Perfect Post Awards

It's time again for the Perfect Post Awards!

For those of you who missed the Perfect Post Awards last month, here's the deal. MommaK at Petroville and I wanted to give a little recognition to bloggers out there who've written something extra special during the month of March. With that in mind, we launched the Perfect Post Awards.

On the first day of each month, all participants will give out the award to their favorite post written by another blogger during the preceding month. The "winners" will receive a cool Perfect Post button for that month, which they can put on their sites if they wish. MommaK and I will link on each award day to everyone who's giving out a Perfect Post award.

This is a chance to read some of the best posts written each month- and to spread a little warm fuzziness, too. If you'd like to present an award yourself next month, e-mail me or MommaK and we'll send you the latest award button code a few days before April 1st, so that you can participate in next month's awards!

And now without further adieu, my Perfect Post Award goes to....

Jennifer at Italian Trivia for her post, "Always a mother"

Jennifer is an American mom living in Italy. This post is about her experience taking her son to nursery school for the first time, a process known in Italy as "insertion." Parents are expected to go to school with their young children for the first few days (or weeks!) to help them adjust to their new surroundings. Jennifer wrote about this experience so eloquently. I was totally moved. Her post reminded me that some elements of mothering are truly universal.

Sarcomical awarded Miss Domestic

Mom 101 awarded Blog Antagonist

Karen Rani awarded Oh My Gawd Really

Hoss awarded Outside In

Practigal awarded Better Butter

Masked Mom awarded Blogger’s Nightmare

Chatty awarded Friday Night Fish Fry

Raehan awarded CCAP

The Muttering Muse awarded Soul Gardening

LadyBug Crossing awarded I Wasn't Always Like This

MommaK awarded Childs Play x 2

Painting Chef awarded Zube Girl

Nat's the Name awarded Panthergirl

Aka_Monty awarded Redneck Diva

One Lazy Lesbian awarded Much Ado About Sumthin

Wordgirl awarded Rude Cactus

Maryanne awarded Momhood

Lisa of Niihaus awarded Queen Victoria

Liz awarded Forced into Blogging

Heather-Anne awarded Mr. Fabulous

Owlhaven awarded The Cleft of the Rock

Polyester Bride awarded Milkmoney or Not, Here I Come

Angie awarded Glamorouse

Lysie6211 awarded Finding Zen

Soul Gardening awarded V-grrrl

SoapboxSuperstar awarded FickleChick

Meredith awarded Blue Poppy

Carol awarded The Longest Wooing

Please stop by and comment at a few of the award winners' sites if you get a chance and remember to e-mail me if you'd like to give out a Perfect Post Award next month. The more the merrier!

Read this aloud for maximum effect

I would dearly love to write subthig fuddy,
but by head feels like lead ed by doze is ruddy.
Keep your feegers crossed that tuborrow I cad host
Those mudthly awards that we call The Perfect Post.

Googlers Beware!

March simply can't come to a close without another installment of....

Lucinda's Advice Column

You're a sick Googler. And you must pay.

The sound pubic hair makes hitting the floor- Toledo, OH

What the fuck. Next.

Moms pubic hair- Mattoon, IL

Hmm. You've got to be having major trouble finding a girlfriend...

No pubes group- Largo, FL

Must be the X-rated version of the Blue Man Group. I could totally see this show being a hit in Vegas.

The secret lives of suburban stoners- Tampa, FL

Well if I told you about it, it wouldn't be a secret, now would it?

Official narcissist stepmother- Fremont, CA

Okay, okay. It's time I let the cat out of the bag. I recently went through a two-week training course to become the official narcissist stepmother in my neighborhood. You should be receiving your first newsletter, Aren't I Lovely, some time in the next week.

Show directions of Lisa Rinna's haircut- Pigeon, MI

*sigh* Okay. I've been over this before, but I'm here to help, so let's go over it one more freakin' time.

Step 1: This is what you ask for at the salon.

Step 2: This is what happens to your hair (and Lisa's) five minutes after it's been styled. No wonder Lisa has a gun. I'd go after my hairdresser, too.

Step 3: This, my friend, is what you look like the next morning and every morning until the damn things grows out. Trust me on this one.

90-pound suburban housewife- Stamford, CT

As I sit here on my sofa trying to think of what to write about a 90-pound suburban housewife (the words "knuckle sandwich" spring to mind), I just tried to empty the dregs of a bag of potato chips into my mouth and ended up dumping them down the front of my shirt. Seriously. There's something poetic about this situation, but I'm too tired to go there.

Women wearing freakishly small bras- Old Saybrook, CT

Picture of Lindsay Lohan pooping her diaper- Anchorage, AL

There's nothing I could write that would do justice to either of these searchers.

Should I admit affair- London, England

I'll let you guys answer this one.

Blotter fodder

Did you ever wonder what happened to those hippie wannabes you knew from college? You know who I'm talking about- that granola coffee shop worker with the flowing hair and the long boho skirts. The soulful, guitar-playing pot smoker who lived downstairs and took you mud boggin' one weekend. I'm pretty sure that all of these people graduated (or didn't) and moved straight on to Durango, Colorado.

In a town where eight out of ten residents can and should be greeted as "Duuuuuude," it didn't take me long upon my arrival to realize that I simply did not fit in. In Durango, "designer" means Patagonia or The North Face; My cherished Burberry trenchcoat and Gucci slingbacks stuck out like a sore thumb.

Still, I tried to go with the flow. For one thing, I immediately abandoned my lipliner in favor of sheer lip gloss. The effect was decidedly more earthy, I thought, smacking my lips and batting my false eyelashes in the mirror. I also quickly learned the lingo used by the locals.

"Right on, let's do some sick runs today at Purg," I said to the girls on our second morning. They were soooo not impressed.

"Are you feeling okay?" my 15-year-old asked suspiciously.

"Shaaaa, right!" I replied. "No worries, chica!"

She sighed and shook her head.

Okay, I might not have been a Durangatan at heart, but no one there seemed to mind. It was nice to visit a town in which everyone seemed to have come from somewhere else. It was also nice to feel safe. Drinking is high on the list of Durango residents. Murder is not. That said, the local Police Blotter read like a gossip column and we eagerly read it aloud to each other every morning. I couldn't let you guys miss out on this kind of entertainment, so here, for your reading pleasure, are highlights from Durango's Police Blotter, March 20-26th. The editorial comments are my own.

Sunday

Someone, call for back up!

10:42 a.m.--A white and black dog was running toward East Third Avenue from Florida Road.

They weren't 2T by any chance, were they?

11:09 a.m.-- A man found a pile of children's clothes at a hairpin turn next to trailhead in the 1500 block of County Road 310.

Let's just hope they were empty...

2:35 p.m.-- Several beer bottles fell from a truck that pulled up to talk to a man in the 3800 block of Main Avenue.

More proof that men don't like bushes...

10:07 p.m.-- A drunken man was stumbling in traffic and yelling at the bushes in the 500 block of Florida Road.

We looked for a drunken man walking with his arm out of its socket all week long. For some reason, it made us laugh.

1:08 a.m.-- A drunken man was walking with his arm out of its socket at an apartment complex in the 1100 block of Florida Road.

10:47 a.m.-- A seeing-eye dog was walking at Florida Road and East Third Avenue without its owner.

12:53 a.m.-- A 19-year-old man was so drunk he could not walk or function in the 1000 block of Rim Drive.

1:12 a.m.--A man's bike was stolen. Then he found it in the 900 block of East Fourth Avenue, and he took it back.

Monday

Mission Impossible 4?

3:23 a.m.-- An employee at Detox at 3801 Main Ave. said a client used a fingernail clipper to try to unscrew the vent and escape from the Quiet Room.

4:16 a.m.-- The same man at Detox unscrewed the toilet and was moving it around the Quiet Room.

8:43 p.m.-- A caller was suspicious of a car owner switching lights on and off and driving with the back door open. The car was around the back of the J.C. Penney at 800 South Camino del Rio.

Tuesday

Well, he deserves to be arrested by the fashion police, anyway...

5:09 p.m. A man in the 2000 block of Junction Street said he was chased by a man in a purple jacket and black pants.

Wednesday

Okay, when you call to report roosters at 4:51am, you reallllly need to get a life...

4:51 a.m. A man discovered two roosters in his backyard in the 2300 block of Hermosa Avenue.

3:09 p.m. A woman from the 600 block of East Seventh Avenue said her soon-to-be ex-husband continues to harass her with phone calls.

Hey. Someone's gotta do it.

5:35 p.m.-- An intoxicated man was staggering around the 200 block of East Eighth Avenue, near Sonic. He was walking into traffic, telling drivers to slow down.

6:22 p.m.-- A man driving near Eighth Street and Main Avenue was suspected of smoking marijuana. It is a frequent problem.

Thursday

Did we really need to know this?

8:57 a.m.-- A black Lab was eating a dead deer at Ridge Road and County Road 142.

But was he in the accident? Or was he just another drunk pedestrian?

7:29 a.m.-- Several vehicles were involved in an accident in the 1300 block of South Camino del Rio, by Home Depot. Medics were on site and onlookers saw a man limping.

2:36 p.m.--An employee at the Brookside Motel at 2331 Main Ave. said people were putting mattresses under a Spruce Tree South of the hotel in order to sleep there.

Friday

I'm not sure why, but this reminds me of a Scooby Doo episode...

6:26 p.m.-- A man said that a man with gray hair and a plaid shirt threatened him and chased him from the forest at Windsong Lane in the 45000 block of U.S. Highway 160.

How dare he not offer her one?!

11:14 p.m.-- A woman at Whispering Pines in the 34000 block of U.S. Highway 550, north of Durango, said a man in a red Dodge pickup was drinking beer in his vehicle outside her apartment.

Saturday

2:12 p.m.-- Someone dined and dashed, to the tune of $68, at Applebee's, 801 Camino del Rio.

3:22 p.m.-- Four motorcycles were popping wheelies and weaving around traffic in the 28000 block of U.S. Highway 160, near Grandview.

Zorro in Durango?

3:47 p.m.-- Someone took a paintbrush and splashed paint all over a man's shed in the 31000 block of U.S. Highway 550. The vandal wrote the letter 'Z' many times and ripped plants out of the ground.

8:19 p.m.-- The driver of a Toyota Camry, last seen turning into Wal-Mart, was tossing cigarettes out the window.

AWEsome.

2:43 p.m.-- A television exploded in the east 400 block of 10th Street.

But what kind of pie?

7:41 p.m.-- A man who sounded intoxicated said something was on fire in an oven in the 800 block of East 32nd Street. He said he could see the flames. It was a pie.

Is this even possible?

10:13 p.m.-- An 18-year-old man locked himself in a car in a parking lot in the 1100 block of Camino del Rio.

All week long, we tried to make it into the blotter ourselves, staging loud arguments on street corners, flashing our brights at oncoming drivers, even loudly singing "We're from Tennessee" and dancing a hoedown one night as we walked home from dinner. Alas, in this respect, we were shut out by the otherwise friendly locals. There seems to be an unwritten rule that tourists are not allowed admittance into the blotter. Damn.

I discovered today, though, that we weren't the only ones laughing each morning. The Durango Herald actually publishes an annual "Best of the Blotter" every year, complete with illustrations. There's even a link to an aria about the blotter sung by a local music professor. You can see it all for yourself, as well as today's blotter, here. I know I'm going to be checking in regularly just to keep an eye on Durango's exploding TVs, stray dogs and drunks with dislocated shoulders.

Ski wit' me

Are you kidding? Of COURSE that's me!

"Before we start skiing, I've reserved a ski instructor for the three of you," Hubs said in his father-knows-best tone. He had just come back from the ticket office with the news.

The girls immediately began complaining.

"Aww, Dad!"

"We just got here."

"No," I agreed, picturing the instructor in my mind. He would be blonde, tanned and toothy, with a name like Scamp. "We could really use some help. I, in particular, need some serious one-on-one time."

"Exactly," Hubs agreed. "And anyway, it's a done deal. The instructor's coming over now to meet us."

"What's his name?" I asked, trying to suppress a wolvish leer.

"Maggie."

At that moment, a weather-beaten woman in her sixties approached us, squinting through coke-bottle glasses. "Hi, everyone! I'm here for the lesson!"

I eyed her warily. "Hubs, actually I think the girls need more work than I do," I coughed. "Maybe I should just ski with you. I mean, I'd hate to take up the girls' lesson time."

"How long have you been skiing, dear?" Maggie asked, touching my arm.

"Thirteen years," I said quickly.

"She skiied for two days in North Carolina thirteen years ago," Hubs clarified.

"Oh dear," Maggie said. "I'd really like to work with you, hon. I'm afraid you won't be able to get down the mountain."

I started to object, but was struck by a vision of myself cartwheeling down the slopes, my left ski striking the head of a blonde, tanned and toothy snowboarder named Scamp as he frantically tried to avoid me. He would be soooooooo pissed.

"Okay," I glowered. "I'll give it an hour."

Triumphantly, Maggie turned to the girls. "And how long have you been skiing, little ones?" she asked.

"Uh, I skiied the bunny slope last month in Indiana," 15 replied.

"I skiied a day in California three years ago," 12 said quietly.

"Hoo boy," Maggie sighed. "Okay, kids," she said, "Gather round. We're going to start at the very beeeeeginnnnninnnng." I stared. Maggie's voice had suddenly taken on the distinct tone of one addressing a group of five-year-olds. A group of five-year-olds who spoke English as a second language.

Maggie ushered us to the bottom of the bunny slope, where she had us stand in a semi circle around her. "Imagine a grape," she intoned, looking each of us in the eye. "It's a nice fruit. Do you all like grapes?"

"Yes," 15 and I muttered. Characteristically, 12's attention was elsewhere.

"Wellllllll," Maggie continued, looking at me. "What's your favorite color grape?"

"Uh. Purple," I said, irritatedly.

"And yours?" she asked 15.

"Purple."

"And yours?" she said to 12. 12 just looked at her.

"Huh?"

"What's. Your. Favorite. Color?" Maggie said slowly.

"Blue?"

Maggie snorted. "A blue grape? Well, okay, to each her own, I guess, I mean, I've never heard of a blue grape, but..."

"I didn't know you were talking about grapes!" 12 said quickly, but Maggie wasn't listening.

"Girls, imagine you are standing with a grape in the arch of your foot," she said. "That is how you can make sure your weight is evenly distributed while you are skiing."

The rest of the lesson proceeded in the same tedious manner. We were taught to make a pizza slice with our skis until we got the hang of skiing. Or a piece of pie! Whichever we preferred! We were taught to duck walk in our skiis uphill. And then we were made to duck walk up the hill over and over again and ski back down for Maggie's sadistic pleasure. And people, I am here to tell you that duckwalking in skis up a snowy hill is torturous. Every muscle in my body burned as I oh-so-slowly worked my way back up to the starting point.

"You.... bitch. You.... bitch." I gasped with each step after Maggie commanded me to climb the hill for the 15th time in order to prove to her yet again that I could make a right turn. I encouraged 15 to use the same mantra, but she looked at me like I was a total nut.

Finally, Maggie decided she had imparted enough of her food-based ski wisdom on me.

"Very good, Nadine," she said solemnly after I had snaked my way back down the bunny hill. "I think you're ready for a beginner run."

Nadine.

"Uh. My name's not Nadine."

Maggie laughed and pretended like she hadn't heard me.

"The girls are going to need another hour, I think."

I looked at 12, struggling vainly to pull herself up from a contorted position on the ground. I thought of 15, who had just informed me that another ski instructor had tried to revoke her lift pass for her "out-of-control antics."

"I think you're right, um, Ethel," I said. "I'll let my husband work out the details with you."

So that was the low point of our ski week. Yet somehow, we managed to find a little gold dust in the river sludge Maggie had to offer. Because after our lesson and a few bunny slope runs on our own, the girls and I could ski. Pretty damn well. By day three, we were making intermediate runs, something I would've thought was impossible the day we arrived.

And the slopes. Oh god. Purgatory's runs are amazing. The beginner "green" runs were pretty much empty, allowing the girls and I to fine-tune our budding skiing skills without worrying about other beginners crashing into us. And they were still challenging enough for Hubs to enjoy greens as well.

I am raving about Purgatory (the name of the resort was recently changed to erm, Durango Mountain Resort, but who the hell would be impressed if I said, 'Yeah, I just got back from Durango Mountain?'), and I would be raving even if I didn't get four free lift tickets for promising to blog about them (Heh heh. Folks, you take what you can get).

Seriously. Purgatory ended up being a good place for an adult or older kids and teens to learn to ski and a great place for fairly experienced skiiers. And it's right up the road from Durango, one of the coolest towns evah. But more about that tomorrow...

I'm baaaaaaaack...

Number of snowstorms our plane landed in: One.

Number of snowstorms we had to walk through to get to a connector flight: One.


Number of times I thought I was going to die while bouncing through the sky on said connector flight to and from Durango: 2,457

Number of times I forgot to get off the ski lift, jumped three feet and wiped out spectacularly, causing the lift to be momentarily shut down: 1

Number of times I fell while actually skiing: 0

Number of times I flipped the snowmobile I was driving: 1

Number on the clock when we got home from the airport tonight: 12:30am

Number of degrees on the thermostat: 49

Number of hours I can sleep tonight before getting up the girls for school and driving two hours to pick up Baby: 6

Number of memories I'll have from this week for the rest of my life: Countless.

~to be continued~

Guest Post: Kissy Lee

MommaK here again - or as Lucinda likes to call me Kissy Lee.

Do Me a Favor, Don't Ask

Often times, being asked the wrong kind of question is like hearing fingernails on a chalkboard. Even seemingly innocent inquiries tend to be the deepest offenders. We all have our own personal hot buttons with no warning label displayed. Let's get them out in the open, shall we? I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours...

5 Questions I Detest Being Asked

1. You look tired. Are you tired?
2. So….. you don't work?
3. Do you know how fast you're going?
4. Mommy, are we lost?
5. Would you like to come to my Pampered Chef/ Mary Kay/ Southern Living/ Gag me with a Ladle Party??

Your turn: Please leave a list of your 5, so Lucinda & I will know what not to ask. Thank you oh-so-much.

Guest Post: MommaK

Hiya - MommaK here. I've been blogsitting for Lucinda this week and now I'll be doing a few guest posts until she returns on Sunday.

Guest posting is a tricky job because you don't want to piss off the blog's owner by writing something dreadfully boring or by posting a picture of a gigantic penis (which is what I had planned but after reading my blogsitting instructions, I see I am specifically prohibited against penis pictures - DAMN!!)

So I guess I'll just stick with what I'm good at - playing games. This game was played on my blog last summer when a dear friend, Raehan, guest posted for me while I was in San Francisco. I thought I'd give it a go over here since it was loads of fun in Petroville.

The name of the game is Three Degrees of Lucinda and You.

I’m going to name three things I have in common with Lucinda.

1. We are both stepmothers to teens and tweens.
2. We both enjoy tipsy photography, shopping when we're depressed and any chance to get away to the spa.
3. We are both fantastic moms but secret bitches who let our evil side show only when we howl at the full moon. (That's how we met, actually.)

Your Turn:

Name a couple of things you have in common with Lucinda as well as the commenter above you. (This may mean visiting their blog.) I'll be back to play a few times during the day to keep things rolling.

Got it?? Good. Let's play!

Guest Post: Motherhood Uncensored

Let Her Eat Cake or Whatever Else That Will Make Stop Whining

*Note from Lucinda: Kristen's daughter recently tried to climb out of her crib (something I have long had a horror of happening at my house) and broke her leg. Here, Kristen writes about the aftermath.

There’s nothing like 4 hours in the ER on a Friday night and your 20 month old’s broken tibia to make you throw every single parenting rule right out the window. Who cares that you spent precious time and money on creating a consistent, yet warm environment of safety and love for your toddler? All it takes is a large shot of mommy guilt and you have no qualms about burning your collection of baby help books and shoving all the educational toys right down the toilet.

I’m not sure if it’s the constant whining and crying of your toddler or your inner guilt that’s worse. But regardless of who or what is screaming louder, if my child is teething, sick, or in this case, hurt, it takes me about all of 4 minutes to regress back to the awful parent no one wants to believe they could ever possibly be.

Do you want to eat 12 popsicles and watch a constantly looped DVD of the Muppets? Feel free. Just. please. stop. crying.

My stash of plastic bags? Bottle of pennies and buttons? My sewing box? Have at it.
But I beg you. No. more. whining.

Do you feel like tossing around Daddy’s Cartier watch? Or mommy’s diamond cross necklace? No problem. Just consider not saying “stuck” or “out” when referring to your cast for the next 5 minutes.

Even better is the complicated dance we do to get them to go to sleep and stay that way. The 18 months I spent getting my daughter to nap and sleep in her crib, without me having to nurse, rock, sing, or jiggle her, go completely to the wayside if she is not feeling well. The prospect of lost sleep wreaks havoc in the finely tuned system of our sleep regimen.

Would you like me to read that story for the 5th time? Oh, you want both mommy and daddy to rock and sing you to sleep? Sure. Let me just position this sucker hat on my head and I’ll be ready to go.

What did you say dear? You want to sleep in mommy’s bed with daddy’s one butt cheek hanging off the bed and the other one holding on for dear life? Sure honey. Hop in.

Want some milk, water, juice, or coke? Wait, did you say a double layered chocolate cake? Hold on. Let me whip something up for you.

Thankfully, these lapses in our parental judgment don’t last long. Our kids feel better, the teeth come in, and the cast (I hope) comes off. Life returns to normal, and to our surprise, so does our routine. Maybe it’s because the powers that be know that desperate times call for desperate measures - or perhaps it’s that we needed a chance to release our pent up mommy guilt so not to create buildup. Lord knows what years of mommy guilt buildup can make us. May I introduce you to my, um, mother-in-law?

To read more from Kristen, check out her blog, Motherhood Uncensored, here.

Guest Post: Niihaus

It’s all family fun until somebody gets hurt

I’m on vacation and I’m sitting in my hotel room and you’ll never guess what has stalked me all the way to Florida. My nemesis: Family Fun Magazine. That’s just what I want to see while I’m on vacation, a magazine that makes me feel inadequate as a cardholder in the Mother’s Union. On the cover for this month: Cute Clay Crafts and when you’re all Clay Crafted Out you can then begin having Healthy Fun and playing Healthy Games. Now, I’m not anti “Out-of-this-world Birthday Parties” but I just don’t know how someone has that kind of time, what with all the “8 New Board Games You Have To Try”.

The ad page for Advil and the Lunchables I can totally relate to. Those 2 pages make me think this magazine was actually targeted towards Moms Like Me. And, I will admit my family took a mini vacation to Hershey, Pennsylvania because of a write up in Family Fun. But, seriously, the Cute Clay How To for the Roly-Poly Piglet could just turn ugly in my house. The Boy would insist on naming his after his sister and would make confirmations of their relationship all while carefully squishing the clay pig’s nose. The Girl would find herself completely distraught if it didn’t turn out perfectly and when told that we wouldn’t be taking pictures of her during the craft project, would quickly lose interest. The Baby would insist that her pig have a vagina because we are all about anatomical correctness and we are very driven towards female-gender-only currently. So, you see Family Fun, your Cute Clay Craft Bullshit has just made me need that Advil and because I will have given up all hope I will sling a Lunchable on the table because I’m spent.

This magazine is truly out to get me.

I do subscribe though. I can’t help it. I’m a masochist. I like to read about “the others” and how they are raising amazing children in amazingly crafty environments. There’s some sick part of me that likes to know there are people out there creating doll couches from tissue boxes and celebrating the birthdays of each vegetable in their garden. It gives me confirmation that the world is made up of such vastly different people raising different families. So, if my kid shows up with her Vagina Pig please let it sit on your Homemade Doll Couch; at least you’ll know we have a Family Fun subscription in common.”

For more of Lisa's hilarious writing, check out her blog, Niihaus, here.

Guest Post: Mom 101

When Lucinda asked me to guest post while she hits the slopes somewhere fabulous, I accepted without giving it another thought. What an honor to be blogging in the stead of the great Lucinda! Hell, she knows Busy Mom.

Besides, if I can take just one iota of credit for one blogger’s future knee replacement, I know I’ll have done a great public service for the needy orthopedists of the world.

My initial idea was to lend an urban counterpoint to the notion of suburban turmoil. So I scribbled a few notes about coat closets as a commodity, the Upper East Side Bugaboo brigades, and the distinctive smell of urine boiling in the subways that heralds the coming of summer.

I thought about the toothless A-train panhandlers with Vietnam flak jackets and stumps for legs who just break your heart no matter how many times you see them. I considered the drivers who, once within city limits, lose their ability to perceive the dotted lines that divide the lanes. I examined the cost of living here, which is code for, “hm, should I garage my car or feed my family for a month?” And I touched a bit on the agonizing preschool acceptance process which is on par with the lesser known co-op acceptance process—imagine submitting your last ten tax returns and fourteen letters of recommendation, going on three separate interviews, shelling out monthly fees almost equal to your mortgage payments, and still ending up with neighbors whose dogs crap in the hallways.

But just as my urban turmoil list was getting somewhere interesting, I received a surprise visit from the fiercely proud New Yorker within, that alter ego who comes bearing a counterpoint to my own counterpoint. Also some rugelach from that little bakery on Second.

The truth? I love living in the city. Lllllove it. Five L’s worth.

New York moms wear their manic lifestyles like a badge of honor and I’m no exception. The energy, the chaos the cacophony--it fuels and inspires me and I’m hard-pressed to give it up.

Lest you think I’m selfish depriving my daughter of, I don’t know, a lawn--that’s what grandma’s house is for. Here in the city, my daughter is going to grow up experiencing something entirely new every day: a new plant at the green market, a new mural on a gas station wall, a new crazy person with a flowerpot on his head doing a hula dance for quarters.

She is going to take for granted that there are fifty things to do on a rainy Sunday besides go to the mall. She is going to consider it odd that some towns have people with faces all the same color. She is never going to think twice about children who have two mommies or older mommies or mommies who never had a partner at all.

And most importantly, she will dress impeccably.

Am I justifying? No! (yes) Not at all! (a little) Let’s face it, there’s no perfect answer as to where our children should be raised. Every place is right and every place is wrong. But given my choice between the plastic people and the crazy people, I’ll take the crazy people.

For now.

I reserve the right to go plastic any time. There’s a lot to be said for lawns.

To read more from Mom 101, check out her blog here.

Guest Post: Crouching Mommy, Hidden Laundry

Hi! This is cmhl from Crouching Mommy, Hidden Laundry guest posting for Lucinda.

Lucinda, as you well know is off on a fabulous and exotic vacation, and I was thrilled when Lucinda asked if I would like to write a guest post! Anyway, thank you Lucinda, and I hope you are having a fabulous time!

Way back, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and stirrup pants were in style, my future spouse wanted to take a ski trip. (For those who may not know, I fondly refer to my loving spouse as hwmnbn--- he-who-must-not-be-named. It is all part of his charm. Heh). I had skied as a child, but it had been a while for 'ole cmhl. Hwmnbn, however, grew up skiing at a major resort, was a ski instructor for a while, and basically had it going on in the ski world. We had never skied……….. together. Let that sink in for a moment.

As luck would have it, we were going on a trip with about four other couples that we knew; two that I worked with, and two that hwmnbn knew from the military. Never before had there been a more virile or competitive group assembled, glistening with athleticism and good humor.

Then there was me.

Now, in my own defense, allow me to state that I am a fairly athletic person. Especially in about 1992. I went to college on an athletic scholarship, for goodness sake, and excel at basically any racquet sport. I can do a back handspring, I can walk on my hands, but I do, on occasion, trip over my own two feet when walking to the kitchen. Don't ask me, I have no explanation.

At any rate. We were going to the wilds of southern Indiana for our ski trip, Paoli Peaks. I'm sure that Indiana is the first state the pops to mind when you think of premiere ski destinations: Aspen, Sun Valley, Sugar Mountain, Paoli Peaks. It really flows, doesn't it? Off we go to Indiana. Once the trip was planned, I immediately rushed out and bought the cutest little ski outfit ever, but planned on renting my equipment there.

My first sign that there was a possible difference between me and the others occurred when I saw that they all had their own skis, snowboards, and all the other accessories. Hmmmm. And the hats, let's not forget the jester hats with big long tassels. How unusual….

We get up to the rental counter, and they ask my height and weight (eeeeeeek! Can't you see HIM standing right HERE???), and suggest the shorter skis, since I am basically a beginner. Hwmnbn, always the voice of reason, said, "you won't have any fun with those! You'll go so SLOW! Here, get these longer ones!!"

Batting eyelashes "whatever you say, sweetie…"

Off we go. I am staggering along in my boots, thinking that 10 years makes a difference in the "coolness" factor when walking in ski books, since the last time I had done so I was about 12 years old. We reach the lift, and the others take off up on the chairs with great shrieking and laughter. It is just me and hwmnbn, the love of my life, the man of my dreams, the ………………………ass. I look ahead of me, and he is already in line to get on the lift. "come ON cmhl!! Come ON!!!!"

I get clicked into my skis, and make my way over to the lift. Keep in mind, there is not a huge snowpack in southern Indiana; the snow at that time was manmade. And, it wasn't all that cold. Ergo, it was ice. We were skiing on ice.

It is our turn to get on. Hwmnbn glides over to the correct location, and seamlessly gets on the lift chair.

It's my turn.

My God, my feet won't move.

Everyone is yelling.

Hwmnbn'ed eyes are bugging out of his head. "baby, get ON! What are you DOING?"

What AM I doing?

Why won't my feet move?

OK, finally I'm over there, but it is ice. They can't hold the lift, I see hwmnbn going on up the lift, looking back at me, slightly pissed, slightly bewildered, slightly,,,, amused? Surely not??

The 15-year-old lift operator is pissed. His jester sock-cap is bobbing merrily, and he says, "Get ON this one!!!!" Fine.

I get into place, the stupid thing clips me behind my knees, and I fall. I fall underneath the lift. Ice, you know. Jester boy is screaming, "Keep your head DOWN! Keep your head DOWN!!!!" as the lift chairs are merrily whizzing over my face. Finally, I get pulled out from under it, the whole lift is stopped, and I look up to see 100 faces 10 years younger than my own, looking at me with incredulous expressions. Folks, I don't know how I did it either, don't ask me. "Sorry!" I chirp, merrily. My God.

Oh man.

So, I finally get on it, get to the top of the "mountain" (Indiana, remember…), and hwmnmb is waiting patiently.. "Don't say a WORD," I mutter to him through clenched teeth. Wisely, he remained silent.

We start down the hill. Naturally, we didn't pick the bunny slope, because that wouldn't be "any fun…" So off we go, down the non-bunny-hill, and I discovered quickly that I DID in fact remember how to snowplow. At least that was something going for me! The more we skied, the more I remembered, and I was actually having fun. Until, that is, the final slope, which was solid ice. Before I knew it, I was flat on my back, wondering if I had possibly herniated c5, or was it c6? And, how unusual, my skis and poles were about 10 feet uphill from me! Now, how exactly do I go about retrieving them??? Because, after all, I CAN"T get up, I had forgotten the unusual sensation of trying to get upright in ski boots, on a hill made of ice. What fun!

Here is where hwmnbn made his mistake. I can hear his next proclamation like it was yesterday… "If you don't get up on your own, you'll never learn how to do it."

Friends, after those words exited his mouth, I lost my religion. I thought/said every foul expletive I have ever heard, and some I invented myself. I crawled up the glacier using only my fingernails, retrieved my equipment, and crawled down the rest of the ice slopes, cursing hwmnbn and his many charms, and the horse he rode in on. Just because I can't ski, doesn't mean I'm not a functioning member of society. Just because 50 jester-hatted hoodlums whipped by me, as I lay prostrate on the ground in my hour of need, doesn't mean I am uncoordinated (or does it?).

Thus, ends my first day of skiing with hwmnbn. I'm pleased to report that we have gone skiing countless times since that date, each time better than the last. I am now a quite capable skier, and am working on teaching my kids. Hwmnbn has learned an extremely valuable lesson about what to say and what NOT to say when skiing with me! And I never, ever went back to Paoli Peaks, and I never will…

Have a WONDERFUL vacation, Lucinda!

Vacation!

Early tomorrow morning, Hubs, the girls (minus the baby, who will be staying with the 'rents) and I will leave to ski in Colorado for a week. I am trying to get excited; I love skiing. But frankly, it's been cold here. Too cold. And I want a beach and a big tropical drink.

Anyway, I have decided to make this a real vacation and leave the computer at home. Because I have a feeling that if I bring it, not only will I be way too tempted to check in on you guys way too much, but the girls will be fighting for My Space time and it won't leave as much of an opportunity for good old-fashioned family togetherness.

While I'm gone, I have some fabulous guest posters who were nice enough to agree to fill in while I'm gone. Be sure and stop by every day to see who's here. And leave them some comment love, will ya?

And now for a few choice tidbits...

-Do you see that Benefit Cosmetics ad over there? I've been using Benefit for years and I love their products. If you are a Benefit user and you're ordering more, click on that link and I'll get a small commission from the company for referring you! How cool is that? And if you're thinking about trying something new, I can personally vouch for their Lip Plump (great base for lipstick), BeneTint (liquid blush), High Beam (for a cool gleam to your face without making it look oily) DeGroovy (which keeps lipstick from feathering) and all of their concealers (my favorite is Boi-ing). I started using the concealer when I was a news anchor and it rocks. I know I sound like an Avon lady, but it's not often that I get an ad for something I literally have used every day for the last eight years.

Also for your reading pleasure, a serendipitous advertising moment. I was pissed off a few weeks ago because my five-year-old Swiffer had broken and I was going to have to go the supermarket and buy a new one. I had put it off, but really, it's the only thing I can use to get the dust under the refrigerator and between the washer and dryer and it has saved me several times when I've had people coming over and no time to mop a scuffed-up kitchen floor. Anyway, the same day I put it on my grocery list, I got an e-mail asking if I would mind trying out the new and improved Swiffer Sweeper. For free. Woot. I've been using it for about a week now and it really is better than the old one. It's sturdier and less likely than the old one to break and they've added a thingie at the top so that you can hang it on a hook. Me likey.

Okay. Product placement time over. I'll leave you with this oh so exciting news. I am now a columnist for Mamazine! Yes, I'm serious. They sent me a magnet and everything! That's proof, right? You can read my first column here.

See you guys in a week or so. I'll have a notebook with me so that I don't forget a single embarrassing moment or bitchy encounter. In the meantime, enjoy the marvelous talent filling this blog space.

Well, bye!

Sharing the spotlight

I might just have a budding Shirley Temple on my hands.

I took Baby to the doctor the other day to reassure myself that her nighttime coughing was not a reoccurrence of an ear infection (it wasn’t, and it has since gone away). At the check-in window, I said hello to the women behind the counter.

“Hay-YO!” Baby said brightly, waving.

“Well hello!” the office assistant replied. “How old are you?”

”Onnnnnne!” Baby replied triumphantly, holding up a finger. I smirked. After realizing that the ‘how old are you’ question came up every time a friendly stranger spoke to Baby, I quickly taught her that ‘Awwwww!’-provoking response. And then I went a step further.

“And when is your birthday, Baby?” I asked her.

"April ninth!” she crowed.

“Ohhhhhh, how adorable!” the other assistant laughed. “Can you sing a song?”

Baby launched into that crowd-pleasing favorite, “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” As she sang, I marveled at her innate sense to slow down the song for added effect, and the way she looked each person in the eye. By the time she had finished, the check-in window was filled with office workers, the waiting room was completely silent, and my face was turning bright red as I second-guessed my decision to wear the Elmo t-shirt.

When she finished, both rooms erupted in applause. Smiling and embarrassed at the attention, I slunk off to a chair in the corner. It turns out Baby is taking after her father, the Man Who Loves the Spotlight. Only it’s up to me, the Woman Who Loves the Spotlight Not So Much to provide her with the human stage of my arms, whether I want to or not. The irony.

My suspicions about Baby’s genetic disposition were confirmed when we were shown to the examining room. As soon as we got inside, several nurses crammed in with us.

”We got a note in the computer to make her sing “Twinkle Twinkle,” one of them said excitedly. Dutifully, Baby launched into the song a second time. She amazed me again by adding solemn hand signals for her audience, waving her arms above her head for “world so high” and pointing off in the distance for “diamond in the sky.” Then she sang it again for a few more nurses who had come in late. More clapping. More embarrassment.

Finally, the doctor wedged her way through the oohing and ahhing crowd. I held my breath as she entered. Truthfully, I’ve come to hate this woman. Because she is perfect. She is beautiful. She is immaculately dressed. She only practices three days a week and spends the rest of her time with her four, count ‘em, four boys. She last gave birth just five months ago and already is back to her usual rail-thin self. And she always, always has a smile on her face, damn her. I’m pretty sure I’m the only woman in America who says ‘Hell, no’ when Hubs offers to take one of the girls to a doctor’s appointment.

“Hel-looo,” she crooned when she entered the room in a gorgeous St. John pantsuit. “How is everybody doing?”

“Well, I have ten pounds to lose, no high-powered three-day-a-week job to fund private school tuition and family trips to Europe, and I’m wearing an Elmo t-shirt. Is that what you wanted to hear?” Okay, okay. I didn’t say these things. But I sure as hell thought them.

“I understand that I’m supposed to ask Baby to sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” she said, dimpling prettily.

I looked at Baby, stifled a sigh and hoped the smile on my face didn’t look too strained. Here we go again.

But this time, Baby did the unthinkable. She looked at me, then looked back at the doctor and said, “No.”

“Oh pretty please?” said the doctor. “Please sing your song, Baby.” Her eyes sparkled. Her teeth flashed whiter than white.

Baby leaned into me. “No,” she said again. Triumphantly, I squeezed her and then sat her down on the examining table. A look of pure mother-daughter understanding passed between us.

”I’m sorry,” I said to the doctor. “I guess she’s feeling shy now.”

Still looking at me, Baby began singing “Twinkle, Twinkle.” Only this time, she changed the lyrics.

“Ma ma, ma ma, ma ma ma.
Ma ma, ma ma, ma ma ma.”

Maybe she's inherited a few things from me, after all.

LOCKJAW!

I know you were wondering where I've been. Well, we had a little, erm, lockjaw scare. But don't worry. Everything's fine.

Two days ago, I paid a visit to our family doctor. My husband forced me to go after three weeks of hearing me complain about a large scrape on my knee that won't heal.

"You have to go," he said. "We're going skiing next week. I want this thing cleared up."

"But I don't have anyone to watch the baby," I whined.

"I'll stay home and watch the baby."

"But he'll give me a shot."

"No he won't. He'll give you a topical antibiotic."

In the examining room a few days later, the doctor got right to the point.

"I'm going to give you an oral antibiotic and a cream to put on the wound," he said. "And you need a tetanus shot. Unless you've had one in the last ten years."

Fuck. "Oh, yeah. I've had one pretty recently, actually."

"When?"

"I don't remember exactly. But I definitely remember getting one. I was in high school and it hurt like hell." High school? You fool! Why did you say high school?! Doh!

The doctor chuckled. "High school? You need a tetanus shot."

The shot itself didn't hurt at all. And for the rest of the day, I was fine. But when I woke up the next morning, my shoulder hurt. By late afternoon yesterday, it was fucking killing me. And by evening, I was a drooling, feverish vegetable moaning on the Barcolounger.

Hubs hovered nervously over me. "I'm going to look up 'tetanus vaccine side effects' on the Internet," he said.

"Aaaaaghadaaaag," I replied.

In a few minutes, he came back, his brow furrowed in concern. "The vaccination side effects are supposed to be pretty mild," he said, "But didn't you tell me your neck hurt?"

"Yeah."

"And you have a fever. And what about your jaw? Does your jaw feel stiff? Because I think you might have lockjaw. It's caused by tetanus."

"Lockjaw?! Hubs, you can't get tetanus from the tetanus vaccine."

"But I think you may have gotten the vaccination too late. You already had gotten tetanus from the scrape. And now, you have lockjaw. I'm going to watch you very closely. I think you should go to bed. And if you can't move your jaw, tell me immediately. Or you could die. "

I climbed in bed, shivering, and dazedly imagined myself skiing in a few days. Although I'd bought some expensive ski pants and borrowed a really cute jacket from a friend, the entire effect would be ruined by my unsightly jaw, locked open in a perpetual silent scream. I'd choke on snow and immediately fall right onto the wound on my knee that won't heal. For the rest of the week, I'd stumble around the lodge, gimp-legged and open-mouthed, avoided and whispered about by all the other stylish guests.

Lockjaw. Fuck. Why me?

Fortunately, I woke up this morning fever-free and jaw mercifully unlocked. Hubs frankly seemed a bit disappointed that he wouldn't be called upon to rush his lockjawed wife to the hospital. But when I told him my neck was still stiff just now on the phone, he had some encouraging words.

"You don't have a crazy grin, do you?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I read a lot about lockjaw last night. The first sign is neck stiffness and a crazy grin that won't go away. Three days later, you're dead."

I laughed. "Yeah, right."

"I am totally serious."

"But if I have a crazy grin, I'll just go to the hospital and they'll cure me."

"They'll try. You'll have to stay there 4-6 weeks and they'll cut the wound open and keep it open that entire time."

"Ewwwww!"

"We've got to keep close tabs on this, Lucinda. I mean it."

Now I'm checking the mirror every five minutes, just to make sure a maniacal smile isn't plastered across my face. Damn. If I have lockjaw, I will be sooooo pissed...

How not to party with rock stars

In college, I had a few friends who started a band. Called The Mendoza Line, they were known mainly for drinking a few too many beers, going on stage and forgetting how to play their songs. Everyone in the audience would laugh and applaud and then the band would come down from the stage and drink some more.

Of course, now they're like, famous. Seriously. They got signed to a record label, moved to New York, lost a few members, gained a few members, released some albums and just came out with a new one that kicks ass. Last night, they came to my town for a show and I got to see them for the first time in almost a decade.

And I behaved like a complete and utter freak. No really. I did.

I blame it on the "Cosmopolitans" served by the club. Judging from their taste, the bartender ran out of vodka and decided to make do with rubbing alcohol and pink Kool-Aid. Despite this (or perhaps because of it), I calmly drank three during the four hours we were there. Oh, and I ordered a fourth that I didn't drink but instead allowed to remain on the table infuriating Hubs with its undrunken expensiveness. Anyway, at some point during all of this, the drinks' persuasive powers convinced me that I was the World's Leading Expert on Friggin' Everything.

For example, after the first band, Elliott Brood, played an excellent set, I got up to go to the restroom and ran into the lead singer.

"You were really good. I just thought you should know that," I said suavely.

"Thanks," he said, smiling. "Thank you so much."

"Yeah," I continued. I decided he was in need of my Expert Opinion. "Yeah, I would say you were Jane's Addiction meets The Dukes of Hazzard."

His smile faded. Funny, I thought to myself. Hubs had laughed at that line. But this guy definitely wasn't laughing.

"We don't really get that too often," he said slowly.

"Oh," I replied with unparalleled panache. "Well, bye."

I went back to my seat and told Hubs what I had said.

"What?!" he nearly spit out his drink. "You don't tell someone to his face that his music reminds you of The Dukes of Hazzard. 'Ooooh," he mocked in a girly voice. "In that second song, you sounded just like Boss Hogg!"

You'd think I would've learned my lesson at that point. Oh no. I only got worse. After the second band, Great Lake Swimmers, played their set, I decided they too could benefit from my Expert Opinion.

"You guys were really good," I told the lead singer and guitarist after I bought their CD. "I just thought you should know that."

"Thanks," they said in unison.

"I told my husband you guys are as good as The Shins, only you need a Zach Braff to make you famous."

"Zach Braff?" The singer was puzzled.

"You know. Garden State."

Silence.

"Scrubs."

Silence.

"Oh come on!" I said. "Mandy. Moore's. Boyfriend."

"I'm sorry," he said in a very practiced this-is-how-I-respond-to-drunken-groupies tone. "I just don't understand your cultural references."

"Oh." I thought about telling them that their last song would've really been better if the guitarist had played a dum-dee-dee-dum-dum instead of that lame dee-dee-dee-dum-dum, but decided against it. "Well, bye," I said instead.

Yeesh.

Finally at 11, The Mendoza Line took the stage. Nine-odd years of banddom had improved them; They remembered the words to every song. Better yet, they were fantastic. I pulled my camera out of my purse and congratulated myself for having remembered it. I took a picture. Unfortunately, the camera was set on ten-second delay, but other than that, I was taking pictures like a real pro, in my Expert Opinion. I wriggled around in my seat and took another picture from an artsier angle. And another. And another. And another. And then I left our table and took another. Front and center. On ten-second delay. Oh yeah. I was rocking the house.

"I think you've taken enough pictures," Hubs shouted over the music when I came back. Huffily, I glared at him, put my camera away and gulped down some more of my Rubbing Alcomopolitan.

By the time the set was over, drink number three was finished and I was in rare Expert form. I advised one old friend, now a resident specializing in HIV research at a local hospital, on how he should go about finding a cure for AIDS. I informed my friend Tim that he needed to screw all this band stuff and give his new bride (the lead singer) a baby post haste. I think I even consulted with the guitarist on conversion van maintenance. I was completely out of my mind.

Once Hubs managed to stuff me, still waving my finger and babbling about the latest fashions in SoHo, inside the car, I berated him for, well, to be honest, I don't really remember. I only recall that I felt very smug that so many people had benefitted from my Expert Advice. When I got home, I looked down and realized that at some point, I had gone to the bathroom and forgotten to buckle my belt. I had been walking around, doling out opinions, with my belt hanging open like I was some kind of deranged halfway house escapee. Brilliant.

Four hours later, Baby was awake and so was I. When I stumbled into a bleary-eyed Hubs, I apologized groggily for the dressing down I'd given him the night before. He started laughing.

"So you admit I'm not really a 'nerdy nerd?" he asked.

"Did I say that?"

"Yes."

I laughed weakly. "I don't remember that."

"And when I started laughing," he continued, "You got madder and said 'See? You even laugh like a nerd!"

Oooh. That had to hurt.

Essentially, I am doing very well convincing all of my oh-so-successful old friends that I'm much more, so much more than a suburban housewife these days.

I'm also a fucking idiot.

And I have the pictures to prove it.

The Legendary Timothy Bracy chuckles as his freakish former friend takes picture after picture.

Shannon and Tim, the newlyweds, really know how to play together! Heh. Interested parties will note that Paul Deppler, there on the right, is indeed in need of a trim.

This is how I get my kicks

Once upon a time, there was a great flood. God told a man named Noah to build a big boat and put two of each animal inside. Noah promised to obey Him.

Noah knew the ark and all the animals would run him about $35 at Toys R Us, so when he found one for only $7 at a consignment sale, he realized God was indeed on his side. But when he brought his ark home, he realized one very important creature was missing... a female lion.

Noah spent months searching the nearby land of Ebay for a lioness. Finally, he managed to find one- but she wouldn't leave without her mate. Reluctantly, he arranged for the pair to be sent to his home.

Now the consignment lion was sad. He could hear the lioness and her mate making funny noises all night long. He felt very lonely.

It wasn't long before the lioness and her mate got bored. They asked the consignment lion to join them. He was very happy. The trio was so incredibly happy, in fact, that another lion from the nearby zoo came over to see what all the fuss was about.

The two lions adored the zoo lion's flaming orange mane and his exotic smell. They decided to play with him. They played and played and played. The lioness found herself bored, alone and not a little jealous.

So she took up with a sexy spotted leopard and they lived happily ever after. The end.

Carpoolin' like it's 1993

So there I was, almost late as usual, hauling ass to carpool. As I jumped the curb making a right turn into my 15-year-old's high school parking lot, I saw one of my carpoolees (whom we'll call Sam) duuuude-ing it up with some all-black-clad teenagers outside the neighboring Tastee Freez . It was too much to resist. I rolled down the passenger side window.

"Sammy!" I shouted. Even from my distance, I could see his shoulders stiffen. "SAAAAAA-MEEEEEE!"

Slowly, Sam turned around and spotted me.

"Are you riding carpool today, Sammy? Does your mama need me to take you home?"

His friends snickered. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.

"WHAT?! Sammy! Sammy, do you need a ride?"

"No!" He croaked. "No thank you!"

"Okay then! Bye Sammy! See you at church!" Smirking, I closed the window and headed for the school's side door.

I'm pretty sure that if there were ever a competition for the worst carpool mom ever? I would win. Hands down.

Maybe the fact that I'm only 30 contributes to my juvenile behavior. Teetering at the halfway point between my 15-year-old riders and their 45-year-old mothers, I find myself displaying symptoms from both sides. One minute, I'm all, "Does everyone have on their seatbelts?" The next, I'm blasting the Beastie Boys and wondering if the kids are going to tell their parents I was playing songs with lyrics like, I'm the king of Boggle, there is none higher. I'll get 11 points off the word quagmire.' Somehow, I don't think the other carpoolers would understand.

And yet, I can't hold back. Especially at times like last Thursday, when I waited ten minutes for our neighbor, Maria, to show up after school.

"Are you sure she's riding today?" I asked my stepdaughter.

"Yes," she said. "She was here and then she said she had to go back to her locker and get her iPod."

"And it's taking her ten minutes?!" I fumed.

At last, Maria came ambling out into the parking lot, her boyfriend in tow. As she lazily scanned the cars for my SUV, I made a big show of throwing up my hands, shrugging my shoulders and driving away.

"What are you doing?!" 15 laughed.

"Just making sure she's not late again," I said.

As I slowly circled back to get Maria, I noted with satisfaction that she had broken into a run, trying to catch us before we left. Seeing my car, she stopped and grinned, knowing she'd been had. I drove up to the curb where she was standing...

...and kept going.

"Lucinda!' 15 laughed harder. From the backseat, the other kids guffawed.

"I just don't see her anywhere," I muttered. "Where could she be?"

I circled back again to where Maria was trotting toward my car. One more time, I passed her by before finally stopping and letting her get in.

It took a while for the laughter to die down on the ride home, but I'm happy to say that Maria hasn't been late since.

I guess I thought that once I became a mom, I would feel like a mom. I would do mom-like things. Make mom-like statements. Drive a mom-like carpool.

I was wrong. I was so very, very wrong.

What I should've said.

If I felt bad about Baby's recent experimentation with the f-word, I don't anymore.

At the soccer fields yesterday, my 12-year-old stepdaughter and a friend were practicing goal kicks while Baby and I played nearby. It wasn't long before we were joined by a scrappy-looking three-year-old boy.

"I play soccer too," he informed us. "Watch this." He proceeded to throw his ball in the air and wildly kick his foot out in front of him, making contact with nothing but air.

"Oh, wow, that's very good," I said.

"Does her play soccer?" he asked, pointing at Baby.

"She's too small to play," I said. "But she wants to. She tries."

"Oh," he said, nodding. "Her should watch me." He ran up to 12 and her friend and tried again to kick his ball into the goal. He missed.

"Oh shit!" he shouted.

We giggled. Wonder where he'd heard that one?

He kicked and missed again. "Shit!" The girls looked at each other and snorted.

The three-year-old moved into the goal. "Kick it to me!" he screamed at 12. "And if you kick me in the face, I'll rip your head off, you baby diaper bitch!"

We all stopped and stared at him in shocked silence.

"Um. Where are your parents?" I asked, picking up Baby.

"They're way over there," he said, pointing at the bleachers in the distance.

I realized then that there's a difference between a toddler yelling "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" and one cursing with an obvious understanding of what the words mean. You really have to wonder what's going on in that ki