy, Bearsalita, Mamacita, Little Mama, Theron Harper ball of squeezable, lickable, sniffable goodness is pretty much more than I can handle. It's been that good.

We got off to a bit of a rough start what with the 20-odd hours of labor (Mommy), the strep throat (Daddy), the mastitis (Mommy) and the dry socket (Daddy - god I really hope you got my teeth) but we got our groove on somewhere along the line and you were a trooper throughout. Still are.

There are too many things about you, things you do that I love, to list. But since you'll have forgotten a lot about the you of now by the time you can read this, I'll at least give you some highlights.

I love that you when you're ready to sleep you, with much purpose, pull the blanket over your head. Maybe we're watching your ceiling mobile or I'm giving you kisses with your stuffed Shamu but all of a sudden it just hits you, the tiredness I mean, and without warning you fling the cover over your eyes and it's good night Mama. Lights out.

I love that despite what all the books say you got your upper-right incisor before the upper middle one so that it looked like you had a fang for awhile and now, it's happening on the upper left side as well.

I love that your first word was 'Scout' as we predicted and that because you can't say 'kitty, kitty, kitty' you point out Ming by giving three short exhalation breaths a la Lamaze.

I love that after only three weeks at your Montessori school you entertain your teachers by greeting all adults with a Fonzie-esque (I'll be happy to explain that reference), 'Heeeyyyy'.

I love that you cackle maniacally at people just to make them laugh and when they do you get the giggles for real and then a full-on laugh riot ensues; that even though you're physically ready to walk you aren't quite ready to commit intellectually so instead you crab-walk all over the house, butt high in the air; that often at the dinner table you break into long babbling diatribes, gesturing wildly like a mini JFK (I hope you get that reference on your own).

There's a lot to love.

Today is your birthday. For the record, we started off at your 1-year doctor's visit (sorry...we're tied-up for the next 4 weeks and they wouldn't let me schedule it before your birthday...I tried...really). Afterward we met Daddy at the bank and turned all of your piggy bank money into fat cash for the Savings Account. Almost $400 - that's one porky porcine! Then we met Aunt Clutch, Uncle Will and Alice for lunch, wrapping up the day at home.

Your party is tomorrow. All the Colorado grandparents will be in attendance as well as Auntie & Unckie. There will be cake. Chocolate cake. Not homemade, but then you already knew that, didn't you? I'm guessing our requests for college fund money in lieu of gifts (hey, you're one - a paper bag is fun for you) will be soundly ignored and you'll be buried in loot by day's end.

I worry about that kind of stuff - about consumerism and good nutrition and steering you toward creative play and away from gimmicky bells and whistles. I know I'll probably push too hard toward those ends. Let me apologize now for the first time though surely not for anywhere close to the last. For whatever it's worth, know that the motivating factor is not to make you into something but to keep your options open.

All I want for you is confidence and happiness and knowledge of self. I promise you, whatever decisions I've made in the time that's filled the space between me writing this and you reading it were made with you in mind. Your happiness in mind. Your health in mind. Your security. Because everything is about you now and for me, and for Daddy, it always will be.

Love, Your Mommy

We Got Spirit! What?

2006-05-13T10:34:00.000-07:00

It seems we've got the Spirit at our house today. First, Jehovah sent some witnesses over and interrupted the Mamacita's nap. Then I learned all about the intrinsic superiority bestowed upon short people by the gravity wielding Flying Spaghetti Monster - thanks, Imperfect Mommy for the suggestion.

All that divine intervention got me to thinking about my own mortal soul so I stopped over at Belief O' Matic to test out their religious beliefs quiz. Take the time to answer and prioritize 20 questions and the Belief O' Matic presents you with a list of religions, in descending order, that exemplify your beliefs. Heathens and disciples alike might find their results interesting.

For the record, my top three:

1. Universalist Unitarian
2. Liberal Quaker
3. Theravada Buddhism

Now if I could only internalize all of that peace, love and understanding.

Word to the Mother

2006-05-10T15:23:00.000-07:00

My fancy pantsy computer savvy Gramma Emailed me today...with attachments. The climbing fool is none other than my very own mama.

I couldn't be happier to possess such incriminating evidence - photos of my TYPE-A, professional bulldozer of a mother up to her tiny tow-head in mischief. Do you see her balancing on that rocking horse? I'm lucky to be here at all!

I'm guessing the Mamacita's recent attempt to scale all three stair risers to our loft doesn't seem so death-defying suddenly. Put down the phone, Mom. Stop calling Gramma to report my delinquincies as a parent because she sho' nuff has me beat.

Happy Mama's Day, Grankle! Guess I have to tell you about the blog now. (Maybe I'll let Nise do it.)

Real Families' Values

2006-05-08T11:16:00.001-07:00

As you may know, the state of middle and lower income families in this country is abysmal. Single and two-parent families are struggling to pay for health care and basic living expenses, forcing many, who would otherwise stay home, back to the workforce and their kids into childcare. Or maybe you don't know because apparently these issues aren't sexy enough to catch the indifferent eye of our national media. Nebulous propaganda about 'Family Values' on the other hand, now that's news worthy.

Well the citizens' media strikes again. MomsRising.org! is a grassroots organization using the internet to connect people, educate on issues and bring real family concerns to the forefront of the public conscience. Of course there's more to it than that but see for yourself. Check out the site for their detailed agenda, current events, suggestions for getting involved and story posts from families who have lived it all.

After getting up to speed, a bonus! Do your Mom's Day shopping and support Moms Rising's efforts in one fell swoop. Hint, hint honey - raglan, size small.

Because I'm Sure They're Still Idiots

2006-05-07T11:49:00.000-07:00

A few years ago my pal Nise went to Italy with an ex-boyfriend-revisited, his sister and a friend of said sister. Now she should have known better having had her fill of the Ex (hence, Ex) and the sister before. To illustrate I'll just say, imagine a trip to beautiful, historic Savannah. That's just what Nise had to do while in Savannah because the siblings-from-hell insisted on spending their time in a sports bar watching football. Eventually she left them there, sucking down light domestic beers and chicken wings at an equal pace, while she explored the city solo.

Italy was no better. Worse even because the sister took advantage of her brother's and Nise's tentative romantic state by making snide comments about everything from politics to touring suggestions to clothes. One morning Nise, who has always been enviably chic, met her companions wearing an orange pullover and purple scarf.

The sister: Did you put those colors together on purpose?
Nise (if only in her mind): Can I borrow your Bass Weejun? I'd like to shove it up your ass.

After returning home, and making the Ex an Ex once more, Nise e-mailed some trip pics to me. One file caught my attention immediately with its catchy title, 'Smart Car and Idiots on Parade.' Naturally the photo depicted a tiny Euromobile dwarfed by the puffy American siblings.

I've always loved Nise's tales from her Italian ordeal and still laugh, years later, about the 'Idiots on Parade.' So yesterday, when dressing the Mamacita, I made my sartorial decision as a gesture of solidarity to my friend.

Cincin, Nisey!

Shout Out to the Founding Fathers

2006-05-05T10:45:00.000-07:00

Although I've always admired political activism I've shied away from our local fray because, to my great consternation, we live in a hot bed of radical Republicanism. El Paso county has more than double the number of registered Republicans than Dems and is home to Focus on the Family, Betty Beedy and the Ronald Reagan Highway. I'm not talking madcap fiscal conservatives. We got us the Religious Right(!) - those zany purveyors of moral superiority. Engaging with these folks holds the same allure as say, hunting with Dick Cheney and so I lay low.

However, in attempting to put together a small development project in town, Geoff and I find ourselves navigating layers of beaurocracy a la the Planning Commission and the Trails and Open Space Board and the Town Council. We decided that our only tactical advantage comes from tapping into the grassroots activism that Manitou is known for and so, with our partners, we hosted a community meeting last night.

Due to inclement weather our on-site barbecue moved into our dining room while the father of one of our partners grilled up hamburgers and dogs on our deck and another partner, Robin, walked the room offering platters of food. It was exactly how I'd imagined such a meeting. People actually came and they poured over our diagrams and renderings; they ate and they opined and they caught up with their neighbors. One gentleman was so enthusiastic at the prospect of a free burger that he had nearly drenched his patty with the Mamacita's green beans and rice before I could point out that it was alas, not Grey Poupon. I can understand his confusion.

All in all the majority of attendees threw their support behind our project. But I was just as happy to see the dissenters because at least they took the time to come out and share their thoughts. There were no histironics, just civil, thoughtful discussion and I couldn't shed the utopian sense that this, this is how things ought to work. If we could routinely tackle community issues from the ground up, with a sense of civic duty, eventually we could tackle state, national and even global issues in this same way. It's an overly simplistic and naive view, I know. But it was nice while it lasted.

Therapy

2006-05-03T11:40:00.000-07:00

It's been over a week since I've posted and while that's not a particularly big deal to most, considering my readership consists of maybe 4 people, it is to me for a couple of reasons. Or maybe it's just one big reason with a number of parts.

I like to pretend that I have no idea why I started blogging but that's a lie. I do it because being at home with a baby is really hard for me, PARALYZINGLY HARD at least some days which has a lot to do with old demons, depressive tendencies and a propensity to obsess. Blogging gives me an outlet and in writing I at least gain perspective and at best I find humor in my frustrations and insecurities.

The rub, as evidenced by my week of non-posts, is that the demons often preclude the writing and the perspective eludes me. The obsession last week was the Mamacita starting Montessori school yesterday. So great was my fixation that I couldn't stop thinking about, talking about and planning for it. It took absolute precedence and for all I cared the rest of my life had stopped because THERON. IS. STARTING. SCHOOL. AND. IT'S. ALL. MY. FAULT.

Like I said, being at home with a baby has proven freakishly difficult for me so I decided to do some part-time work. My pre-baby career was in nonprofit management and since part-time works exists only theoretically in the nonprofit sector, I opted to get my real estate license and join the swelling ranks of house hawkers. I actually love checking out our local real estate scene and helping friends with that end of things so blah, blah, blah the upshot is that I can get my license in 4 short weeks if I go to classes full-time, Monday through Friday. Hence, THERON. IS. STARTING. SCHOOL. AND. IT'S. MY. FAULT.

She's not going to school every day. Actually just two times a week with Sunshiny Landon picking up the slack at our house. But she's two weeks shy of the 1-year mark and no one except Geoff, Sunshine and me has really taken care of her and always it has been in our home. Now we were talking strangers and other kids and a foreign environment and good god there were about 8 million details to occupy my frenetic, tunnel visioned mind.

If I had bothered to blog last week when these details were nesting in every crevice of my brain, I might have lit upon a few comforting shards of reality. One, this is a very temporary necessity and if things don't work out we can withdraw her in one month. Two, the Mamacita is at a point where she really enjoys being around other kids because they fascinate her. Guess what they have at school? Other kids! Three, I did a lot of research and spoke with/visited a lot of places before deciding on THIS AWESOME SCHOOL with its highly qualified staff and super low teacher-to-student ratio. These people know how to take care of kids. Even mine.

Unfortunately these revelations eluded me until the inevitable occurred. The day came and went and everything was fine. There were a few tears when I left, after hanging out for an hour and a half, and she was pretty much worn out last night but truly? EVERYTHING. WAS. FINE. She ate, she napped, when I arrived to pick her up she was playing contentedly and when she saw me she did not scurry frantically toward me. In this case only, I count that as a good thing.

So now that my mind has cleared and I've written the post I should have last week, maybe I can get back to blogging in earnest. Or in humor, you know whatever. And maybe next time I will utilize this tool to pacify the unfathomable, chaotic mind I like to call mine.

Why I'd Marry Him All Over Again

2006-04-24T18:23:00.000-07:00

Because he had to go to a town council meeting tonight and do big boy things and because this is Game Two of the Avs' playoff series with the EVIL. DALLAS. STARS. Geoff disappeared earlier tonight, ostensibly to set the TiVo.

A bit later he came back. Rather conversationally he said, Honey, this thing with Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards is really heating up.

Uh huh, uh huh...interesting. How, exactly?

(With increasing rapidity and excitement)
Well, you know she filed a restraining order last week and said Charlie was threatening her and everything? Well, NOW it turns out that there are pictures of her kissing Richie Sambora from Bon Jovi...I mean you realize he's the not-yet-ex-husband of HER not-yet-exhusband's ex-costar. AND, she and Heather [uh, Locklear, just in case you're not following] are supposed to be like best friends.

Whoa. My little Hollywood Insider. Now it really didn't have to get any better than that - my husband's shameless weakness for celebrity gossip - but it did. SO. MUCH. BETTER.

Of course, I had to go online to confirm the story and apparently it's all true. Charlie Sheen's summation of the Richards/Sambora love sandwich?

And I quote, Those two give love a bad name. Shot through the heart, Charlie. Shot through the heart.

Chopped Liver

2006-04-18T14:04:00.000-07:00

My baby girl loves blondes. Female ones, of the longhaired variety. One glimpse and she's riveted. Awe struck. Devoted. She seduces them into picking her up, all pudgy flailing arms and big blue eyes, then commences to stroke their long locks while gazing at them in utter adoration.

It started with Nanny-You-Are-My-Sunshine-Landon. She's beautiful in that way only 20-year-olds can be and she used her perfectly highlighted mane to curry favor with my little girl from day one. The prospect of running her sticky little fingers through that golden goodness compels unprotested naps and lick-the-platter-clean lunches from the Mamacita.

Next came Yarka (see previous reference to Scandanavian trollop), our swimming instructor. The salty elixir all around (same previous reference) is quickly forgotten as Theron holds her breath and plunges underwater toward her flaxen idol. For Yarka, I think the kid could execute a perfect backstroke.

Yesterday a complete BLONDE stranger caught the Mamacita's eye as we passed her in a parking lot. Theron directed a friendly shriek in the direction of the Fair-Haired and when that failed to get the woman's attention she offered mournful wails while wriggling maniacally in my arms. If only she could beam herself at will. Blondes all over the city would be terrorized by the magically materializing armful o' baby.

Now me, I'm all dark locks and short styles. Not a particularly effective look for coaxing Theron's good will. When the time comes for potty training there is only one solution. I'm buying a wig.

The Name Game

2006-04-12T13:40:00.000-07:00

When I was pregnant Geoff and I thought a lot about what Theron would call each of her grandparents. Both sets of our parents are divorced and all but my mother-in-law are remarried so it's more complicated than it sounds. Not only did we have to think up seven terms of endearment, but then each must be reviewed and approved by the appropriate grandparental unit. Except for my dad and step-mom, this was the first grandchild for everyone so the only givens were Packy and Nana. Packy was supposed to be Pappy but grandbaby number one tweaked it through the power of mispronunciation and a Packy was charmed into existence.

It occured to us early on that my mother-in-law had also granted us a freebie of sorts. Her name is Mimi and everyone, my husband included, calls her this. It fits too. She is 'Mimi the Mahjong Maven' queen of the patio home community. When we asked if she'd mind her granddaughter calling her Mimi, she looked confused. What else would she call me? I told her we'd been considering Granny then had to think quick when she flicked her lit cigarette at my head.

My husband's father and step-mother ended up being equally simple. The most traditional of the lot, Grandpa and Grandma seemed the obvious choices. They must have thought so too because as I recall we never actually discussed it with them but when they visited Theron about a week after she was born they referred to each other that way all afternoon. Grandma, why don't you go inside and get Grandpa a whiskey. Grandpa, Grandma's going out front to smoke a cigarette. VIRGINIA. ULTRA. SLIMs. See? Traditional.

Things went smooth like that all the way through my step-dad, a self-proclaimed PaPaw, until we slammed into the 5 foot brick wall that is my mother. Having been a very young mother herself, Madre was witheringly unimpressed by the idea of being identified as anyone's grandmother. She couched this in a wish to have the baby pick the name - an 'organic' process. I reminded her that babies aren't born with speech but she was steadfast. I told her a cautionary tale about my friend Deb whose organic grandson-given name is Grankle. GRANKLE. A combo of Granny and Wrinkle from the sound! Still unwavering.

So we did what any lucid parents-to-be would do. We decided to overrule her. I thought if we picked something quirky, not readily recognizable as a grandma's name, that she would be pacified. After some kicking about we settled on Nani. At the time I thought it sounded European even though I pretty much made it up from Nana. Turns out it really is a term for grandmothers in the Hindi culture. MATERNAL GRANDMOTHERS.

The woman poo-poo'ed us. Rolled her eyes, shook her pixie head and retorted in a negatively guttural way. Use your words, Nani. She decided she would pick the name if we wouldn't wait for the baby to do it.

Meanwhile, Geoff and I amused ourselves throughout the rest of my pregnancy referring to my mom as Nani - in and out of her presence. By the time Theron was born it was impossible for us to stop. PaPaw had been calling her Ma for eons so he stuck to that. She ignored us all and began referring to herself as Grandma but I could tell her heart wasn't in it.

At Christmas I labeled half of her gifts to Grandma and half to Nani. She signed her gifts to Theron as Grandmaw. About a month later she started in with GrandmaMaw, an attempt at solidarity with PaPaw. Now she did marry him, but this IS a man who wears short plaid ties with striped short-sleeved, button-down shirts. How united did she want to be?

Last week Mom called while Theron and I were running errands. She left a message about having dinner with her and PaPaw that weekend and asked me to call. Then, almost like an afterthought except I know better, she said this. Oh, I've been thinking and I think I want Theron to call me Grandmere.

I dialed her number. She answered.

Grankle it is then.

Margaret Atwood, Hello!

2006-04-06T13:24:00.000-07:00

Sometimes being a Mama saturates my consciousness to such a depth that I start to feel as though I'm no longer, in any way, the person I was before my daughter was born. When that happens I like to waste an afternoon of childcare, originally earmarked for errands and responsibilities, on things I used to take for granted. Moseying about a bookstore for an hour or so is near the top of this list.

My favorite haunt is a used bookstore about 2 miles from our house and conveniently located in the same shopping plaza as our grocery store. At least after I mosey, browse and buy I can complete one of my original objectives. Plus the store, with it's long, tall, crammed shelves and tight, tight aisles is a place that guarantees at least one Eureka! moment per visit. Maybe I'll stumble onto an author who I'd wanted to read but then forgot because I NEVER write things down when I should. Or maybe a clever title or cover will catch my eye and I'll take a chance on a book because it's two-fifty and offers a lot more promise than a tall soy latte (which BTW costs $3.01 at our local Wal-Mart of Coffee).

Today I was in search of anything by Richard Russo as I just finished 'The Risk Pool' which sent me to be bed sobbing last night because I know those characters. KNOW THEM. No Russo on the shelves today. But as I scanned I stumbled upon this and this and if previous books by E.G. are any indication then that's $5.50 well spent. Finding the E.G. put me in mind to see if they had anything written by...Oh, what's her name? Come on - I KNOW her name. She wrote 'Blind Assassin' and I LOVED that book.

Mommy Moment.

So I had to ask the cool long-haired clerk (who once told me he liked my leather bag and yes, I am a sucker for ANY flattery) who wrote 'Blind Assassin' and 'Handmaid's Tale'. I felt better when he couldn't remember either and had to consult his giant chronological publishers' tomes that list every book published in a given year. While he searched I perused the books on a rotary display rack near the checkout counter.

There's Frey's 'A Million Little Pieces'. A memoir! Snicker, snicker. Anyway, that's been too overdone to even think about.

'A Map of the World'? Hmmm...think we already have that at home.

Not that, or that...NOT that. Dum-de-dum...EUREKA!

Suddenly I spied the name Dow Mossman and something clicked...Yes, I remember. There was THIS on NPR and I really, really wanted to read that book but of course I didn't write down the title or the author and might have gone on in perpetuity not remembering except that I went to Bookman and had that magical moment once again.

When the cool clerk finally shouted out, 'Margaret Atwood!', I felt like smacking myself in the head ala those old V8 commercials. Hello. Earth to Mama.

I would have skipped the Atwood altogether except, OF COURSE, Bookman was having a Buy 3 Get 1 Free special so I picked up this as my freebie. Four books in hand I headed onward to buy the groceries, diving right back into real life and responsibility and nutritional awareness. But damn if buying those books didn't bring me right back to myself. Now, if I can only milk some time out of the days to read them.

Pass the Salt

2006-04-04T18:43:00.000-07:00

Good day for the Mamacita. Good, good day. Because today we returned to our 'Mommy and Me' swimming class and what does that mean? Salt water! All you can drink.

Before I give the impression that Theron's love of the pool is based solely on flavor, let me be clear. She kicks. She splashes. She belly laughs rather maniacally as our instructor, Yarka (long-legged, blond, Scandanavian trollop!) pulls her through the water, the Mamacita's arms outstretched. And then? She skims for algae.

Well, of course I'm kidding. A country club pool certainly has no algae. But if it did we could skip lunch on swim days. Like her distant mammalian cousins, the baleen whales who troll the oceans mouths agape letting the maritime flora and fauna simply swim to their whale-dinner demise, so too does the Mamacita tackle the wild waters of the CCoC swimming pool.

In a members-friendly effort to alleviate deteriorating swimsuits, chapped skin and green-tinged hair the management of CCoC has chosen a non-chlorinated cleaning agent for the aquatics facilities. These alternatives are saline based and thus, a salt junkie is born.

I can't blame her having myself always preferred salty to sweet. Pass on the chocolate but hand me those french fries. For the Mamacita the sentiment is the same but with a twist. As one can imagine, this penchant for savoring salty goodness poses a problem when learning to swim. How do we convince her that keeping her mouth shut underwater is preferable to lungs-be-damned chugging?

So far she's proved formidable. Sitting on the edge of the pool she closes her mouth as I give a verbal count down. One...two...THREE! Then in she goes, my hands guiding her and as her head slips underwater I think this time, this time she's figured it out. But as I pull her back to me her excited eyes break the surface and I can see glee -- followed by her full, open mouth with which I swear she is gargling the lukewarm concoction as a sommelier would a fine Pinot.

We're going to a beach in Mexico in a few months. One taste and I imagine the Mamacita will see the ocean as one big dirty martini - or the toddler's equivalent thereof. Apologies in advance to those whose trips will follow our own. The water levels are sure to be low.

Ode to Click and Clack

2006-04-01T19:38:00.000-07:00

Tom and Ray Magliozzi are gods in our house. I don't think we could get through a Saturday morning without Michael & Douglas' espresso and Car Talk. Plus, as long as my husband insists on taking cars in trade for legal services, we NEED them.

This week? Auto-themed haiku. Have I mentioned we LOVE these guys?

Competing With a Legacy

2006-03-30T20:09:00.000-07:00

There is a scene in the movie Baby Boom that I've always found particularly absurd. Diane Keaton has taken her recently inherited toddler to a Manhattan park and while the little one busies herself in the sand box, Keaton sits back with a group of women who turn out to be quintessential neurotic Upper East Side moms.

The members of this brain trust hover about one mom who is nearly hysterical as she shares the devastating news that her son, who at that moment can be seen in the perimeter of the shot putting sand up his nose, did not get into the exclusive preschool they'd been gunning for. When Keaton innocently questions the import of said rejection she is accosted by all manner of warnings, the upshot being that if the kid doesn't get into the right preschool then you can forget the private primary and secondary schools which CLEARLY negates any possibility of the Ivy League. Duh, Diane!

Silly movie. Funny scene. I love hyperbolic humor.

In the far recesses of my mind I could acknowledge women like this do indeed exist. But not in my world. I am far too hip, funky, counter-culture for that nonsense.

*****
At 10 months the Mamacita is on the waiting list for no less than 4 regional preschools. It could be more as these placements were made very early post-pregnancy when the hysteria of new motherhood pulsed through my veins, guiding my actions in the absence of any sentience. BABY. PRESCHOOL. MUST GO. BEST!

Now that I've actually researched these springboards to my daughter's future there is one that dominates. Oh, Ruth Washburn Cooperative Preschool, you are a beacon of light in an otherwise murky academic future. And you have a waiting list. With a points system.

Let's see...1 point for every month on the waiting list. The Mamacita will have almost 40 POINTS before it's time to tackle the 'Middle 3s'. A shoe-in! But what's this? A legacy program? An 18 Point bonus for siblings of former RWCP students? Six points for kids of alumnae? It's a racket, a set-up. A pint-size con. Not that I'm going to get caught up in any such nonsense.

*****
When I called today to check the Mamacita's status I was told she is two spots shy of a guarantee. Bastard legacies. Might as well take the organic graham crackers right from her mouth. Mark my words, Barbie heads will roll.

Dut, Dut, Dut!

2006-03-28T12:59:00.000-07:00

In order to prevent our daughter from thinking her full name is Theron No!, my husband and I have been heeding the advice of the book writing experts. Since she spends her days exploring every dog hair infested crevice of our house, sticking everything not bolted down into her mouth, and mocking all basic rules of safety, it would be easy to stumble into this apparently all-too-common parental mine field.

Theron, No! Don't eat those quarters, Mama needs a Starbucks.

Theron, No! The dog can lick his own butt.

But Geoff and I? We've been reading and we are employing appropriate counter measures. Case in point. When the Mamacita decides for the 323rd time in a day to munch on dirt from the pot of our Jade plant, I DO NOT run to her shouting, Theron, No! Poison! Rather, I march over to her while calmly, albeit firmly, saying, Dut, dut, dut. There are always three 'duts'. No more. No less. Three is most effective, something we've learned over the years as we've Dut, dut, dutted our donkey into submission.

That they are nonsensical words is a moot point. They convey, in their onomatopoeia way, exactly what we're saying. The other day I voiced a particularly sincere Dut, dut, dut as Theron climbed onto the open dishwasher door and SHE STOPPED IN HER (KNEE) TRACKS. Eureka! I said, Dut, dut, dut, but she heard, No, Theron, sticking fork tines up your nose is not appropriate.

It's so rewarding to see your child's understanding of her world grow and to know that knowledge will ultimately keep her safe.

Earlier today when I walked into the laundry room to find her scarfing the donkey's kibble I didn't panic. Dut, dut, dut, I said and stood back confidently, waiting for her to cave to my authority. Without turning around the Mamacita, with much force, shot back, DUT, DUT, DUT!

Mama, No! Go get yourself some wasabi peas because this bounty is mine.

The Ron

2006-03-26T18:29:00.000-07:00

Long before our daughter's conception, or even the preamble to the discussion during which we considered her conception, my husband and I spent many an evening kicking around possible names for our hypothetical young. In particular I remember a night out at a local Italian joint, peppered mightily by many glasses of red wine, that nearly devolved into mayhem as each of us incredulously received then outright rejected the other's suggestions.

I offered up what I considered to be the perfect mix of quirky and familial, Stella Wade. My husband Geoff snorted derisively. And again. SNORT, SNORT. For his part, Geoff proposed sugary waste like Britney and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Ok, that's a lie but only because I can't even remember the drivel he proffered. Neither can he for that matter - I know because I just asked him. I can't remember. That about sums it up.

A new favorite pastime ensued at our house. Find a category and exhaust ourselves considering any names associated therewith. Our beloved Colorado Avalanche was a repeat category but despite our adoration for the team, neither of us was wooed by the prospects of Sakic or Milan or Foppa. The situation was bleak until one day my husband half-heartedly tendered Theron. More accurately, Theoren (as in, Theoren Fleury) but for the record, it is pronounced Thair-In.

Sure, Theron is a masculine Greek name meaning 'hunter' but we couldn't bear to open up discussions EVER again and so we chose Theron for a boy or a girl and god help us if twins mucked up the works. When I actually got pregnant and we learned a daughter was on the way it was a small but potent relief to know her name was one detail we'd already handled. Sweet. This parenting thing is a breeze.

In hindsight I guffaw at our naiveté. What a quaint notion - we've picked our daughter's name and we love it and oh, singing birds and dancing squirrels. Cut to my baby shower - 8 months and counting in my pregnancy - when my mother-in-law sidled up to me cooing, I've been thinking what WE CAN DO with this name. I later discovered the genesis of this 'we'. Apparently the Friday night Mah Jong Mavens of Colorado Springs find Theron exotic in the way of LaFonda or Shaniqualita. Clearly an antidote was in order!

Yes, we named our beautiful, blue-eyed daughter after a miniature NHL'er whose remaining teeth were spared when he was forced out of the league by 'issues' with alcohol. At least we eschewed the fancy schmancy French-Canadian spelling for the phonetically friendly version. And she can always adopt a nickname like the one my uncle has all picked out for her.

The Ron.

The Ron, with no last name, of course. Like Madonna. Or Prince. Or Eminem. Or Her Royal Highness Goddess of the Universe. Like that. The Ron will strut and she will wupp the butt of any Kaya, Bode or Rain (hey, we live in a town full of unrecovered hippies) who dare laugh at her title. Remember that SHE. IS. A. HUNTER. And she will find you in your tie-dye Garanimals. She will be a king pin in her elementary school and sponsor an invitation only poker tourney on the playground.

Mah Jong is for pussies.

Supreme Idiocy O' the Week

2006-03-23T18:32:00.000-07:00

As seen by my good pal, Nisey...

A Be Green bumper sticker stuck to the big fat ass of a Ford Expedition. I would suspect intentional irony but that may be extending my good will way too far.

But I'm the Glue

2006-03-21T15:40:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I did something I haven't done in more than a year. I took an All-Girls Road Trip. My partners in debauchery picked me up late Friday morning and we were off. Despite the fact that I pretty much leapt into 'Suki', our getaway machine, I began our adventure somewhat ill from a tricky little cocktail of anticipation and guilt topped with a hearty splash of anxiety. Anticipation speaks for itself. Guilt because I was leaving my husband and the Mamacita for TWO FULL DAYS. And Anxiety for Daddy and his FT Mamacita duties lasting, once more with feeling...TWO. FULL. DAYS.

Straight up, my husband is a smart man. In addition to a sweeping knowledge of and appreciation for music, a penchant for informed political debate and a freakishly unexpected talent for home improvement he also possesses a thoroughly exasperating photographic memory. Eidetic memory, he will remind me while reading this. Sure, baby, BUT CAN YOU CARE FOR A 10-MONTH OLD?!

Ten months. TEN MONTHS. That's not just the Mamacita's age but exactly how long I have been creating and yes, PERFECTING, a daily routine for our little girl. There are distinct phases to our days. Meals. Play time. Naps. More Meals. More play time. Successful completion of any given phase relies heavily on the success of previous phases. Why, it's practically a science.

COULD HE RUN THE delicately balanced SHOW?! Plagued by this question I slept maybe 3 hours the night before my departure and I was never 100% sure I would go through with it until I had folded myself into the passenger seat, locked my safety belt into place and heard the opening chords of Tom Petty's 'American Girl' blare forth from Suki's speakers as we exited the driveway.

It's not as if prior to last weekend my husband hadn't handled each and every one of the aforementioned phases, but never all of them. NEVER IN SUCCESSION. How would I prepare him for all potential variations of routine? The unpredictable whims of a pre-toddler? Would he heed the magical powers of the Oat-O's? Did he know how to pack a proper diaper bag? Would he remember the SPF 45? My god, man, NOT THE 30!

My girlfriend commented that it was a 'good sign' that the Little Mama had practically jumped out of my arms to her Daddy's when it was time for us to go. Great sign, I agreed.

HEART. BREAK.

Over a period of 2 days, I called home 4 times. I'd imagined more. I'd imagined calls from my husband fraught with the need for guidance. I'd imagined refusals to nap, to eat or to go down for the night. I'd imagined tears, both hers and his. I'd imagined my carefully crafted homefront fraying at the edges. Mama is the glue, after all.

Instead, I got a peaceful weekend with my best girlfriends. I got two nights of sleep the likes of which I vaguely remembered from the 2nd trimester of my pregnancy. I got to come home to a happy baby who wasn't sleep deprived or suffering from any major wounds. Okay, there were NO wounds.

In the end, the best thing I got? Knowing that not only is Mama NOT the only capable adult around here, but that Daddy is much MORE than a temporary substitute when I'm out. Truth be told, cold and hard as it is, he's an uber-competent replacement who deserves his own private time with the Mamacita so she grows up confident in Daddy's ability to take care of her. After all, he IS the Papa Pajama.

The Donkey Says 'Woof-Woof'!

2006-03-16T14:57:00.000-07:00

Rapidly approaching her 10th month of life, my daughter is still using her few 'words' indiscriminately. True word/person association? Not quite. But it's coming, the day that will be dutifully logged into her baby book as the occasion of her First Word! And so my husband and I wonder what it will be while not so subtley lobbying for our own monikers to take the honor.

'Mama!'
'Daddy!'
'Donkey!?'

A few years ago the husband and I watched 'Shrek' for the first time. Twenty minutes into it as the Donkey pranced about touting the virtues of parfaits, we turned to each other in a fine moment of marital mind meld and simultaneously said, 'Scout!'.

Scout is the name of our Pointer/Great Dane mix who, if only he could verbalize all that energy, would sound just like Shrek's Donkey. He would follow me around the house ALL DAY LONG, as he's always done, yapping non stop. 'Hey, food lady, do you have any of those cookies? I sure like cookies. Everybody loves cookies. Cookies have layers.'

Donkey. Catchy. So much so that a friend we've know for the past couple of years recently said, 'I thought his name was Donkey,' when I called the beast Scout.

I imagine Donkey a rather feasible first word. Nice hard 'd' with no tricky consonant combos to trip up the budding speaker. Two syllables. Easy. Donkey! Given that the Little Mama probably spends more time with said Donkey than anyone else IN THE WORLD it's practically a cosmic certainty that Mama and Daddy can abandon the campaign now. Accept defeat. It's a Donkey's world.

I see us at the local dog park, the Mamacita's eyes darting back and forth as she yells out, 'Donkey! Donkey! Donkey!' at all manner of canine friends. Later she'll go to preschool (assuming she was put on the waiting list early enough for the 'points system' to pay off...but that's a story for another day) and she'll proudly demonstrate her animal knowledge.

The cow goes...Moo!
The cat goes...Meow!
The donkey goes...Woof-Woof!

The dog goes...Dog? Dog? What is this rare and exotic creature of which you speak?

There goes Stanford.

Ummm...It's not a medical condition

2006-03-13T16:25:00.000-07:00

As I sit here writing this (worried about how this will sound and wondering how I caught this blogging bug, anyway), my daughter is unknowingly admiring herself. At 9 months she thinks the full-length mirror that her daddy mounted sideways at baby height is the pinnacle of entertainment. She looks down at her hands and then shows them to the baby in the mirror. She crawls toward her reflected face with a determined look and promptly licks a 'Hello'. I could watch this for hours and oh, I have. I find her as entetaining, fascinating and worthwhile as she does that mirror baby any day. And that, SHE, is enough for me. Literally, I mean. She's our whole enchilada. Numero Uno, Bebe...Solamente Bebe.

Yep, it's the dreaded Only Child Syndrome and to make matters worse in the eyes of a surprising number of people, it's self inflicted. The Mamacita's conception was quite shockingly simple and my pregnancy, minus that extra 40 lbs, a breeze so there's no dread associated with this decision not to have another child. It's simply HOW. WE. WANT. IT. It's nothing new to us - we made the decision to be a one baby family long before we were ready to have that baby. What is surprising though are the reactions from friends, associates, acquaintances, on & on, when they learn the Mamacita is destined to grow up a friendless, bullying, spoiled (gasp!) Only Child.

'You can't have just one,' they say. I beg to differ.

'You should give her a sibling.' I'd like to see you make me - I can throw down, people!

'Only Children have adjustment problems.' Uh, I'm an only child.

That last is greeted by a certain look. It could be one of surprise though often I suspect the wearer is having an 'Aha!' moment, thinking, 'That explains SO MUCH.' But hey, I really do believe I'm fairly well adjusted given the company. I don't go around hording things, mentally labeling it MY STUFF, nor do I verbally accost people at random, telling them how to live their lives. For instance with worldy gems like, You really shouldn't have more than one child, ya know.

Sure there are challenges for only children, just like there are for kids with siblings be there 1 or 20. I can honestly say from EXPERIENCE that there are a lot of perks too. There's the one-on-one time with parents, grandparents, aunts & uncles and the like. Only kids get carte blanche when it's their turn to pick the movie, bedtime book, dinner menu, etc. Plus - No Hand-Me-Downs. Ok, maybe there are still hand-me-downs but they come from cool older kids who do not fall into the dorky/annoying/terrorizing sibling category.

I'm no holier-than-thou eco-breeder hell bent on convincing the world that singular procreation is the only way to go. This decision had nothing to do with anything like that. It's about contentment and freedom and confidence that this is the best choice for our family. Speaking of which, that's what it's about ultimately. CHOICE.