Six Weeks Without Sleep

Welcome to the Baby X Games! Round One: X-treme Sleep Deprivation!

"He doesn't look like me," Hubs announced for the zillionth time as we peered at Bruiser in his bouncer. "I'm pretty sure you had an affair with Charlie Brown."

"He does too look like you," I said. "He has your eye crinkles."

"He has a round face like yours," Hubs said after a moment. "Round as a gigantic white moon."

"My face isn't round!" I yelped. "It's oval. You're the one with the big round head. Your head is basically like a beach ball that needs a little air."

"Well, your face is like a moldy wheel of government cheese," Hubs declared. "Anyway, my face is oval, too."

"Oval like an egg with some dried chicken shit where your nose should be," I nodded. "Exactly."

Hubs laughed. "At least my face doesn't look like a balloon that someone left in the men's port-o-potty at a kids carnival."

I had to think fast. "That's because your face looks like a wagon wheel stuck in cow manure," I responded brilliantly. Damn, I was good.

Lindsay: 1
Hubs: 0

And now, head over to Suburban Turmoil Reviews for your chance to win a new iPod Nano and a box of chocolates!

A Blast from the Past

Things were different when I was a kid. Back then, if the Kool-Aid man showed up, the whole neighborhood would've celebrated with a tall glass of iced Kool-Aidy goodness.

Today if the Kool-Aid man stopped by, he'd attract four different news crews, face attempted kidnapping charges, and get sued by the fence owner for damages.

When I was a kid, we watched commercials for a popular appetite suppressant. Today, we wonder why on earth this company went out of business...



When I was a kid, I had to worry about keeping up with the Commodore. Now, I think I pretty much have him beat.



When I was a kid, Jason Alexander was known for keeping the hot hot and the cool cool. Now, he's known for double dipping.



When I was a kid, we asked our moms disgusting personal questions. Wait, no we didn't.



Yep, those were the days...

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How Dumb Do They Think We Are?

It's no secret that the Today show and Good Morning America are trying to woo us. Every time I catch a glimpse of either program (generally on my way to Dora or Diego on the dial), I see a story designed to appeal to me, a thirty-something mom with money to spend. There are stories about Botox and affordable family vacations, trendy diets and cocktail playdates. I can almost see the producers at story pitches for these shows.

"What do you think Lindsay and her friends are talking about today?" asks a bespectacled, native-to-New York producer who hasn't seen the sun in two straight weeks.

"I read on her blog something about Bratz versus Barbies," a twenty-two-year-old associate producer and recent Barnard grad pipes up. "We could effort a dialogue between a doll collecting mom and a Women's Studies professor."

"Ooh, now that could be demographic gold. Let's go with it for next Thursday," decides the assignment editor.

But in the rush to tap into our thoughts and win our loyalty (and ultimately, the deep-pocketed advertisers who want us to buy their goods), the stories usually end up seeming contrived and condescending. And I end up wondering, How dumb do they think we are?

The latest journalistic masterpiece aired Monday, I believe, on Good Morning America. (You can watch the story and read about it here.) Called What's Wrong with Being a Princess, it claims that some, some! critics believe the Disney princesses are bad role models for little girls. To drive home the point, the story features Peggy Orenstein, an author who's "written extensively about women's issues." But for someone who's an anti-princess expert, she don't know Disney.

"All they know is that Cinderella is really pretty, and she has a lot of bling," she says dourly near the story's end.

Peggy, Peggy, Peggy. Any little girl (and by association, her poor mother) who's seen Cinderellas I, II and III a gazillion times can tell you that Cinderella had no bling and that even when she becomes a princess and gets it, she eschews the wealth for reminders of her former humble existence. In fact, she spends a great deal of time essentially teaching everyone around her who doesn't know it already that money can't buy you happiness.

In fact, all of the princesses seem to have this longing for an anti-bling existence. The princess Snow White is at her best with a broom in her hand, kindly cleaning up after a bunch of dwarves. Sleeping Beauty is devestated to find that she's not a peasant girl, but actually a princess about to be forced into marriage. Jasmine hates being a princess so much, she runs away and isn't satisfied until her dad agrees to let her marry Aladdin, her true love and a self-professed "street rat." Belle has everything she could possibly want at the Beast's castle and she's even starting to dig the Beast (proving that what matters is on the inside), but she still longs to be back home with her crazy, impoverished dad. So, um, what were you saying again, Peggy?

In the end, the GMA story tells us that what's most important is not whether our little girls love or hate the Disney princesses, but instead, what we're telling them as their parents. Apparently, it's important for moms to talk to their daughters about what they're seeing on television and reading about in storybooks.

Duh.

How dumb do they think we are?

No wonder women are tuning out morning newscasts.

And the networks aren't the only ones who seem certain that we'll eat up whatever they give us. Yesterday, I received an advertisement in the mail for the Lena System, a bizarre and expensive device that claims to make your kid smarter for only $750!!

Slip the LENA Recorder into your child’s comfortable, stylish LENA Clothing — and forget about it. More about the LENA Clothing	At the end of the day, plug the LENA Recorder into your PC. The audio data will transfer and analysis begins. More about the LENA Recorder	View your reports to analyze your conversations and quantify words spoken throughout the day. More about the feedback reports

If I find out any of you bought this thing, I will personally come to your house and pour a bucket of cold water over your head. For a small fee, of course. I'm assuming you can afford it.

P.S. Ironically, I recently tested an early reading program that I actually like and that isn't wildly overpriced. You can read about it here.

Bratzism

Hidden in the deepest, darkest corner of our toy closet is a big box of...

Bratz.


That's right. Bratz. America's favorite hoochie dolls, dressed to kill in a vibrant selection of microminis, microtops and macromakeup. Personally, I don't have a problem with my girls playing with Bratz, but lately, I've noticed their poor little plastic asses getting kicked by the mommyblogging masses. I guess it's hip to hate on plastic prostitutes. The poor things can't exactly defend themselves; their lips are sealed with glitter glue.

As popular wisdom goes, Bratz dolls make Barbie look like she came straight outta Amishtown. But I'm here to tell you that Barbie isn't the virginal vixen she was when we were girls in side ponytails, making her and Ken get naked in the back of her pink Corvette. Today's Barbie harbors a not-so-secret skank, and I'm here to expose her. Observe these pictures, taken straight from Mattel's Barbie website:


First, we have Hard Rock Whore Barbie. I'll give you one guess as to what her favorite instrument is.


Tattooed n' Tarty Barbie is a big hit with the under-6 crowd.



According to the website description, French Maid Barbie "celebrates the working woman." I hear she takes extra care going over your most treasured possessions...


Burlesque Barbie shows your daughters that it's never too early to start practicing in those stripper heels...


And in another homage to the working woman, Bordello Barbie pays tribute to the world's oldest profession. Va va voom!

Of course, the ultimate Barbie to add to your daughter's collection is My Bling Bling Barbie.
I could write something witty here, but the comments written by moms on Bling Bling's Amazon page are so much more entertaining...

"This needs to be called "My Porn Star Barbie" or "My $2 Hooker Barbie."

"This doll is a major $LUT and she might as well be wearing fig leaves! The doll's name should be changed to My Scene Gold Digger Barbie.

"The only thing that this Barbie is missing is Ken so he can be her pimp! Shame on you guys!

"Seriously, My Scene Barbies make out with boys. And wear the worlds most sluttiest and ugliest outfits."

"This doll is by far the ugliest, nastiest, sluttiest dolls alive. OMG she scares me.
And her shirt, gross. It looks like something hanging from her boob, OMG that is nasty."

"Her make up is gross, and especially the look on her face says, "Do me now."

That's why I'm calling now for an end to Bratzism. Barbie's like that girl we all knew who pretended to be virtuous, then went to third base with your boyfriend in the boiler room. I mean, at least the Bratz are open about it. As far as dolls go, there's only one group that's sluttier.

We Have a Winner!

Head on over to Suburban Turmoil Reviews to find out who won the Great Suburban Turmoil Dump-Off- and an awesome prize basket from Pond's.

The Grand Inquisitor

"Hey, Lindsay," my 13-year-old stepdaughter said over the phone on Friday afternoon. "Would you mind calling Ansley's mom so she knows Ansley really is invited to our house to spend the night?"

Ansley's mom? Oh shit. The Grand Inquisitor.

"Um, why don't you give Ansley our number and have her mom call me?" I suggested. There was no way I was calling her.

Ansley is one of 13's second tier friends, invited over only when the crowd is a largish one. The last time I was asked to call her mother was a few hours before a sleepover back in October.

"Hi, this is 13's stepmom," I said when she answered the phone.

"I understand you're having a sleepover this evening," she responded shortly.

"Yep."

"All right, well, I have a few questions I need answered."

"Okay."

"How many girls will be there?"

"Five."

"What are your plans for them?"

Plans? We're going to blindfold them, shove them in the back of a van and drive them to Mexico. Duh. "Well, we've rented some scary movies and we'll probably order some pizza and just let them do their thing," I answered.

"Are any of those movies rated R?"

I thought for a moment. "Yeah, probably. I'm sure The Shining is rated R. I mean, most scary movies are rated R, aren't they? And if they're not, they're not very scary, they're just kind of lame and you and I wouldn't even watch them unless we're talking about Something Wicked This Way Comes, which I'm sure they've seen a hundred thousand times already..." I laughed feebly, only to hear silence on the other end of the phone. I thought I could detect the sound of scribbling and pictured her, writing CALL DSS ABOUT FERRIER CHILD in her Daytimer.

"Umm, okay," she said finally. "Are any boys invited to this sleepover?"

"No," I snorted. "This isn't a co-ed sleepover."

"Well, I had to ask," she said curtly. "You never know these days. Now. Just a few more questions before I let my precious jewel of the Nile spend a night in your hovel. Do you have a pit bull?"

"No."

"Doberman?"

"No."

"German Shep-"

"We have a yellow beagle," I interrupted.

"Has he ever bitten anyone?" she asked.

"No, but he does dry hump tweenagers," I admitted. "I think Ansley just missed the age cutoff, though."

"Good." She paused as if consulting a list. "Do you keep firearms in the house?"

"No."

"Sex tapes?"

"Nope."

"Crack cocaine?"

"Not anymore."

"What?!"

"Just kidding."

"Have you or anyone in your immediate family been convicted of a felony?"

"No."

"Do you have any coupons?"

"Uh, somewhere."

"Can I have the last four digits of your social security number?"

"2-8-3-9."

"And finally... where's the beef?"

"At Wendy's?"

I could hear the sound of calculator keys clicking.

"Look," I said. "I really have other things to d-"

"Congratulations," she said. "Ansley will be spending the night at your home this evening."

"Well glory be," I said. "And now I've gotta run." I hung up disgustedly.

Yes, there was no way I was calling Bitch this time around. When the phone rang a few minutes later, I let Hubs answer it. It was 13 again.

"Dad?" she said. "Ansley's mom won't call you. She says it's rude to call the host and that you're supposed to call her." Hubs gritted his teeth at this ridiculous form of invented etiquette, reminded himself he was doing it for his daughter, and dialed Ansley's number.

"Hi, this is 13's dad," he said.

"Hello, I have a few questions I need an-"

"Look, Ansley is welcome to come to our house tonight. There will be four girls here, we're taking them to see a movie and no boys are invited. And now, I've got to run."

"When is the last time you saw a dentist?" she asked quickly.

"I'm serious," Hubs said, "I've got to go to work."

"Name the five great lakes!"

"Mrs. Harper, I-"

"Boxers or briefs?" she shouted desperately. Hubs hung up.

Ansley came home with 13 on the bus.

I guess the (phone) call of parenting hits some harder than others.

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True Humor

Last night, Hubs was at the grocery when a man came up and put his hand on Hubs' shoulder.

"Still suffering from depression?" he asked. Hubs snorted.

"Did you really believe a word of that?" he replied. The man laughed.

The man was talking about the Suburban Turmoil column I wrote for this week's Nashville Scene. And in all the time I've been recounting anecdotes about our family life, this column marked the first time that Hubs remembered things a bit, ahem, differently.

He now claims that he never believed that men could suffer from postpartum depression. I'm quite positive that he did- the conversation we had about it months ago gave me the idea for the column in the first place. And while I first thought it would make for a funny story, it wasn't so funny weeks later when we had a newborn in the house and he was getting irritated with me far more than usual. That's when it crossed my mind that the man actually had postpartum depression- and that the joke was on me.

But I'm not writing about this to try and defend myself- Hubs and I have good-naturedly agreed to disagree on the sequence of events. I'm writing about it because this incident came on the tail of my reading of an article in Slate, asking whether humorists are justified in embellishing their "non-fiction" stories to make them more readable. The article cites a story from The New Republic claiming that David Sedaris took "broad and routine liberties in pursuit of laughs." Honestly, the revelation doesn't surprise me; although David Sedaris is my favorite comedic writer, I've often wondered how some of his recollections could possibly be true. But where should I draw the line?

It's a much bigger question now that my real name is on this blog; there's always a chance that anyone I've written about will read it at some point and recognize themselves. I keep that in mind as I'm writing. It's a holdover from my days as a reporter, a running inner dialogue that plays out in my mind as I write, in which I'm defending myself to, say, a Green Hills MOMS Club member.

"Bitch," the assisted blond in capris shouts in my figurative face. "I never said that!"

"The hell you did!" I murmur as I type. "Do the words 'nipple shield' ring any bells?"

The difference between my writing now and my reporting back in my TV days is that I get to leave out the not-so-entertaining parts. I might have been at a mostly dull event that had three really hilarious occurrences. The hilarity obviously, is all that makes it into the retelling. On the occasions that I make something up entirely, I make it so over the top that it should be obvious that it was embellished. And for the poor soul who actually believed I was serious when, for instance, I said that God appeared to me in a vision while I was inner tubing with my parents on the Chattahoochee River, well, I'm quick to let her know that it was a joke.

My sketchiest embellishment is to occasionally give words to a look someone gives me. Think about it. You're at the store when you and another woman reach for the same item. The woman gives you a glance that says, "Can I have this?" You smile and let go. It's much easier to write later that the woman actually said, "Can I have this?" and you said "Of course." I didn't realize until I began writing how often our looks and glances pass for conversation.

The exception to all this is when I'm writing about something controversial, like baby beauty pageants. That's when I stick with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I might have a funny take on it, but that's one instance when I don't want anyone questioning my accuracy for the sake of a laugh.

But as far as my day-to-day family life goes, I call it like I see it and frankly, if you asked each of my family members to give their account of an event, you'd probably get five very different versions. So Hubs, sorry but this shizzle is my story and I'm sticking to it.

What about you? Do you embellish your written anecdotes in the same way that you might if you were telling them at a cocktail party? Where do you draw the line? Where should I?

Scandalous!

If you haven't checked out Suburban Turmoil Reviews for The Great Dump-Off, go! Now! The stories you guys are leaving are jaw-droppingly, gut wrenchingly incredible. If you're in a good relationship right now, you'll read them and be so very, very grateful for the man you've got. If you're not in a good relationship, well honey, you are definitely not alone! Who knew men could be such assholes?

I'm going to let the contest run through Sunday at midnight, central time. I'll choose ten finalists on Monday and will announce the winner on Tuesday afternoon, after playgroup. I know, professional, aren't I?

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The First and Only Suburban Turmoil Dump-Off

I was a serial dumper.

Afraid of dealing with the heartache, the humiliation that comes with being the dumpee, I would bail at the first sign of trouble. But it wasn't any easier. I could always tell that it was only a matter of time before the relationship was going to end, whether I wanted it to or not.

And so I'd still end up lying in a bed littered with crumpled Kleenex, listening to Peter Gabriel and thinking about what might have been. I'd try desperately to remind myself that I, at least, had done the dumping. The fact that my dumpee hadn't seemed all that upset? Well, I'd think about that tomorrow.

But what about those of you who've been dumped? Hardcore, earth shatteringly dumped? Well girls, you're far from alone and now, your pain can be your gain. Head over here, leave your best dumped story in the comments and you just might win a fabulous prize. And at the very least, you'll get to read some really good stories about the hell men put us through...

The Target Demo Responds

To all the networks, newspapers, local affiliates, magazines, et al.,

For me, April 16th marked the date of a national tragedy. For you, it signified a major news event. Wall-to-wall coverage. Sidebars. Exclusives. Breakouts. Local angles. Follow ups. Trust me, I know all about it; not so long ago, I was also pounding the pavement in search of a lead. But now I'm a thirty-something mom in the suburbs and as a member of your target demo, I have something important to tell you.

While I'm interested in the killer's prior police record, I don't want to hear speculation from "experts" on his motivation. I don't want to read his life story or his screenplays or hear from a candidate for student council president who once tried to give him a piece of candy. I don't want to know what he used to wear to class or how he signed his name and I don't care that he got up at 5am on the morning of the shootings, brushed his teeth and put on moisturizer. I realize that he was sick and twisted. What more is there to say? All of this focus on every minute detail of his life feels wrong, particularly since it's exactly what he would've wanted.

I don't want to know whether my local college campuses are safe from a gunman's rampage. If someone wants to buy two guns and kill a bunch of people, he's going to figure out a way to do it, whether it's on a campus or at a mall, and it's very likely that no one will be able to predict it beforehand. Most of us have known a "twisted loner" in our lifetime- What are we supposed to do, have them all locked up in cages?

I don't want to hear from the victims' parents, brothers or sisters. They are suffering unimaginable grief right now and it sickens me to know that their phones are ringing off the hook with interview requests from CNN and Dateline and Good Morning America, that reporters are showing up on their doorsteps with their cameras and their microphones and their fake concern. I can't imagine you'd appreciate this kind of attention if you had just lost your child; why are you putting others in this position?

I don't want you to harass the parents of the gunman. They don't deserve the kind of media attention they're getting right now. They sound like decent, hard working people. Leave them alone.

I don't want you to rehash every other school shooting that ever happened and re-interview the survivors and family members of victims.

I don't want to hear accusations about what Virginia Tech should have done differently. Hindsight is 20/20. Why not focus instead on what they'll do next?

I don't want stories on how "Tragic events have shaped Generation Y" or that it was an "Unsettled Day on Campuses Across the Country" or see an "Interactive Graphic on The Rampage". I don't want to hear what Le Ann Rimes has to say about the shootings. I certainly don't care that the "Editor of Virginia Tech Newspaper Has Scooped the Major Media" or that the presidents of South Korea and the Philippines have offered their condolences. It's all totally irrelevant.

I realize that you're simply airing what you believe will get the highest ratings. The shootings are what everyone's talking about right now, so you've come up with all that's even remotely related to the event to help fuel the flames. But all I want from you is responsible coverage. I want to know whether any of the victims were supporting children and how I can help those families. I want you to help us grieve as a nation for the victims in a sensitive and non-sensational way. I want you to tell me relevant new details about the story without murking it up with celebrity reactions and investigative reports on how easy it is to buy a gun.

Will any of you step up and act in the public's best interest, rather than react to the tabloid-style coverage of your competition? I'd give you my attention, but would anyone else?

How to Meet a Rockstar in One Easy Step

"So Jeanine and I were at Panerra last night," my 16-year-old stepdaughter told me on Saturday morning. "And we were really bored, so we thought we'd talk in British accents."

"And that must be why you had the accent when you called Dad last night," I said.

"Yeah. So we were planning on seeing Disturbia and somehow, two guys and a girl at the next table overheard us and said they were going to see the movie, too. And we all started talking."

"You still had your British accents?"

"Yeah. But Jeanine was really bad at it. And she was saying the craziest stuff! Like when they said they knew some people from our school, she said, 'Oooh, hahve yoo huhd of a gell named Jeanine Withahs?"

"Oh my."

"Yeah. And then she said, 'Hahve any of yoo evah been to a Sooc, Sooo, um, Soocah, Soocer game?' And I said, 'Doon't yoo mean football?' And then I said, "Sooo sorry, sometimes my friend's voice gets rahther squeaky.'"

"Wow. That's bad."

"Yeah. So it ended up being too late for us to go to the movie, but the guy I was talking to the most got my number and gave me his and said he wanted to hang out some time. And he's in a band."

"Oh," I said noncommitally. This is Nashville. Who isn't in a band?

"It's like a real band," she said. "They have a record label and they're going on tour in May all over the country and then to Europe. And he homeschools because of all the touring."

"What's the name of the band?" I asked. She told me.

"16!" I said. "They're totally famous!"

"They are?" she said. "I'd never heard of them."

"And now he thinks you're British."

"I know!" she laughed. "I'll just have to tell him when he calls."

"And he'll hate you for lying. And your days hanging out with teenage rock stars will be over before they began. Dammit! Dammit!"

Later that afternoon, he text messaged her: You're not really British, are you?

Hmm. I wonder how on earth he figured that out. Yet shockingly, he doesn't hate her. He's meeting her for lunch this week.

Ordinarily, this tale would've been of minimal interest to me, other than determining whether he's what they call a Bad Influence. But now that I'm practically under house arrest, the little events of our household are pretty much all the live entertainment I've had in weeks. That's why I'm already making fiendish plans to embarrass the hell out of my stepdaughter by doing some sort of Flashdance rendition in the front row at the band's next Nashville show.

I'm sure she wouldn't mind asking her new friend to put her stepmother on the guest list. I mean, I think I've proven I'm down with the homies.

Who's With Me?





P.S. Check out Suburban Turmoil Reviews for the must-have accessory for the three-year-old set , the new food that ants and teenagers alike can't get enough of and for the duh-of-course-I-need-that kitchen product of the week!





Not So Hot

A few days ago, I happened upon the website of a nearby subdivision. Besides the usual announcements about yardsales and babysitting services, one resident generously lent her expertise in neighborhood etiquette to the site by providing a thoughtful list called What's Hot and What's Not at Traceside. Here's what she has come up with so far:

What's Hot: Well manicured lawns
What's Not: Overgrown grass

What's Hot: Well-behaved children enjoying the pool
What's Not: Children rough-housing at the pool

What's Hot: People walking their dogs on leashes
What's Not: People allowing their dogs to roam free without restraint

What's Hot: Nice clean sidewalks
What's Not: Dog poop on the sidewalks

What's Hot: Relaxing in a beautiful Traceside home after a long day of work
What's Not: Being kept awake all night by a barking dog

What's Hot: Friendly neighbors
What's Not: Unfriendly neighbors

What's Hot: Beautiful landscaping
What's Not: Dead bushes

What's Hot: The Traceside e-mail group being used in a resourceful and reasonable manner
What's Not: The Traceside e-mail group used in an unproductive and unreasonable manner

What's Hot: Seasonal decorations removed from the yards and houses in a timely manner
What's Not: Christmas tree lights still up in February

Clever, isn't it? If only she were my next door neighbor- Then her list would certainly be much, much longer. As it stands, though, she has requested more What's Hot and What's Not ideas to add to the page. Since I'm nothing if not helpful, here are a few suggestions I've come up with:

What's Hot: A clean, well-maintained Traceside playground
What's Not: Used needles and condoms on the Traceside playground

What's Hot: Checking in on your Traceside neighbors to make sure everything's okay
What's Not: Hiding in your Traceside neighbors' well-manicured bushes and watching them undress

What's Hot: Holding a neighborhood Easter egg hunt for all of Traceside's clean and well-behaved children
What's Not: Holding a neighborhood manhunt for a deranged murderer who escaped from the state prison

What's Hot: Serving up some fresh brownies for your perky new next-door-neighbor as a housewarming present
What's Not: Serving your perky next-door-neighbor with a subpoena after finding out she's been having an affair with your husband for the last six weeks

What's Hot: A cul-de-sac barbeque
What's Not: A cul-de-sac key party

Would you like to add to my list? Leave your own What's Hot and What's Not suggestions in the comments and I'll add them on. I feel certain our suggestions will be much appreciated!

Uniform Dissent

I'm still gagging.

Last night, the school board took a vote on Standard School Attire (i.e., uniforms) for the next school year and I made the mistake of watching the whole thing on live television.

With all the media attention the topic has gotten, there was standing room only at last night's school board meeting and our local board members were painfully conscious of their moment in the spotlight. Watching them smooth their hair and straighten their Jones New York lapels, you would have thought they were making an appearance on NBC Nightly News rather than Davidson County Channel 3.

This is a new school board, after all; most of its members were only recently voted in. Consequently, they were chomping at the bit to raise their collective leg and make their mark on the fire hydrant that is the Metro Nashville school district. When it was time to discuss the upcoming vote, the board members pulled from their folders speeches that had certainly been agonized over with the same kind of sweat and nail biting that went into Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation. Apparently, I was watching a future chapter being written in the history books of this great nation.

"I would like for us as a board to come to a unified decision and leave this place hand in hand, a united front," one board member proclaimed with an air of great importance. Pleased with his analogy, he made the hand-in-hand reference again as soon as he could work it in, slowing down his words to make sure all the print journalists in attendance would have ample time to record them. I giggled, imagining all these bidnessmen and women holding hands as they exited the board room, singing "We Shall Overcome (the Uniform Haters)."

The true piece de resistance, however, came when two separate board members cried as they gave their remarks. Yes. They cried. Over how awesome they were for giving Nashville's students and teachers the gift of Standard School attire. Watching them, I got choked up, too.

On vomit.

The measure passed handily, with only two board members voting no. As you know, I'm opposed to Standard School Attire, but not in any major, chain-myself-to-the-sale-rack-at-American-Eagle way. I was far more appalled by the grandstanding than by the vote. My stepdaughters are handling the news well, too.

"They passed it," I said quietly to my 13-year-old when she got home from a friend's house. This was the girl who'd asked if we could move if they got uniforms next year. Move anywhere, she requested, except Kentucky, where she's under the impression that the hicks are hickier than they are in Tennessee.

"What does that mean exactly?" she asked.

"It means you have to wear navy, black, white or khaki bottoms and a black, white, or navy collared shirt," I said.

She thought for a moment. "So I could wear, like, a cute navy skirt and a puffy-sleeved button down white shirt," she said. "And I can still accessorize..." She thought for a moment. "That's not so bad," she decided, before bounding up the stairs to her room.

So much for our revolution.

Gifts That Keep On.. Well, I'm Not Really Sure What They're Doing Exactly, Besides Taking Up Space

One of the great laws of nature goes something like this: All gifts purchased by a grandparent for his/her teenage grandchild are required to be completely ridiculous.

My own grandparents, so spot on in their purchases of a bitchin' clock radio for my eighth birthday (which I still use today) and a badly-needed electric blanket when I turned 10, inexplicably began sending Tupperware sets and knee-highs from the time I turned 13 onward.

Similarly, my girls, who as pre-adolescents were the recipients of hip Roxy beachwear and porcelain ballerina dolls, now have begun receiving juggling balls, pencil sharpeners and beef jerky from the g-'rents. Oh. And these.


Notice that these beauties actually have the word Harmonica printed on them just in case, I'm guessing, my girls were under the impression that they had received a pocket comb or crack pipe.

Now that we have a toddler underfoot, these curious little gifts generally end up pilfered by her and stashed away somewhere in her room. The other day, though, my 16-year-old stepdaughter was getting ready for school when she spied an interesting object peeping out from under a pile of school papers. She picked it up and looked at it closely.

Harmonica.

Without thinking, she shoved it in her jeans pocket and continued getting ready.

Later that day, she was walking down the hall on her way to English when she heard a light 'thwack' on the ground behind her. Moments later, she felt a tap on her back and turned around. It was a boy. A really cute boy. She smiled.

"Uh, you dropped your harmonica," he said. She looked behind her. There it was, in the middle of the hallway.

Harmonica.

"Uh," she said. "Uh..." She didn't want to pick it up, but she couldn't let it stay there, either; people were staring. Fortunately, a friend of hers approached. She grabbed her arm.

"Will you get that harmonica for me?" she whispered urgently. Her friend looked at her strangely.

"Yeah," she said. "Okay." She picked up the harmonica and handed it to 16 who quickly left the scene, crimson faced.

"And then I thought about it," she told me later, "Why was I so embarrassed? Why not embrace the harmonica? Celebrate the harmonica?"

And so, once she'd finished her English test, 16 made sure she wasn't being watched and then pulled the harmonica from her jacket pocket. The room was dead silent, her classmates bent over their papers in concentration. Covertly, she put the harmonica to her lips and blew.

The teacher looked up and frowned. "Is that a harmonica?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. The students began giggling and 16's friend, who was sitting beside her and had seen the harmonicrime go down, began laughing uncontrollably.

"Molly?" the teacher asked, looking at the friend incredulously. "Was that you? Did you bring a harmonica to class?" Molly was laughing too hard to answer. Mercifully, the bell rang before the true culprit could be caught.

Thanks to the willingness of a 16-year-old girl to accept with open arms this gift that was so thoughtfully and carefully chosen for her, who knows where the harmonica will turn up next? Whose lives will it alter? Whose histories will it rewrite?

And on that note, for the first time, I'm feeling an urge to break out that unopened mini-crockpot in the back of the hall closet and embrace it, too.

First Person to Develop This Idea Will Make Millions! Probably.

Not too many month-old infants can be seen out on the town. New moms will tell you they're keeping their newborns at home because they don't want to expose them to germs or pollutants or strangers with open sores all over their bodies who ask to hold them (which is, no lie, exactly what happened the first time I took Punky out in public).

But there's an even more compelling reason to keep our tiny Butterbeans shielded from the public eye, a reason I might not even be confessing now if my 16-year-old hadn't already blabbed our carefully guarded family secret to the world.

"You told someone?!" I screeched after she came home and admitted what she'd done.

"What was I supposed to do?!" she cried. "Everywhere I go at school, it's, 'How's Bruiser?' 'How's Bruiser?' 'How's Bruiser?' And I say the same thing over and over and over again. 'He's fine.' 'He's fine!' 'He's fine!' I needed something new."

"And that something had to be 'He has acne'?!" I said accusingly.

She shrugged apologetically. "I only said it to Rhonda," she said.

"What did she say?"

"She kind of gasped and stared at me. And then she said, 'Oh."

And so, readers, if Rhonda knows, I guess you might as well all know: My baby is a pizza face.

I'm not kidding. Right now, Bruiser is as pimply as any pre-Proactiv teen that ever graced the halls of a high school. Unlike his sister's infant breakout which covered her entire face like a rash, Bruiser's zits follow a hormonal trail that begins at his right eye and zigzags its way down to his chin. Until it goes away, his is a face only a mother (and a two-year-old sister) could love, which is precisely why you haven't been seeing us at the Kroger and the Starbucks and the neighborhood playground.

Well, that and the fact that he's nursing so often, I can't seem to put him down for more than 15 minutes at a stretch. In fact, if you're wondering how I'm maintaining this blog and raising four kids at the same time, rest assured that I'm only writing when Bruiser's eating. Draw your own conclusions.

Back to my point. Don't manufacturers realize that there's a market just waiting to be exploited here, a market composed entirely of pimple-faced babies and the mommies who love them? I can hear the commercials now...

Don't let your baby be the one the others avoid at Gymboree! Treat him with Zit Go Bye Bye, specially formulated for sensitive infant skin! Guaranteed to rid your newborn of acne five times faster than the leading brand!

Before Zit Go Bye Bye...

After Zit Go Bye Bye! (Artistic Interpretation)

After all, if new moms are buying this, surely they'll buy baby zit cream, too.

The Infamous Music Meme

I've been tagged, twice I think, to do this music meme. The trouble is, I don't remember who it was that tagged me. Dammit. And it took me forever to get around to completing the meme, but the timing is now perfect since I just made a CD for myself yesterday. So instead of seven songs I'm listening to now, here's my new playlist.

Breathe Me- Sia
Quicksand- Natalie Walker
Breakable- Ingrid Michaelson
Cut Your Hair- Pavement
When the Day is Short- Martha Wainwright
#9 Dream- REM
Mushaboom-Feist
I Lied- Telefon Tel Aviv
Maybe I'm Amazed- Jem
Ghosts in the Attic- Leona Naess
K-Hole-CocoRosie
Half Acre- Hem
Side of the Road (live acoustic version)- Lucinda Williams
Before This Time-Ollabelle
The Fear You Won't Fall- Joshua Radin
Here Comes Your Ride- Holidays on Ice
Glory Bound- The Wailin' Jennys
Our Love is Like a Wire- The Mendoza Line (okay, I confess, I know the guy who wrote and sings this song, but seriously Paul, it's one of my all-time favorites.)
Tennessee- Mindy Smith

Rather than tagging anyone in particular, I want you to tell me your favorite song in the comments. Don't agonize over it; just name the first one that comes to mind.

Bruiser Ferrier: Babylebrity

WSMV anchor Dan Miller was nice enough to write a post all about Bruiser. Check it out- It might be the only time you'll see a picture of the entire family (I don't post that info here simply to keep the older girls' friends off this site). As an added bonus, everyone's favorite mommyblogger Busy Mom actually took the first photo herself, capturing a heretofore unseen resemblance between Punky and Wednesday Addams! (Two Addams family references in two days-Yes, I noticed.)

Geez, Bruiser's getting so famous, I should probably start selling advertising space on his onesies, a la BuyJake. No wonder he's so demanding! Just yesterday, he asked for his own trailer, an Escalade for his stuffed animal entourage, and five bowls of blue M&Ms. What a handful!

Today's rock bottom moment (so far): When Bruiser woke me up this morning, I felt something lumpy under my stomach, only to find I'd spent most of the night sleeping on top of one of his dirty diapers. I was so tired after changing him at 2am, I forgot to throw the diaper away. Nothing like a little mustard poop on the torso to start the day off right!

Code Breakers

Pretend if you will that a new mommy dress code has put into effect, requiring all of us to tuck in our shirts.

Can you imagine the stress? The suffering? I mean, remember the 80s, when most of us were forced to suck in our tucked-in, Generra-covered preteen guts every time Andy Knowlton looked our way in Social Studies? I like to think that those horrific days motivated us to pioneer the way in untucking with the express intent that our own daughters would never have to suffer the same fate in their junior high classrooms.

And then Pedro Garcia had to come along and fuck it all up.

Who is Pedro, you ask, and what does he have to do with our preteen daughters? He's the Superintendent of Schools here in Nashville, a man who bears more than a passing resemblance to Lurch from The Addams Family, a man whom I actually like personally because of his refreshing I-don't-give-a-shit-what-any-of-you-think personality, but whose policies as superintendent tend to drive me out of my mind.

Right now, Pedro's trying to push through Standard School Attire, a policy which, if passed by the School Board on April 10th, would require both my stepdaughters to wear only black, navy, or khaki clothing to school next fall. Can you say fugly? And in the meantime, last week Pedro ordered all schools to strictly enforce the dress code, meaning all shirts had to be tucked in. Suddenly, students found themselves in a quandary: Follow Pedro's rules and risk being arrested by the fashion police, or side with good taste and get sent straight to In School Suspension. How did our beleaguered students respond? Find out in this week's Nashville Scene edition of Suburban Turmoil...

*Two new book reviews today at Suburban Turmoil Reviews. Check them out here!

But for You

I was looking at Babycenter a few weeks ago (which is, I admit, my Holy Grail of baby information) and happened upon a discussion board for new moms. They were commiserating about how everything had fallen by the wayside in the wake of their baby's birth. Housework, social engagements, hot showers- all were forgotten in favor of holding their newborns and staring out the window in dreamy bliss.

Bitches.

What I wouldn't give for an hour, just one hour to luxuriously drift in the postpartum fog that has replaced my brain cells. But I have a two-year-old who's filthy and needs to eat, two teenagers and a husband who don't have any clean underwear, and floors I could eat off of- if I wanted to spend the day with vomiting and diarrhea. Too often, Bruiser, who wants to be held around the clock, ends up crying until I can make the peanut butter sandwich or find the cordless phone or start the dishwasher. And it kills me.

At the same time, with Bruiser's constant nursing habit, Punky ends up waiting for everything. Luckily, she loves her brother and enjoys fetching diapers and blankies for him, as well as worriedly rushing to me and shrieking "Oh no! Bruiser's crying!" every time he opens his mouth. But I can't help but think the whole newborn-needs-24-hour-a-day-attention thing is going to get old for her, fast.

A friend of mine gave me some great advice the other day when I told her about all of this. "My mom always said that the baby won't remember crying," she said, "but his older sister or brother might remember always coming second." That really helps me keep things in perspective.

And so do you. I started this blog in the wake of the loneliness that came with having Punky. For the first few months, I rarely left the house and those were the most isolated months of my entire life. This time around, thanks to you guys and to my playgroup friends, I feel connected to the world despite the fact that once again, I'm pretty much under house arrest for the next month or two.

And so I thank you for your comments and your advice and to those of you who sent gifts and made dinner, I am simply overwhelmed by your generosity (and there are more of you, but I don't have your blog links!).

Also, a big, huge thank you goes out to the mother-daughter team at Javis Davis, who made Bruiser's crib bedding for me. It is stunning and gorgeous and I feel like an OC housewife with my custom-made crib bedding. If you're looking for crib or kids' bedding, I can't recommend them highly enough- They make the fabric selection and ordering process so easy, you'll feel like an expert.


(And if you're wondering why there's so much pink, it's because Bruiser is sharing Punky's room for the next two years until 16 goes to college. Rather than repaint and redecorate the whole room, I had a faux painter do some textured sage green stripes over the existing pink. And I LOVE the result.)


Anyway, Bruiser and I thank all of you for reading and commenting on this site so faithfully. I wish I had more time to read all of your blogs- and some day in the near future, I hope I will again- but please know that I read every one of your comments and e-mails and absolutely love hearing from you.

The Perfect Post Awards

It's time once again for the Perfect Post Awards, a chance for bloggers to recognize their favorite post of the preceding month, whether it was one that made them laugh, cry, or see the world in a different way.

This month, I'm awarding my Perfect Post Award to Whippersnapper Snapping Snapped
for a post that made me laugh out loud- and that was saying a lot when I read it in mid-March all nine-and-a-half-months-pregnant-with-a-ten-pound-baby. Check it out- It's hilarious, as are her other posts. Congratulations, Whippersnapper!

Now be sure and cruise through some of the other winners- You won't be disappointed. And if you'd like to give out a Perfect Post Award next month, e-mail me or the other Perfect Post Award Hostess, MommaK, and we'll put you on our mailing list.

Petroville awarded Something to Bitch About
Chicky Chicky Baby awarded Mother Goose Mouse
Little Bald Doctors awarded Midwestern Mommy
Motherhood Uncensored awarded Playgroups are No Place for Children
Mental Tesserae awarded From Under the Laundry Pile
Take Charge of Your Life awarded Antique Mommy
Procrastamom awarded Sweet Juniper
Chicken and Cheese awarded Slouching Toward 40
Masked Mom awarded Dirty White Feet and Lily White Intentions
Troll Baby awarded Secondhand Tryptophan
Blog Con Queso awarded After the Ball
Digital Father awarded Morphing into Mama
Mother-Woman awarded Denver Dad
Write About Here awarded Under the Mad Hat
Coming to a Nursery Near You awarded Motherhood Uncensored
Italian Trivia awarded Poppy Fields
Techmamas awarded The Silent I
Sunshine Scribe awarded Little Bald Doctors
MacDonald Clan awarded Boobs, Injuries and Dr. Pepper
Something Blue awarded Sunshine Scribe
Oh The Joys awarded Melanie in Orygun
Sweatpantsmom awarded Moobs
Little Monkies awarded Crib Chronicles
Eucalyptus Pillow awarded A Mommy Story
The Ravin' Mad Picture Maven awarded Woman on the Verge
Confessional Highway and Organized Chaos awarded One Plus Two
Pass The Torch awarded Holly's Corner
Childs Play x 2 awarded It's Not All Mary Poppins
Scheiss Weekly awarded Rarely Pure and Never Simple