Suburban Turmoil- The Year in Review

I've had this blog for just two and a half years now, but honestly, it feels more like ten. Ten in Internet years, anyway. So many things have happened this past year, I'm surprised I was able to work so much into just 365 days... Anyway, here are some of the highlights...

In January, an uninvited guest came to stay at Chez Ferrier. He has since departed this mortal coil and not a moment too soon, I'd say. The battle lines were drawn as you moms sided up on either Team Smocking or Team Overalls. And that minor skirmish was just a prelude to the Great Circumcision Debate of 2007. I learned more about foreskin that month than I ever, ever wanted to know. Suffering through the various trials and tribulations of the third trimester, I also asked for your most embarrassing pregnancy stories and boy, did you ever deliver!

February marked my most important Perfect Post Awards ever. I introduced you guys to a blog about a beautiful young mom who was in the midst of a battle against lymphoma. Lots of you headed over there from here and ended up regularly commenting and even donating a sizable amount of money when Leanne's husband went on a fundraising bike ride. One Suburban Turmoil reader even realized that she had lymphoma after reading about Leanne's symptoms. Sadly, she recently died. The good news for Leanne, though, is that she did indeed give lymphoma a beatdown. You go, girl!

On a lighter note, I created my now-infamous Baby Unregistry for all the baby gifts I definitely did not want to receive at my baby showers. I wrote an impassioned defense of the epidural and a bunch of you chimed in. And I created a pictorial history of how I lost my Cool.

In March, Kimberly threw me a surprise blogging baby shower, complete with awesome pictures of Suburban Turmoil readers' pregnant tummies. I reciprocated with one of my own (was that really me?!) Suffering from a wide variety of third trimester maladies, I decided to induce labor the natural way with a tried-and-true eggplant recipe, prompting a local anchor to try it and go into labor herself. And yes, after three days of eggplant leftovers, my water broke and baby Bruiser was born, nine days early and weighing in at ten. Freaking. Pounds. Of course, the birth story had to be told. A few days later, I admitted that breastfeeding sucks (at least in the beginning), and a lot of you agreed.

In April, I was understandably busy taking care of a very fussy, reflux-riddled baby. But I still managed to find time to write a post about my take on media coverage of the Virginia Tech shooting, which ended up being picked up and run on news websites across the country. Over at Suburban Turmoil Reviews, I asked for your best dumping stories and got some doozies.

In May, I had yet another botched run-in with heavy metal has-been Cinderella. (and I've discovered that more than one of them lives near me, but they look practically identical at Kroger, so hell, what do I care which one is which?) I rued the recent invasion of the prostitots,
spurred by Club Libbylus across the nation. I wrote about the frustrations I experienced during Bruiser's first six weeks and plenty of you chimed in in the comments. I asked that age-old question that many a mother has wondered: Will my son be gay? And I decided to breastfeed Bruiser whenever and wherever I pleased, disapproving old ladies be damned!

June found me trying to get a Second Life (because I'm not, you know, busy enough in my first). I decided that being a stay-at-home-mom was not that hard, a statement that provoked all kinds of impassioned responses, not to mention posts on other blogs. Bruiser and I went to San Francisco, courtesy of my blog! I went all ape shit on United Airlines, and you guys had plenty of your own bad airline stories to share in the comments. And I proved that, despite the naysayers, Bruiser does indeed look like me.

In July, I blunk drogged for the first (and hopefully last) time. I also started my blended family blog for Parents.com. The family and I made our annual pilgrimage to LA to visit the in-laws, and Punky got to meet one of her heroines at Disneyland. And I went to BlogHer, where I met Amy Sedaris, passed around a very stinky cheese, got smacked down by Penelope Trunk, and totally (albeit inadvertently) crashed a Real Simple party. Let's not talk about what the place looked like when I got home.

In August, I got sick. Really, really sick. Then I got well and decided I was actually dying of something else. I wrote an epilogue to the Real Simple Swagtroversy. We lost a friend that had become an important part of our family. I watched the relationship blossom between my two youngest children. And I spilled the beans on Martina McBride, in what's become one of the most infamous Nashville Scene "Suburban Turmoil" columns of all time.

In September, McToiletgate swished into high gear, culminating in a few angry phone calls and one of the best hate e-mails ever. I celebrated The Year of the Mom in a pictorial recap of New York Fashion Week. I introduced you to George, my candidate for Worst Soccer Dad Ever, Preschool Division. I engaged in some age old marital manipulation that totally worked! And I admitted that Bruiser still wasn't sleeping through the night, prompting a flood of great advice from you guys (advice that worked! Thanks!).

In October, I stirred up a new controversy with my tale of The Babysitter Thief. I asked for your all-time worst baby names and got more than 327 RESPONSES. Gah, y'all! I came up with the one must-have item for every new mom. I wrote a rant about PR companies' assumption that mommybloggers are idiots who will be so thankful for PR e-mails that they'll give their clients free advertising. And I conceived of a dastardly plan to foil rude trick-or-treaters and managed to piss off a message board of "Halloween Lovers" in the process.

November basically sucked ass. Hubs apparently was allergic to an antibiotic he was given for a staph infection, so allergic that his liver temporarily stopped working. He feels fine now, but we're still waiting for all of his blood levels to slowly return back to normal. Meanwhile, I made friends with a merry band of doll lovers and got some much-needed retail therapy.
I also admitted that I'm raising Bruiser without the help of experts, something a lot of y'all seemed to need to hear. Then I promptly forgot he existed at a soccer game, making me glad I'm not Britney Spears; the paparazzi would've had a field day. And Punky decided she's ready to be a big girl, just like her older sisters.

That brings us to December, a month for Doodlebop hating, baby weaning, and crushing blows to my mommy ego. I introduced you to the Ferrier Family Circus and admitted that for the last few months, postpartum depression has been kicking my ass. I gave you a helpful list of Santas to avoid. And I decided that where stepparenting is concerned, love is a tough business.

And that was 2007, a year filled with laughter, milestones, heartache, and an awful lot of love. Thank you all so much for sharing it with me. I continue to be in awe that so many people out there stop by here each day for a visit, and that even in this online world where things can get really nasty, the vast majority of you are completely non-judgmental and supportive, no matter how many mistakes I make. I feel like you're all my extended family network, really, offering advice, holding me accountable, commiserating and making me feel like I'm not alone. Thank you so much for that. You've changed my life and given me perspective. Have a wonderful new year and I'll see you in 2008!

*And if you want to see my favorite things that I got to review this past year, head over here for the best of the best.

Last Links Ever for 2007....

So last night, Hubs and I were watching a nerdy combo of The Office episodes on DVD interspersed with the New England Patriots game when I noticed a strange sound.

Sirens.

Our neighborhood is a small one that's on the very edge of Nashville and when we hear a siren at my house, that means the emergency is happening either in our neighborhood or the one right next to ours. When I heard another siren and then another one, I decided to look outside and see if I could figure out what was going on.

I opened the front door, walked out onto our front steps and...

OHMYLORD, A HOUSE WAS TOTALLY ON FIRE! And I'm telling you as someone who has seen a lot of structure fires that this was a big one. An out-of-control one. I yelled for Hubs to come outside and stood staring at the ten-foot flames leaping from the upstairs windows of the house. It was just far enough away that I didn't worry about my own family's safety, but it was horrible nonetheless. I could hear glass breaking and firefighters yelling as they struggled to gain control of the blaze. Around me, my neighbors gathered silently and watched. We wondered whose house it was and whether everyone got out okay. I'm sure each of us thought of our own homes and counted our blessings that it wasn't ours that burned. And I talked to a man whose house backed up to the burning one- He had called the fire department and said it took a full 15 minutes after he called for the first truck to arrive. Not very comforting.

So that was my night. Uh, how was yours?

Anyway, it's the weekend and that means it's time to point you to my Parents.com posts. I've signed on to continue The Blender in 2008, by the way, so thanks to everyone who's been visiting. You convinced the Parents.com overlords to keep me!

• In this post, I think I've figured out why so many stepparents are unable to coax love from their stepkids.
• Here, I tell you about the vacation I'm on right this very moment.
• And here's a recap of my recent evening with Alternadad and family.

Also, this post wouldn't be complete without some reviews and one special giveaway for FOUR lucky Suburban Turmoil readers. Check these out:

• Here's a cute little mp3 player that's perfect for the gym.
• Here's a great little gift idea for the horse-loving girls in your life.
• Here's the most expensive air freshener I've ever seen.
• And here's a great new line of baby clothes from a very familiar source.
  

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

And, on a COMPLETELY UNRELATED TOPIC, go read about my short stint in the sex business here. (That thud you heard was the sound of my mom hitting the floor.)

A Very Ferrier Christmas

Christmas 2007 will forever be known in this house as The Scattergories Christmas. Hubs received the game as a gift from my 14-year-old stepdaughter and we proceeded to play on and off all day long. By late last night, the game had us in its thrall; We had become Scattergories addicts, jonesing for rounds like they were vials of heroin (if we were heroin addicts, I mean. Which we're not!).

"Just one more round," I wheezed at the end of our eleventy-hundredth game last night. It was 11:30, late by our Baby-in-the-House standards.

"Yeah," my bloodshot-eyed 17-year-old agreed. "One more round, Dad, come on."

Hubs looked leery. He had already agreed to get up with Bruiser the next morning (6am!) and was up way too late already. But he was helplessly caught in Scattergories' evil clutches, and clearly had become yet another pawn in the Scattergories Corporate Strategy to Take Over the World, One Player at a Time.™

"Okay," he agreed mechanically, and another round began. Now one thing we all like about this game is that unlike some memorable episodes involving Sorry and (especially!) Pictionary (Fight City!), Scattergories doesn't produce many arguments. I say many, because when you put a bunch of Ultra-Competitive Ferriers around any kind of game board, some sort of uproar is absolutely guaranteed to ensue. For example...

"Transylvania," I said triumphantly when it was my turn to announce an answer for the category "Foreign Countries." The girls nodded resignedly.

"It's not a country," Hubs said dismissively.

"What? Yes it is!" I blustered. "Count Dracula! Hel-LO!"

"It's a province of Romania," Hubs said. "A province."

"No it's not," I scowled.

"Yes it is."

"It's not."

"I'm an expert on Count Dracula," Hubs announced, to my surprise. I had never known this about him.

"Oh really?"

"Yes," he said, dead serious. "I've read first person accounts, seen documentation. Transylvania is a province."

Documentation, eh? That did it. They took a vote. Transylvania was out.

"Nerd," I whispered darkly, but after that I made a valiant effort to let it go. Nerd or not, I was gonna have to live with this guy for the rest of my life, so I might as well make the best of it. When he voted down my answer of "Lapdancers" in the category of "Villains/Monsters," though, it was just too much to take.

"Why are the police always trying to shut them down then?" I demanded belligerently. "Because lapdancers are evil, that's why! It is so obvious!" Unimpressed, Hubs led another effort to vote me down. "Fools," I muttered under my breath, crossing out the point I had added on my scoresheet. I looked over at Hubs and noted his smirk. Was this really the man I had married? This man who apparently studied documentation on Transylvania in his spare time, and didn't think lapdancers were villains? My eyes narrowed with steely resolve. It was time to fight fire with fire.

The next few rounds, I disputed every assertion of his that I could, leading thumbs-down votes on everything from his answer of "Music box" ("That's not an instrument!" I howled derisively), to his claim that "Babs" was a term of endearment ("Your aunt's nickname?! A nickname is not a term of endearment, you doofus!"). Once upon a time, I had tried to give this man I loved the benefit of the doubt, but last night, the sentimentalities we had exchanged over the years evaporated in a toxic cloud of outrage. Where Scattergories was concerned, I would show my husband no mercy.

By the end of the game, it was clear he wouldn't be winning as long as I was around to stop him. He frowned as he looked at his scorecard, then put on a bright fake grin for the girls' sake while I did my patented Winner's Dance beside the kitchen table. We decided, finally, to quit for the night, and as we got up from the table, Hubs and I reluctantly smiled at each other.

"Merry Christmas," I said heartily, opening my arms. As we hugged warmly, I put my lips to his ear.

"Asshole," I whispered.

"Bitch," he whispered back.

We looked at each other and laughed. Ah, the Magic of Christmas.

An Open Letter to an Extra-Special Woman Who Attended Yesterday's Nutcracker Performance

Dear Mrs. Horton Culpepper VII or Mrs. Shankston Harrowford-Jones or whomever you are,

Perhaps you thought the extra-large monograms on your children's smocked Christmas rompers or the rich texture of your designer fur or even the sizable donation your husband's firm made to the Nashville Ballet entitled you to bring your one-and-a-half-year-old son to "The Nutcracker" yesterday.

It didn't.

While "The Nutcracker" is indeed a family affair, it's assumed that you will interpret "family" to include only those members who can sit quietly in their seats for two hours, who no longer throw crackers at the audience members who are unlucky enough to be seated in front of them, and who won't, under any circumstances, poop in their pants. In the unlikely event that any of these criteria aren't met, you are expected to remove said family member from the audience.

Ya didn't.

And so as I introduced my daughter to ballet for the first time after repeated listenings and interpretive dances to "The Nutcracker" on our stereo all month long, she must have wondered why our home version of the ballet didn't include the words, "Ah gunga gunga gunga" repeated incessantly during the Waltz of the Snowflakes. Or the screeching during the Arabian Dance. Or the loud sobbing during the Sugarplum Fairy and Nutcracker Prince's Pas de deux.

Thank you for that, Mrs. Halston Snootendorfer Trump XV. Your son has quite a pair of lungs on him.

Of course, I'm sure you felt that you couldn't possibly behave like one of those horribly common parents you see in, like, movie theaters or at the library, the ones who snatch up their tantrummy toddlers and escort them to the lobby or restroom. I mean, when your name is engraved on the Patron's Wall, you don't exactly leave mid-performance, do you?

Well... yes. You do. But you didn't.

So, Mrs. Hiffelfeller, on behalf of the thousands of us who paid anywhere from $30 to $70 per seat, I'd like to give you.... special acknowledgment for providing us with an element to "The Nutcracker" that we never could have anticipated.

Just pray I never meet you face-to-face at any playgroup.

Merry Christmas!

Lindsay

Odds and Ends

Hello? Anybody out there? I'm assuming most of you are as busy as I am, doing stuff like eating, wrapping presents, eating, watching Christmas movies, eating, going to holiday parties, easting, baking, eating, spiking the egg nog, eating, and looking at Christmas lights. Oh, and did I mention eating?

I still found time, though, to post over at Parents.com (don't you just love them? I mean, you're guaranteed to find me over there three times a week, even if my husband has a serious illness or I'm frantically preparing for Christmas! So you know we're all still alive, mom, even if I haven't posted here in days!). Anyway, go check out these posts if you have a second:

• It's the end of an era and I'm not all that happy about it. Nor, I'm sure, are the Mothering.com types.
• An unabashed celebration of consumerism and selfishness.
• And proof that we're not all bad around here at Christmas time.

I'm taking the week off over at my reviews blog (so before you send me that pissy e-mail, my PR friends, take note: Your review will be up next weekend, m'kay?), but there is one thing that might make a good last-minute gift for that sister-in-law or parent you forgot to buy a gift for. Check it out here.

From the Suburban Turmoil Mailbag

She probably was crying because it died somewhere in your HVAC

Hi I read your blog about the Dwarf hamster and I was wondering...What is so bad about a dwarf hamster? I once got a hamster and my mother actually ended up loving it. She cried when it died.
-Terri

Maybe try tying it down with some rope?

Lindsay:
Great blog! I really like the "Suburban Turmoil" header image! How the heck do you get a header image to stay on the first page of your blog? Mine won't stay put! Any help that you can give will be greatly appreciated. -Matt

I'd like to know the answer to this one, too. Tell you what. You guys ask any questions you want in the comments, I'll dispense some free advice, and we'll see if the Internet pays me. Keep your fingers crossed!

hi,
happy to read your answer ,how to balance mom dad while raising family.
while on this I saw your profile and was lead to read your profile.
I am located in India and India aged 52 ,retired from job. user of Internet. I have retired and would like to know how the writing on Internet pays when you are dispensing free advice... what are the modalities if I am not sounding personal . I am curious to know this. as I am also interested to make money while at your desk...
Please appreciate my query and respond
Thanking for your response and cooperation
-Kishor

Ick

Hi just looking for advice I am young but have a boyfriend who is uncircumcised . Do not know much at all about foreskin and all that stuff except he is huge below with lots of foreskin. From what I have read lately it is better he should be circumcised but I am not sure . Gee what are your insights would appreciate them a whole bunch . Love.
-Janet

Just look up "stalking" in the yellow pages. Duh.

I am wondering if you have ever heard of companies involved in security that employ people to stalk suspected shoplifters.
I am not doing anything for which I should be stalked. Yet, I have gotten on the list of people this company is stalking. It is very insidious because at first you think you are imagining it, but after awhile you actually hear people slandering you to the staff at Kroger, Walgreens, Staples etc, and you recognize the same cars following you to stores. I am pretty sure they even tapped my phone from a rental house next door where the tenants must be employed by this company. A stalker even knocked on the doors of my other neighbors and told them he thought I was a risk to them. This man, I believe, was fired, and the company is consumed with proving what he told my neighhbors about me is true for fear I will sue them. At this point, I definately WANT to sue them. It is slander. I need to find out the name of the company, but the stores won't help of course because they employ this company to do this. I have spoken to several private detectives, but they will not confirm there is anything they can do to figure out who this man worked for. Have you ever heard of this before? There is no question that this company and others exist for the purpose of stalking people. When I spoke to the police, I was told the man in question has a lengthy history of stalking, yet they will not help me to obtain the name of the company involved.
HELP! ! !
-Tammy

Tampa?

Hi there you don't know me but I am new to tampa area and am looking for drop in daycare for my days away from 2 year old boy. I found your site on a search for drop in daycare and was glad to see your post about the "bad baby place". Could you please e-mail me with the place I should avoid?? Also if you have found another place that is better I'd love to know about that.
Thank you for your post as that is exactly what I am trying to avoid, I just want some time so that I can feel like an adult every now and then and don't need daycare for anything else. -Mitch :)

Murder by banana? I'm in!

Hi. I'm trying to put together a virtual book tour. I found your site by searching for "senior citizen, mystery reader, blog." My book is about four elderly pinochle players at the local senior center who decide to fight back by murdering their nemeses -- the overzealous activity boosters. I'm looking for someone to do a short interview (I have one murder by banana) in the time frame mentioned. Would you be willing? (If not, maybe you know someone who might?) Thanks. Cheryl

The Many Faces of Poo Poo

I should have seen this coming back when Punky was barely two and one of the older girls received a set of multicolored rubber iPod covers. Punky immediately claimed the iPod covers as her own, treating each of them as though it had a distinct personality. She spent the next two weeks lovingly carrying them with her wherever she went, feeding them, talking to them, even sleeping with them at night. Oh, she had plenty of dolls and stuffed animals. But she preferred the iPod covers.

Now that she's three, all kinds of inanimate objects around our house speak and have feelings just like the rest of us, thanks to Punky. The den coffee table is a rather dull type, while the rocking chair in her room appears to be just one creak away from a total emotional meltdown. And then there's the food- specifically, the Pigs in Blankets, which Punky likes to make herself.

"Oh! I'm so cold!" she'll shriek in a tiny voice, holding up a tiny hotdog. "What am I gonna do? I'm freezing!"

"Don't worry, piggie," she answers herself reassuringly after I lay out a piece of crescent roll dough for her. "Here's a nice warm blanket. I'll wrap you up in it."

"Oh, that's a good idea. Now I'm warm. Thank you."

Once all the piggies are in their blankets, they shout goodbye to Punky before going in the oven- That's my cue.

"Bye bye, Punky! Bye!" I squeak, showing her the baking stone full of pigs in blankets. "We're going to get warm now so you can eat us!"

"Bye," she'll say happily. "Now you piggies be good in the oven!"

Yes, in this Wonderland of talking furniture, food and iPod covers, everything has a personality. Including poo poo.

Some of you may remember when I discovered that giving Poo Poo a backstory was just what Punky needed to start depositing said Poo Poo in the potty, rather than her diaper. As it turned out, that was only the beginning.

These days, Punky is 100% potty trained, but she still has a soft spot for ole' Poo Poo. Poo Poo still likes to bid a fond farewell to all of us before joining his (rather large extended) family in the sewer. Even more importantly, Punky has discovered that, like snowflakes, no two poo poos are alike.

"Mommy!" she whooped the other day, prompting me to drop my bon bons and run to the bathroom where she stood peering into the potty. It's "Letter Poo Poo!" She danced around excitedly. "It's U Poo Poo! Or maybe V Poo Poo!"

I stared at it for a moment. "I think it's U Poo Poo," I said finally.

The next day brought more squeals from the bathroom. "MOMMY! I made a Telephone Poo Poo!" Dutifully, I came to examine it. It did bear a striking resemblance to her toy telephone receiver. "Wow, Punky," I said, impressed. "You sure do know how to make Poo Poo!" "I know," she said proudly.

Since then, Rock Poo Poo and Log Poo Poo both have paid their respects. Yesterday, Sword Poo Poo showed up. And on one slightly disturbing day, a rare and endangered Leopard Poo Poo made an appearance. Sometimes it takes us a minute or so to identify which Poo Poo we're looking at. But we manage.

"Is it a Lego Poo Poo?" Punky asks softly.

"I think it's a Mini Cooper Poo Poo," I respond after examining it from a different angle.

"Oh," she says, nodding solemnly.

And that's when I realize how far I've come in the last ten years.

Lindsay Ferrier: News reporter. Anchor. Television Writer. Mommyblogger.

Interpreter of Poo Poo.

Running Out of Phrases with the Word "Link" in Them

First of all, if you still haven't read my Bad Santa post, go do it now. It is one of my favorite posts ever. Not my best, necessarily, just the most fun I've had coming up with captions in quite a while. In fact, if I were offered a full-time job coming up with funny captions for Santa photos, I'd take it, stay-at-home-mommydom be damned!

Once you're done with that, head on over to my Parents.com blog for more posts from me on a few different topics....

• Negative e-mails and comments really don't have much of an impact on how I feel about myself and my parenting skills. But there are two critics out there who have the ability to cut me to the core. Find out who here.
• Speaking of negative comments, this post has already provoked one. Read "Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's a Coked-Up Streetwalker" here.
• And while I'm generally bemoaning the fact that no one loves me enough to register at Parents.com (which requires photocopies of your passport and/or signing over your firstborn, apparently, but still!) and have even considered changing the name of it to "No Comment(s)" (clever, eh?), there are a few topics that need to be written about, but are a little too painful for me to actively discuss. This is one of them. Thank God for The Blender.

Also! Reviews! My Christmas present to myself is catching up on them. Because when I get even a little bit behind, I start getting all kinds of e-mails asking me if I received the such-and-such and when do I think I will ever get around to writing about it, huh, huh? And that is very stressful! So here you go! And this is IT for a bit. Mostly. I probably still have one or two more things around here that I've forgotten about. Anyway:

• Have you been wondering how to keep your house from becoming a germ and plague-infested rathole? Here's help!
• I get to review the COOLEST stuff. Seriously. You probably need this product, too, and I hear they're not too expensive at Costco.
• I've tried every diaper brand out there (literally) and this one is my hands-down favorite.
• Ho hum. Another day, another vibrator....
• Everything you need to get rid of dry, scaly-ass skin.
• Having a Cookie Swap? Please don't forget to wear a Santa sweater! Oh, and I got your hookup here.
• Lots of good book options, plus what had to be the worst-titled PR e-mail of all time!
• More bling that's changed my life.
• One of the best movies ever made is out on DVD and it's PERFECT for the Manly Men in your life.
• And finally, EVERY BABY REALLY SHOULD HAVE AT LEAST ONE OF THESE. I put it in caps because it's down at the bottom of the post, and yet it's one of the best and most useful products I've ever reviewed.

Uh, bye!

Bad Santa 2007

It's that time of year again, time to dress up the kids in their Christmas best, stand in a long line and pay way too much money for what generally is a not-so-great Santa picture (or is that just me?)

In the past, I've directed you to some of the best Santas out there; I've also showed you the Jolly Old Elves to avoid. Unfortunately, this year there seem to be more Bad Santas than ever. If you still haven't visited your shopping mall's Saint Nick, take my advice and stay the hell away from these guys:

I'm-Converting-to-Judaism-as-Soon-as-My-Shift-Ends Santa

Hey!-That's-Not-a-CANDY-CANE-in-His-Pocket! Santa

Twenty-Bucks-Says-This-Kid's-Going-in-the-Fireplace Santa

I-Told-You-the-Fucking-Hood-was-a-Bad-Idea Santa

Santy Warhol

Wait-a-Second-Those-are-GRANDPA'S-Glasses! Santa

By-Day-I'm-an-Amish-Furniture-Maker Santa

Just-Flew-in-From-St.-Tropez Santa

These-Minions-Will-Aid-in-My-Plot-to-Take-Over-the-World!!! Santa

Someone-Just-Pooped Santa

Didn't-I-Tell-You-to-Keep-the-Damn-Mommies-Out-of-the-Shot? Santa

Kenny Santa

Shut-Your-Yap-or-I-Will-Give-You-Rope-Burn Santa

Did-I-Grow-My-Beard-for-This? Santa

Hidin'-My-Goodies Santa

Slip-Me-a-Fifty-or-the-Kid's-Gettin'-Coal Santa

Reindeer-Breath Santa

I-Stole-Some-Kid's-Ritalin Santa

See-Why-I-Told-You-Not-to-Pull-My-Beard? Santa

I-Believe-You-Can't-Hug-a-Kid-Hard-Enough Santa

Mrs.-Claus-Hid-the-Whiskey-Again Santa

Oompah-Loompah-Doompity-Santa

*For last year's Bad Santa rundown, go here.

Party of Too Many

Back when I was pregnant with Bruiser, my neighbor told me she had a great idea for one of my upcoming newspaper columns.

"You have to write about how weird people think you are when you have four kids!" she said. "Three kids don't turn heads, but once I had my fourth, I got all kinds of stares and crazy questions. It's insane!"

Truthfully, I didn't think that would happen to me. After all, two of my kids are teenagers, and it's not like I personally had four children. But as it turned out, she was absolutely right. This world simply is not made for families of six or more.

Read all about it in this week's Nashville Scene edition of Suburban Turmoil (featuring some of your comments!) and then come back and tell me what you think when you see a large family out and about- and be honest!

Satan. I Mean, Santa.

Time for the annual Santa picture!

It's very strange that the baby seems happy on Santa's lap, while Punky looks like she's sitting on a tack. She really does have a very nice smile, she just doesn't know how to fake it for pictures. She asked Santa for a pink and white hobby horse, a princess throne, and a doll that looks like her. I think Santa's got it covered. And then some. He's nice like that.

I've started using Santa as a way to keep Punky in line, but I'm really bad at it.

"You'd better stop being naughty, Punky!" I tell her. "Santa's watching you!"

She crosses her arms and pouts. "But where is he?" she asks every time.

"He's uh," I have to think for a second because I'm a little bit rusty on the Santa lore. "He's in the South Pole. No! The North Pole! He's watching you from the North Pole! He sees you when you're sleeping! He knows when you're awake!"

I'm starting to creep myself out. Santa sounds kind of like a perv.

Hubs isn't any better.

"Santa's really mad at you!" he said to Punky the other night, exasperated after she refused to behave. I started laughing. It just sounded weird. I'm wondering what kind of image we're giving Punky of the Jolly Old Elf, who brings toys, watches everything she does like a Peeping Nick, and gets really mad at her sometimes.

It hasn't seemed to affect Punky too much, because one of her favorite games right now involves her playing Santa and me playing Rudolph. "And what can Daddy be?" she asked from the tub yesterday morning, after commanding "Rudolph" to bring her her mermaid dollies. "Oh! I know! He can be a elf! A really big elf! Ho ho ho!"

So that's the Santa status as of today, December 12th. Shockingly, I think I pretty much have Christmas shopping under control. We'll go to Opry Mills next Saturday (Madness! But festive!) for last minute gifts and that will be that.

Meanwhile, I didn't get around to doing any reviews over the weekend (I'll bet you're crushed, aren't you?), which meant that I didn't link to my posts over at Parents.com. So here they are in all their glory. Please go visit. They send out our stat numbers every month like it's a competition, which means, of course, THAT I MUST WIN.

This post made my mom cry.

If you're feeling disconnected from the teen(s) in your life, I've got some ideas.

And here's a good way to tell if your kid's watching too much TV.

Why are You Reading This?

"So what do you do now?"

It was the inevitable holiday cocktail party question, asked by anyone who still remembered my TV reporting days. Thank God this year, I had an answer that involved more than changing diapers and knowing all the words to "Fruit Salad, Yummy Yummy."

"Well, I write a column for the Scene," I said. "And I write a blog. Two blogs, actually."

"A blog?" the man asked. "A blog about what?"

"About my life. About raising four kids and uh, you know, whatever else comes up."

He looked confused. "And why would I want to read about that?"

I paused. "What?"

"You write about your life," he said, smiling and shaking his head. "Why would I want to read about that? I don't get it."

"I don't know," I said after a moment. "I guess you wouldn't."

"Well, what exactly makes it into your blog?" he wanted to know. "Like what kinds of stories?"

"It just depends on what happens. Anything that's funny or interesting."

"Will you write about this party?" his wife asked. "Will you write about it tomorrow?"

"You know?" I said. "I think I will."

You're Still Here?

If you haven’t noticed, until last week, I wasn't really around for a while. I mean, I was here, but not…. Here. Not in the way I usually am.

Despite the fact that I knew the “baby blues” had kicked my ass after Punky and that it would likely be even worse this time around, postpartum depression still managed to take me by surprise, this time snatching me up like some kind of evil WWE wrestler and bodyslamming me on the mat of my existence.

For six months after Bruiser was born, I told myself I was fine. Oh, I was irritable and prone to short bursts of weeping with frustration, but I knew what was behind it, and that made me okay, right?

Wrong.

Take eight straight months without a full night’s sleep, add the hormonal chaos that comes with breastfeeding, throw in an incredibly noisy baby who wants to be held or at least looked at in the eye 24/7, an active, inquisitive three-year-old, and two temperamental teens prone to fits of, well, awe-inducing bitchiness, sprinkle the whole thing with three freelance writing jobs, and then toss in a potentially life-threatening illness for Hubs and the next thing I knew, I found myself in a fog of what I can only assume was despair.

For the last two months, I’ve had trouble getting anything done. Anything. I’ve tried to be forgiving of myself, doing only what absolutely had to be done to keep things running smoothly. The kids were bathed and fed, supper was (usually) on the table each night, the holiday decorations were put up in reasonable amounts of time. Appointments were (barely) kept, writing assignments were handed in (seconds) before deadline, and the blog was (occasionally) updated.

But I haven’t been calling back friends. I haven’t been visiting blogs. I haven’t been keeping up with e-mails. And when I think of all there is to do, and all that I’ve been putting off, I still feel completely exhausted and incapable. At times over the last two months, I looked at this blog and at my Parents.com blog and thought, Did I write that? How on earth did I manage to turn in three posts this week? I have been operating on auto pilot, feeling like there is nothing to look forward to each day except another 18 straight hours of changing diapers, preparing meals, doing laundry, nursing, reading picture books, and doing dishes. I have felt, uncharacteristically, inordinate amounts of irritation and even rage. I had always thought that depression involved a lot of sleeping and uncontrollable crying, but now, I think that depression is the only term that could describe how I was feeling.

I can tell you this now because I am at last starting to feel like I'm getting back to my old self. Bruiser is finally (finally! ) sleeping through the night and I'm actually managing to sleep for eight straight hours at a time. That has helped, along with Bruiser's decision to cut down on nursing. Breastfeeding and my emotional well-being just do not go together. I have considered it a huge sacrifice I’ve made for my babies, but now I’m thinking my family needs a calm, happy mother and stepmother more than they need a profoundly annoyed, lactating one.

Hubs is finally getting back to his old self, too, and that's done more than anything to make me feel better. He was improving a little bit each week, but it took forever, and when your husband is yellow and constantly itching, you can't help but be freaked out and vaguely terrified, regardless of what his numbers are after each blood draw.

Now that I've cleared all these hurdles, I no longer take for granted the fact that I generally wake up each morning hopeful and excited about the day. I don't take for granted my energy and ambition. I don't take for granted my optimism. I've had all of these things my whole life; being without them for a few months made me realize just how precious they are, and how difficult it can be for people who live much of their lives without them.

I'm still crazy busy, but I'm back. I can feel it. And I'm so glad you're still here, and that you waited me out. Thank you.

Party of Six

It's hard to believe that I've gone from family of one to family of six in just five years. Now, going anywhere with the whole family is a major production and finding room for all of us, whether in a restaurant or a movie theater, is iffy at best.

I'm planning on writing a column on this subject and would love to hear your experiences with and funny stories about large families, whether you grew up in one, have one of your own, or just have an opinion on why parents should or shouldn't raise broods of four or more. Leave your thoughts in the comments and they just might appear in Suburban Turmoil, the newspaper column.

Matching Up

I was talking to a mom friend of mine on the playground a year or so ago when the subject of what we fed our children came up.

"If I had a lot more money," I confided, "I would love to have given Punky only hormone-free milk and organic baby food. But it's just too expensive."

"Well, I feed Jason all organic foods," my friend replied. "You just make a decision that that's where your resources will go and then you stick with it."

I looked at her, dumbstruck. She was a waitress, struggling to make ends meet. As pinched as my family was for cash, we had far more money to work with than she did. Suddenly, I felt like a total heel, as though our "resources" were going to beer and movie rentals when they could be going to free range chicken.

Oh screw it, I tried to tell myself. Everyone knows processed foods are where it's at. Nevertheless, when Bruiser was ready for solids, I opted for organic baby food over the regular kind. Our resources are going to organic foods now, I've told myself primly while looking over our newly-inflated grocery bell. And I've felt good about my decision, really good....

...that is, until I spent time with another mommy friend not too long ago. Once again, the subject of what we fed our babies came up. (Yes, my single friends, this really is pretty much the extent of all conversation between new moms. And yes, it fucking sucks.)

"I'm only feeding Bruiser Gerber organics," I said exultantly. "I feel so much better now that I've made that decision."

"Well, I'm happy to say I never fed Jasmine a single container of baby food," she replied. "I made everything myself."

Pffffffffffffffffftttttttttttt.

You guessed it. That was the sound of my mommy ego deflating.

I've come to the conclusion that no matter what I do for my children, it will never be enough. And so now, the whole child-rearing process is nothing more for me now than an elaborate system of checks and balances. My organic decision, for example, neutralizes the fact that Bruiser's baby food comes pre-made in plastic tubs. And while my kids are probably chewing on leaded toys, at least I threw out the cheap ones! That means they're now chewing on fewer toys with lead! Oh, and yes, I heat up bottles in the microwave, but on the other hand, I am really good about frequent diaper changes and diaper rash is almost unheard of around here! And although I only bathe my children every other day, when I do, it's a really lonnnnnng bath!

The system works just as well when I compare myself with other mothers. Melissa buys her daughter lots more toys than I buy mine, but she also spends way less time with her than I spend with Punky. Danielle has already taught her son to read... but she lets him act like a total hellion on the playground, while I make sure that Punky behaves herself. Jane has started a garden with her preschooler, but she hasn't taken him to the doctor for his annual checkup in well over a year. Factoring in these pros and cons helps me convince myself that I'm actually not the world's worst mother- nor are my mom friends the world's best.

I only wish I had the guts to neutralize aloud.

"That's great that you never gave Jasmine baby food, Anne! It really makes up for the way you pretend like you haven't noticed that she's pooped in her diaper when we're at Starbucks!"

"Organics only, Janice? Wow! Now I don't think it's so awful that you put Jason in those smocked rompers!"

I know, I know. I'm awful.

But don't worry; I'll even it all out by reading five books today to my kids....

The Little Weaner

I had planned to make the ultimate sacrifice for baby Bruiser, loaning out my boobs for a period of one year so that he could nurse and therefore be healthier, smarter, and better looking than all of his formula-fed counterparts. (I’m only kidding, my formula-feeding friends. Seriously.)

Never mind that breastfeeding makes me a raving bitch (No, really. It does). Never mind that more than one person has assured me that breastfeeding two babies will result in my boobs sagging to my waistline before the year is through (still anxiously inspecting myself in the mirror each night. Will get back to you on that). Never mind any of that; it would all be worth it so long as my Bruiser got the very best milk that money couldn’t buy.

That was the plan, anyway. But about a month ago, Bruiser did the unthinkable. At a mere seven months of age, he began to wean himself.

I fought him, of course. Each nursing session became more like a wrestling match between the two of us, me trying different holds and positions, him wriggling and fussing or chortling with laughter at my lame attempts to get him to eat. I turned down the lights, turned off the television and computer, repeatedly shushed Punky, and attempted to make breastfeeding the equivalent of a meal in an intimate, four-star restaurant. No deal. And all my efforts pretty much ended the week he cut four teeth at one time. I have only word to describe this experience on my end: Ow.

From then on, if he gave me trouble at the breast, I turned unswervingly to the bottle. Today, he nurses once when he wakes up in the morning and that's pretty much it. He nurses for comfort more than nutrition, but it helps absolve some of my guilt over weaning him so early.

Because initially, I did feel guilty. Way guilty. What kind of woman was I if I couldn’t even breastfeed my son for a full year? What was wrong with me? What was wrong with him? I looked at him appraisingly, and that’s when it hit me. At eight and a half months, Bruiser is 22 pounds. He’s round and robust and rosy as all get out. That night during my sag inspection, I took a long look at myself. Boobs? I said silently. You’ve done all you can do for this boy. Good work.

Now I treat every nursing session as if it might be the last. Sometimes I feel a little sad about the early weaning, but then I remind myself that very soon, my hormones will return to their rightful levels and I'll feel deliciously normal again. Bruiser will learn what it's like to have a mother who doesn't feel like the world is caving in around her. And I'm thinking that's probably every bit as good for him as breast milk.

The Devil's on the Disney Channel

I'm not exactly strict when it comes to kids shows; pretty much anything that's on the Disney Channel or Nickelodeon before noon is fair game for my kids. I've even been known to turn on Adult Swim for my three-year-old late at night when she's having her warm milk nightcap. I mean, she doesn't understand any of it, anyway, so what the heck?

How. Ever.

There is one Disney show that's strictly prohibited in this household. It may not be watched under any circumstances. It was, I'm convinced, created and written by Satan. Need I even tell you which show I'm talking about?

You guessed it. The freaking Doodlebops.

I am absolutely certain that The Doodleblobs were created specifically to drive parents completely bonkers. I mean, just look at them. They all obviously have come in from a long night of heavy drinking and tried to camouflage their misdeeds with Walgreens-brand fright wigs. And those clothes? Oy. Kneepads, a crotchpad, and a dress that screams "Play me, boys." I don't even want to know what this threesome is up to when the cameras are off, but you can bet it's disgusting.

I try not to pass along any unfair prejudices I may have on to my kids, but I feel it’s only fair that my children know the truth about the Dark Lord’s minions who are masquerading as children’s characters on the Disney Channel. I’m proud to say Punky has gotten the message loud and clear. See for yourself:

Parents, take my advice. Just say hell, no to these so-called "Doodlebops." Better yet, write the Disney Channel and tell them to send those neon demons back to whatever Hellmouth they slithered out of. Our sanity depends on it.

P.S. Don't forget to enter in this week's giveaways over at Suburban Turmoil Reviews... for an awesome kid's t-shirt of your choice (and I have a new code for 40% off your entire order!), tween girl books, and a gigantic Miffy stuffed bunny!

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