All in the Family

It was only a matter of time, I guess.

My 17-year-old stepdaughter has a blog.

She's been working on it for a few months now, and while I try not to check it too often, (because I really don't want to freak her out), I have to take a peek every now and then. I'm nosy that way. Also, she said I could.

17's blog is risque, over the top, politically incorrect, wonderfully optimistic in the way only a teenager could be, and pretty darn funny, if I do say so myself. It's a good indicator of what's going on in high schools today (and some of it might shock you- I'm just glad 17 tells me about it- and I'm hoping she keeps her vantage point as that of a casual observer, not a participant). I was reading some of her posts yesterday and it struck me that as much as I feel like she doesn't take one word of my advice, and in fact, often seems to do the exact opposite, I see what she's written and I know that this is my kid. She keenly watches the lives of those around her unfold and writes about the funnier parts as they happen, regardless of what anyone else may think about it. Read it and tell me if you don't agree (unless you are her grandparents, and then, uh, you probably shouldn't read it).

And don't feel too sneaky; 17 has given me permission to link to her blog. She wants traffic, people. Let's give it to her! Comments, too, if you feel so inclined. 17 knows I have "some readers," but I don't think she can shake the image from her mind that I'm a stay-at-home mom with a boring life that consists of little more than diaper changing, laundry, and lots and lots of vacuuming. I don't think she really believes that more than 10 bored housewives would seriously want to read about my uber-mundane life. Now, you have the power to change all that by clicking on this link! Oh, the excitement!

Just do it! And make the day of this poor daughter of a Zoobas-wearer!

Okay, off to Google 'Rusty Trumpet' now....

Oh Happy Weekend!

Okay, so I'm a little late with this week's hotly anticipated linkage to my incredibly salacious and controversial Parents.com blog, but my fingers have only just now thawed out from today's soccer game/ team picture extravaganza. Two days ago, I swear, it was sunny and 75 degrees outside. Today on the field, it was raining and felt about 45. With a wind chill of -40. I have not been that cold in a long, long time, and having to wonder if my babies are warm enough makes me feel even colder. It was nice having you, Spring! Come again!

That being said, here are a few things to check out in this "TEEN EXTRAVAGANZA" edition of The Blender:

• I've got sex on the brain! Need I say more?
• Notice anything different about my 14-year-old? You'd BETTER!
• And? It's Started. Dear God. It's Started.
  

Also, I'm an idiot and forgot to link to my Nashville Scene edition of Suburban Turmoil from a couple of columns ago. So if you want the scoop on how Mommy got her cool back, check it.

And now, a new weekly feature. THE WEEKEND POLL.

Ack! My husband can't go to my high school reunion! Should I go anyway?
	Hellz yeah! Show them what you've got, Sista!
	Um, no. People will think your marriage must be on the skids.
	I don't care what you do. I was just searching for "slippery cervical mucus" and ended up here.
pollcode.com free polls

And here are a few product reviews....

• You really must see this movie.
• I thought it would suck, but this movie is surprisingly cute and entertaining.
• Pamper yourself, even when you're at your busiest and brokest.
• And that kooky Demon Barber is coming to DVD.... My take on the film.
  
  

Butt Seriously...

As my 14-year-old stepdaughter and I chatted on the way home from school Wednesday, my cell phone rang.

“It’s your dad,” I said, checking the screen. I put the phone to my ear. “Hey, Hubs.”

“Get this,” Hubs said. “I just met this man who was like, really this really big, masculine guy, a biker type, and he said, ‘Dude, you’re such a good TV reporter that even when I moved to California, I watched you on the Internet, just to see what you were talking about!’”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah,” he continued, “Then he said, ‘And you have such a nice round butt, too.’”

“What?” I said. “And what did you say?”

“I said, ‘Thank you!’” Hubs said. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was quite pleased with the compliment, regardless of who had said it.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Well, that’s interesting.”

We talked for a few seconds longer and then got off the phone. “So some man told your dad he had a nice, round butt today,” I told 14.

“You’re joking!” she squealed. “That’s completely insane!”

“Yeah, and Dad seemed really happy about it.”

“What?!” She burst out laughing. When her 17-year-old sister got home later that afternoon, we shared the news with her.

“That’s so weird!” 17 chortled. “Did you know that in his high school yearbook, like three different girls wrote about what a great butt he has?!”

I felt bad. I’m just not a butt girl; unless it’s extraordinarily large, it’s the last thing I notice on a person. At least Hubs was finally getting the attention it appeared he deserved. And ever since getting complimented on his best, er, asset, he’s been strutting around like he’s a modern-day Rhett Butt-ler. Even the girls have noticed a difference.

“Dad came by school today,” my 17-year-old reported when the girls got home from school yesterday afternoon, “and it was so embarrassing. I was like, ‘Dad, can I stop at the grocery and get some apples on the way home from school?’ And he was all-“ she paused and pantomimed her dad’s reaction, nodding and smiling and waving like some kind of city council candidate at a church fundraiser. “He was just like, showing off for all the assistant principals around him. And so I asked him again. And he was just like-“ She nodded and smiled again, waving at the imaginary crowd of school administrators. I burst out laughing. She was a dead ringer. “So I yelled, ‘Dad! Can I get some apples on the way home from school or not?!’ And he finally looked up and said, ‘Well, it’s a little too late for that, isn’t it?’ Which didn’t even make sense! And then he just walked away! My own father!”

“It was embarrassing,” my 14-year-old echoed. “I was there. He was really being weird.”

“It’s because of his butt,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s obsessed with his butt now. Are you sure he wasn’t more like this at school?” I asked, nodding and smiling and sticking my butt out as far as I could. We all laughed. Regardless of the condition of his derriere, he’ll always be assured of his position as the token male (Bruiser is immune to gender teasing for at least a few more years), and therefore the butt many, many jokes here at home.

Vaccination Nation

As promised, I wrote about the great vaccination debate in this week's Nashville Scene edition of Suburban Turmoil. Thank you all so much for sharing your opinions and stories with me. They were illuminating and scary and fascinating and truly, I am now more alarmed than ever. It's not your fault; it's simply the byproduct of being a parent in the Information Age. The more I know, the more I worry. Ugh.

Anyway, enjoy!!

Sex, Drugs and Internet

Now here's a touchy subject.

Regarding the argument over whether Internet addiction is a real, classifiable psychiatric disorder (uh, duh), I read an article yesterday that included this nugget:

Meanwhile, mind docs say the problem is growing, now possibly affecting up to 10 percent of Internet users. Recent studies are surprising, indicating the problem is worst not among game-obsessed teens, but rather among middle-aged women who stay at home, constantly on the computer as a way of connecting to the outside world.

Yeah. That's a little bit scary, isn't it? You and I are more likely to be computer addicts (except for the "middle aged" part, which I take exception to. We are NOT calling ourselves middle aged!) than some World of Warcraft-loving technogeek? Eww.

Still, I'll bet you can think of more than one person right off the bat who fits the description of a "woman who stays at home, constantly on the computer as a way of connecting to the outside world," can't you? And I can also think of more than one well-trafficked blogger who's given the whole thing up cold turkey because of this very thing.

Personally? I have a love-hate relationship with my computer. Without it, I wouldn't get to write heartfelt rants to thousands of you every day, or making the equivalent of a part-time job without leaving the house, or even working all that many hours. On the other hand, it's a serious, serious time sucking abyss if I don't watch it. I read less books because of the Internet. I get less accomplished. I spend less time talking to my family.

Needing the Internet for my jobs has substantially curbed my enthusiasm for it as a form of entertainment. Now, when I'm on the Internet, at least 80% of the time, it's because I'm working. But the lure of its mindless surfing entertainment really tugs at me when I'm tired. If I'm too exhausted to tackle organizing our home office or to write a Parents.com post or to take the kids to the playground, it's very tempting to instead take a few minutes to visit some of your blogs. Or read the latest gossip on TMZ. Or check my blog comments. Or... the list is endless, really. And that's when I feel like the computer is sucking my freaking life away.

I wouldn't call the computer an addiction for me, but I would definitely call it a temptation. Sometimes, I'd call it a major temptation. And now I'm wondering how you feel. Are you addicted to the Internet? Were you once addicted? Are you in danger of becoming addicted? Feel free to be anonymous. We're all friends here.

An Open Letter to Fashionable Single Girls Who Spoil My Dinner

Dear Fashionable Single Girl,

I know you and your friends love to blather on about those awful parents who bring their wild animals small children to restaurants and let them squawk and sling food and run around like loons while you are trying to enjoy a nice, quiet dinner with friends.

I used to be one of you, Fashionable Single Girl, and now that I'm a parent, I'm hyper-aware of your kind whenever I take my kids out to eat. I actually shush them at every outburst. I pick up the food and napkins they drop on the floor. I don't take them to restaurants where I don't think they'd be welcome and on the rare night that they can't seem to control themselves (which, I'll admit, happened one night at Bosco's back in ought-four), I leave, so that people like you can dine in peace.

I'm doing my part, Fashionable Single Girl. Now it's time for you to do yours.

Sunday night, my entire family enjoyed a rare evening out for a holiday dinner. We chose a restaurant we'd eaten in many times before on a night that we knew most of your set wouldn't be out, a restaurant where the owner loves our kids and makes a big deal out of them every time we show up. We sat at a table in the corner, out of the way of other diners.

When you bypassed seven or eight other empty tables for the one right next to ours, I didn't mind scooting Bruiser's high chair closer to our already cramped table, or asking Punky to remove her Sprite from your tabletop. I wasn't sure why you'd want to sit next to a family with four children, but whatever.

But when you startled and whipped your head around to stare at us every single time Bruiser made so much as a peep? I got annoyed. When Punky put a hand on your friend's hip for balance as she walked around to our side of the table and your friend recoiled in horror, I had to hold myself back from saying something to your table that was, well, less than kind. And when you remarked on the baby girl sitting next to you? The baby dressed in a BLUE onesie with CARS on it? I was pretty much ready to open up a can of whup ass.

You did your level best to ruin my dinner. That's right. I know it's a novel concept that you could ruin the dinner of a mom with four kids, but there you go. I've quietly listened to childless people complain about families at restaurants for too long. Now it's my turn.

Get. Over. It. Not every parent allows his or her child to act like a hellion. Treat those of us who are clearly making an effort with a little respect. Remember that you were a kid once, too (and probably a nasty, screaming, projectile vomiting one at that), and that my kids will be paying your Social Security some day when you're living in that squalid senior citizen high rise because you spent too many of your paychecks on Hermes scarves and Coach bags.

Yes, Fashionable Single Girl, I'm a Breeder now, and I'm sick of making apologies to people like you. We're here. We like to eat out. And? We're multiplying. So now I'm thinking maybe you're the one who should stay home.

Hugs,

Lindsay

The Weekend in (What is Probably Way Too Many) Pictures

We're at the first of three Easter Egg hunts we'll attend this weekend. Held in a neighborhood city park, it includes prize eggs with tape on them, containing tags that can be redeemed afterward for toys. TOYS!

As we wait for the hunt to begin, I spot one of the prize eggs about ten feet from where we're standing. I point it out to Punky. "Okay, Punky, if you get that green egg, you get a toy. So go straight to it when the whistle blows. Don't stop at the other eggs. Go straight to the green one, okay? Are we clear?" She nods. "Are you sure?" She nods. "The green egg. Go right to the GREEN. EGG." She nods. The whistle blows.


Punky runs out onto the lawn. "Get the green egg!" I scream. Parents turn to stare at me.

"Punky! The green egg! THE GREEN EGG!" She turns and looks at me, baffled, as if I hadn't just coached her for the last five minutes on precisely what she was to do when the whistle blew. "FOR GOD'S SAKE! Don't just stand there! Get! that! GREEN!! EGG!!!"

Confused, Punky begins picking up the eggs at her feet. A five-year-old girl beside her looks back at me, grins, then heads right for the green egg and picks it up. I see red for a split second before the parenting experts kick in in my head.

"Good try, Punky!" I shout in a strangled tone. "You're doing great! Just keep picking up those eggs!" I do, however, manage to step on the toe of that ridiculous five-year-old's mother. Stupid biddy. She's wearing Burberry heels and a matching bag and chats on her cell phone. She totally did not need that egg. Not like we did! She grimaces and shoots me a dirty look and I remember suddenly that Christ died for our sins. I smile sweetly at her in return. It is Easter, after all, so I'll forgive her. This time.


We move on to another Easter event at Cheekwood (more on those shenanigans here), where an oversized bunny is posing for pictures. Punky doesn't want to stand beside the gigantic hare, but when she realizes Bugs is carrying candy in her basket, she's lured in like a governor to the Emperor's Club.

Meanwhile, Bruiser does.... nothing. I mean, he's one. What did you expect?

Later on, it's just another wild and crazy Saturday night at the Ferrier house. Punky refuses to go to bed until I tell her that the Easter Bunny can't come and leave presents until she goes to sleep. After that, she quickly brushes her teeth and puts on her pajamas. As I'm tucking her in, I feel all tender and cuddly. "Punky," I say softly, "You're the most beautiful, most brilliant, most wonderful girl in all the-"

"Okay mommy," she interrupts. "But I think we need to all go to bed and close our eyes right now." So much for sentiment.

The next morning, the Bunny has made an appearance! Easter toys and candy are everywhere!

Even Baby Bruiser is thrilled by what the rabbit has left him!

Well, most of what the rabbit has left him.

That afternoon, Punky and Bruiser get dressed in their Easter finest (provided by Grandma. Do you really think I would ever have the wherewithal to both purchase matching outfits and have them monogrammed? That is completely beyond my domestic security clearance.) and head to the crib for their daily Ball Party. Invented by Hubs, it involves putting every ball in the house into the crib with them and letting them have at it for a good thirty minutes. As you can imagine we all love the daily Ball Party.

Unfortunately, I forgot to take the Vodka bottle out of the crib before I put them in. It took a while for things to get back to normal.

Punky could almost walk in a straight line by the time our second annual cul-de-sac Easter Egg Hunt rolled around. It's really brilliant; we close off the street and let the kids hunt eggs in every yard while the parents get liquored up and chat about stay-at-home dads ("Didn't you write about that, Lindsay?"), boys who like girly things ("Didn't you write about that, Lindsay?"), and the guy in our neighborhood who, uh, allegedly broke into a neighboring house in the middle of the day, while a woman and kids were inside ("Didn't you..." "No, but I will!") Okay, that was weird. That little alleged home invasion been the talk of the subdivision ever since.

Meanwhile, Punky and Bruiser chilled with their homies. That kid on the left may look innocent, but he was a total candy burglar. He kept reaching into Punky's basket and taking her candy until I shooed him off. "Dude, get your own candy," I said. "Don't come back here without your basket, mkay?"

Once that was cleared up, I joined the adults for more gossip. I was pouring my somethingth glass of wine when my neighbor said, "Don't you have to go to church after this, Lindsay?"

I held it up and said, "Duh, this is communion!"

And on that note, I hope you all had a wonderful holiday weekend.

Happy Easter!!

Poor little blog. Easter comes and you're totally neglected in favor of Easter Egg hunts and baskets of candy and egg dyeing and pancake-making and... stuff. In other words, it's Spring Break, everyone's home, and it's been a busy weekend.

And yet I still found time to write over at The Blender! Okay, you know I had no choice. But do me a favor and go check it out, pleeeeease. Here's what I've got....

• Bruiser continues to terrify me with his little quirks. Have you ever heard of a night terror? If not, trust me. You don't want to see one for yourself.
• Imagine a fabulous, all-expenses-paid resort vacation. Now imagine me skipping it in order to spend my weekend overworked and ignored. It's called parenting, folks, and sometimes, it sucks.
• And read all about one of my Easter pet peeves. Is it one of yours, too? Or are you part of the guilty party?

Plus, plus, plus! Reviews! I couldn't skip two weekends in a row without suffocating under the workload I'd be creating for myself! So here you go (HINT: THERE ARE TWO GIVEAWAYS (or there will be once I get everything up by the end of today)!!! BE SURE AND ENTER!!)

• It's better than eggs. For realz.
• Buy this movie. Or at least rent it. It's great.
• This really was the feel good movie of 2007.
  
• Cute new Disney DVDs here and here.
• Fabulous bath products for babies, moms, and celebrities the Hollywood over.
• Does Father REALLY Know Best?
• A must-read for any toddler's parent.
  

Toys for Tots

Bruiser's birthday now has come and gone, which means, of course, that a number of brand new toys now are sitting in various corners of our house, collecting dust. You know how it is with small children; the $100 Highly Educational Activity Kube you bought at the Very Expensive Learning Toy Center is likely to go untouched, while the broken plastic slide you found on the side of the road will be your kid's favorite toy for the next three years.

Allow me, then, to save you a few hundred dollars over the next few years with a few tricks of the parenting trade.
We've spent dozens of dollars on toy remotes for Bruiser, but babies are smarter than you'd think; despite all the bells and whistles on baby remote controls, he lunges for the real one every single time, and screams his head off when he can't have it. That's why it's always a good idea to recycle non-working remotes by giving them to babies! For the price of a broken VHS player, you can provide your baby with endless hours of amusement (although it might be a good idea to duct tape the battery cover to the back of the remote).

If you don't have a toy kitchen, you seriously need to get one. You can spend hundreds of dollars on the cool retro kid kitchens at Pottery Barn Kids... or you can do like I did and buy a used plastic kitchen for $12 (and that included about a hundred thousand little kitchen tools and utensils inside the kitchen), much like the one pictured.

The little kitchen is in my little kitchen, and like my kitchen, it's one of the most popular places in the house. Punky has played with it non-stop ever since I bought it more than a year ago. She cooks alongside me and comes up with tasty dishes like pickleberry coffee and cheese hotdog soup, which she serves us with great solemnity and warning us to please be careful because they are both very hot.

Now, it's Bruiser's favorite toy as well. He has spent hours pulling himself up on the counter or sitting in front of the plastic cabinet, pulling out kitchen toys and tasting them. Every child who comes to this house plants his or her butt in front of the little kitchen and generally refuses to leave. I don't know what it is about this thing, but it's a freakin' kid magnet.

To you, this looks like an old man cane. To me, this looks like Peppy, Punky's first horse. Punky has spent many a happy hour riding him around the house (or even better, making the teenage babysitter ride him around the house while we point and laugh), and although she has since added several more horses to her stable, Peppy still gets the royal treatment.

See what I mean?

A few Christmases ago, my grandmother gave us this As Seen On TV Smart Spin Food Storage System. I love it, and use it for leftovers all the time. When I can wrestle it away from Bruiser, that is. Yes, despite all of the expert-tested, award winning, expensive toys that have been given to him over the last year, the Smart Spin is one of his favorite toys.

The Fisher Price Noah's Ark is pure genius. I bought one at a consignment sale for $7 when Punky was six months old and she has played with it ever since. It started out as a teething toy transitioned into a way to teach her the names of animals, helped her learn to match pairs, taught her to count, and even introduced the concept of the menage a trois. Now, she uses it for imaginary play. It's the best seven bucks I've ever spent on a toy.

There are many more cheap "toys" out there- these are just a few I can think of off the top of my head. Feel free to leave your own greatest toys ever in the comments, whether they're traditional toys or something your child just likes to play with. I can use all the ideas I can get!

And You Are...?

It happened again.

"Hi, Dennis," a woman said from the bar as we were leaving a restaurant on our date night last week.

"Oh, hey," he said. "How are you doing?"

"Things are going really well," she said. "How are things at the station?"

"Good," he said. "We have a lot of new people in the sales department."

Meanwhile, I stood in between them, ignored. Ignored! As they chatted, I nudged Hubs a little. Introduce me! my nudge clearly said. He didn't respond to it. I nudged harder. What-is-wrong-with-you?! I poked out Helen Keller-style with my elbow. INTRODUCE-ME! Nothing.

I waited for the woman to make eye contact, so that I could introduce myself. She didn't. C'mon, work with me, people!

Finally, Hubs said his goodbyes and we left. The weather was chilly, but my demeanor as we walked to the car was far icier.

"Let's window shop a little," Hubs said, oblivious. I sighed loudly.

"What?" he said.

"I can't believe you didn't introduce me."

"I couldn't remember her name. She used to work in the sales department."

"How many times have we been through this?" I steamed. "That's when you're supposed to say, 'This is my wife, Lindsay,' and let her introduce herself. How hard can it be?"

"Come on," Hubs said lightly. "It's our date night. Don't be a jerk."

"You're lucky she wasn't pretty!" I retorted. "Then there really would have been hell to pay!"

We both laughed despite ourselves and the moment was over. But what the hell? We've gotten into this situation dozens of times since we started dating. Hubs doesn't remember the person's name, so he awkwardly acts like I don't exist until they're finished talking. I don't want to knock him too badly, because he's an amazing guy* and generally great in social situations. I'm just wondering... Does your husband or boyfriend do this kind of thing, too? What is with men?

*And to prove it, the pink kicks were stripped of their dog poo by Sunday. You go, Hubs.

Hell, Thy Name is Candyland

“Hey Mommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna play Candyland?” Oh hell. It was only the 1,427th time she had asked me this morning, drawing out “Kee-ann-dee-lee-yand” in the way only a three-year-old can. What could I do?

“Okay, Punky. I’ll play Candyland with you.”

I had fallen right into her trap, the one she’s set for every man, woman and child who’s entered our house since Thursday, when I taught her how to play. Even Bruiser hasn’t been omitted from her dastardly Candyland plot.

“I know what Bruiser’s gonna do when he’s big,” she said with a knowing smirk last night before she went to bed.

“What?”

“He’s gonna play Keeandeeleeyand.”

“I can’t wait.”

The next day, I set up the board on the kitchen table while Punky squirms impatiently.

“Now. This card goes on the top,” she says quickly, placing a card at the top of the pile. I sigh. She does this every time.

“Is that the ice cream cone?” The ice cream cone sends a player straight to the end of the game, a mere two or three turns away from the Candy Castle, where all the Gingerbread Man players are trying to go. She’s silent. I pick up the card. Of course, it’s the ice cream cone.

“Punky, you can’t put that card on top,” I say. “It has to go somewhere in the middle of the pack. You know that.” She whines and puts her head in her hands.

“Do you want to play or not?” I ask.

“Yee-eah,” she sighs and draws a card. Instantly, she brightens.

“I get two greens!” she crows, moving her gingerbread man to the first green space on the board, then to another one halfway across the board.

“Punky. That’s not the next green space,” I say. “It’s this one.” I put my finger on a green space somewhere near the start of the game. “Come on. Quit doing this. You know how to play this game.” She puts her head in her hands.

“Okay,” I say. “We’re done playing.” She gasps and moves her gingerbread man to his rightful position.

“I get one red,” I say.

We go back and forth for a while, Punky comfortably ahead of me, until I have the misfortune of drawing a gumdrop.

“I got a gumdrop!” I announce brightly. Punky puts her hand over mine.

“Oh, but mommy,” she says quietly, “You didn’t see that one.”

“What?”

“Put that card here,” she says, motioning to the top of the pile and pulling another card out for me, one that keeps me comfortably behind her on the board.

“Punky, I got a gumdrop,” I say. “Play fair.” I move my gingerbread man to the gumdro and she puts her head in her hands.

“And now I’ll never, never win,” she moans.

“You don’t know that,” I say.

“Never, never again,” she says piteously into her hands.

“The ice cream cone still hasn’t been drawn, you know.”

She picks up her head. After a moment, she draws another card. “Two yellows,” she sighs.

We continue on for a moment longer when I draw the ice cream cone. Oh, cruel fate! Why dost thou forceth me to teacheth my offspring life lessons? Silently, I show it to her.

“You didn’t see it-“ she begins.

“I did,” I say quietly. I put down the card and move my gingerbread man to the end of the game.

“Rrrrrrrrrrgh!” she grumbles. She grabs the ice cream card. “And now I’ll ruin it!” She bends the card in half. Oh. Hell. No.

“PUNKY.”

She stops and looks at me, knowing she’s gone too far. “I’m sorry,” she whines.

“If you ever do that again, I will never let you play this game ever, ever again,” I say quietly.

“I’m sorry, mommy,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” I say. “You’re a very good Candyland player, Punky, but nobody wins every game. Sometimes you win and sometimes I win.” She sighs and draws another card. In a few more turns, I cross the finish line. There’s nothing I wanted, uh, less.

“I win,” I say pleasantly.

“Okay, let’s play again,” she says briskly. “Only this time I win, okay Mommy? Okay?”

“Okay.”

Experience Punky's version of Candyland here (trauma at 5:42. Redemption shortly thereafter.). If you can get through this entire video, you have waaaaay too much time on your hands.

For Your Weekend Reading Pleasure

It's Saturday! Saturday! The day you've all been looking forward too, right? So you can read all my Parents.com posts, right? Right?!

On this particular Saturday, I'm running around like crazy because the in-laws are coming! The in-laws are coming! And the house is a wreck, naturally. I just can't seem to keep it clean these days, although, strangely, I feel like I do nothing but housework.

Anyway, I really enjoyed reading all of your blogs last weekend, and I still have a number of them to get to, but I came down with a cold on Monday, which has slowed me down this week in a big way. I will get to everyone eventually, I promise. And I'll do posts like that one every so often because it's so much fun to come and visit. The truth is that I don't do a whole lot of blog reading right now, simply because I have. no. time. I will some day, but that time is not now. So... when I do read blogs, I want to read your blogs. Because you're all so very, very awesome and inspiring. And I mean that. I was overwhelmed by all the things you're doing out there. You rock, people!

And now, without further adieu, your weekend reading list:

• This post is a bit of a follow-up to my teen pregnancy post. Yes, I read the shocking statistics that came out this week about teens and STDs. Here's my take on that news.

• You probably didn't know that my husband is still recovering five months after taking an antibiotic that caused his liver to stop working. I guess I was under the "If I don't write about it, it will all go away," mindset. Anyway, here's an update on that.

• And want to know what your teens are really up to? I've got the 411, and info on how you can keep tabs on your teens without secret computer software, nanny cams, or phone tapping!

Have a fabulous weekend!

And Now You are One

Oh, man! That smarted!

When they first handed your ten-pound self to me one year ago today, I looked past your blotchy purple and white skin and your scrapes and bruises and I thought you were the most beautiful baby I'd ever seen. I wanted to share you with the world, and we did, giving you your television debut when you were only a day old. You were my one and only son and I thought you were absolutely perfect.

Unless you are a boob, don't even try to come near me.

The first few weeks of your life, you ate... a lot. Cried... a lot (I later found out it was because you had reflux). Slept... a little. So little that I thought I'd lose my mind from sleep deprivation. Your homecoming marked the beginning of a long sleepless odyssey that continues to this day, when you wake before dawn raring to go, no matter how late we put you to bed. Despite all of that, I loved you so much, it hurt.

Okay, you seem like you might be sorta cool...

The only person who might have loved you as much as your father and me in those days? Punky. Far from jealous, the girl couldn't get enough of you. Still can't. She truly believes you were born just for her.

You laugh now, but wait till you see my Poonami diaper!

I slogged through those early days with you, often wondering how I was going to make it through the next hour, the next minute. The next second. And then you learned to smile. And you never stopped smiling. And suddenly, it didn't matter how long you had yelled or how much you had pooped or how little you had slept. One smile from you and our hearts all melted.

Heh. If you knew what I'd be like once I'm crawling, you would never let me get in this position!

Suddenly, I didn't care whether or not you ended up being gay. I didn't care what the experts had to say about how I should raise you. I didn't care that your nursing preference made me look like a sideshow attraction. I didn't even care that everyone said you just like your dad and nothing like me, although I have to disagree with them.

The better to bite you with, my dear!

When you smiled, I didn't care that you cut several teeth within a couple of weeks and howled throughout that "precious" time like it was Armageddon, or that you woke up three times a night until you were eight months old. You were my last baby, and even in my weakest moments, I never forgot that I wouldn't experience any of these milestones again. Well, I almost never forgot.

Here in the Ferrier house, we like to keep things under the table.

The truth, sweet Bruiser, is that I love everything about you. Everything, right down to the way you sound your own personal alarm without fail at six every morning. I love the way you follow your sister everywhere, cackling loudly at everything she says and does. I didn't know it at the time, but I even love that you weaned yourself at nine months. You got the rest of your teeth in a week or two later and I could see that you had spared me a lot of pain.

I guess he won't be a preacher; he's certainly not interested in saving soles.

Today, you are all boy, chewing on everything, reaching for everything that's put out of your way, putting every bit of dirt, fluff, or food (or um, poo)into your mouth, forcing me to save you from certain disaster on a regular basis.

Attack!

And this is the image of you I hold in my mind's eye- smiling, laughing, racing toward me on your hands and knees (you crawl faster than any of us can walk), making happy gurgling sounds all the way. You throw yourself face first into my lap, pausing for a few seconds in your version of a hug, and then proceed to squirm and wiggle and grab for everything in your reach, your insatiable curiosity taking hold.

My beautiful baby is one!

It's been a hell of a year, but we got through it, didn't we? You alone have made me feel like I've earned my mothering badge of honor. I love your crawling, cruising, bouncing, squawling, clapping, laughing, waving, dancing, three-word-speaking ("mama", "dada", and "hey," for the record) one-year-old self like I've never loved anyone before. Happy Birthday, Baby Boy. You are my everything.

He's Really Stepped In It This Time

To Whom It May Concern:

I try to run a fairly loose household, one without too many rules and regulations for everyone to follow, but there are a few unwritten "assumptions" that I like to think go without saying. One is that you close an outside door behind you after you've opened it. Another is that you flush the toilet once you've finished your business in the bathroom. And then there's the unwritten assumption that if you take a small child out in the backyard and she steps in dog poo, you are responsible for getting the poo off of her shoes.

Not me.

You.

Simply leaving her crap-crusted shoes on the garage steps and saying nothing? That's annoying. Particularly since they are my three-year-old’s only pair of pink shoes and, if you haven’t noticed, almost all of her clothes are predominantly pink. I’m assuming you’re under the impression that if you leave the shoes there long enough, I’ll eventually crack under the irritation of pairing red shoes with a frilly pink sundress, and will end up scraping off the now-hardened-to-rock-consistency poo myself.

Heh. No.

Instead, I’ll show you what I’ve been looking at lately on the Internet.

These adorable little Umi sandals retail for $55. Yes, I know Punky's current pair of pinks cost just $15 at Target, but I wholeheartedly believe in the concept of trading up. Especially when , you know, dog poo is involved.

Even more appealing are these Juicy Couture Kid ballet flats. They may cost $85, but in them Punky will look like a million bucks!

And yet, I don't like leaving you out of this decision, Towhomitmayconcern. I know you thought Punky's pink Converse hightops (the ones we found at Marshalls for nine bucks when she was 18 months old), were really cute. Well, I've finally found another pair, and these shoes have even been Bedazzlered! They're a little more expensive, but what's $95 when it comes to makin' mama happy?

So I’m giving you three days, Mr. Towhomitmayconcern. Three. If the poo is not scraped off by Sunday at high noon (and by the way, I’ve found the shish kebob sticks in the top kitchen drawer do a great job of getting dog poop out of the grooves of a child’s shoe sole, something I learned from cleaning off Punky’s shoes on the occasions that I took her outside and she stepped in shit.), I’m adding (at least!) one pair of these shoes to my online cart.

Hugs!

Lindsay

Vaccination Vexation

Ordinarily, I'd be attempting to entertain you right now with some hopefully witty tale of suburban life.

But I have a cold. And it is making me cranky (although I sound like Kathleen Turner, which is sort of sexy if you ask me. The voice, not the Kathleen. Although in her day.... Anyway.)

That's why today, I want you to talk to me about something that makes lots of us cranky... vaccinations. Surely you've read the latest news, in which the government admitted for the first time that a vaccination probably contributed to a girl's autism. It's just another piece of information that has me scared as hell about what's being injected into my children's bodies.

I'm not the only one who's concerned by the vaccination controversy, am I? I'm staggering both my small children's shots, but I have no idea how common it is to do so. So let's take a poll:

Are you following your doctor's vaccination schedule?
	Yes.
	No, I'm staggering my child's shots.
	No, I'm not allowing my child to be vaccinated.
pollcode.com free polls

And one more... Just for good measure.

Do you think there's a link between vaccinations and autism?
	Yes, absolutely.
	Yes, possibly.
	Probably not.
	Absolutely not!
pollcode.com free polls

I'm thinking of writing a column on the whole vaccination issue, but I want to hear your stories and opinions on the matter first. Did you, like me, have trouble when you asked your doctor to stagger shots? Were you, like me, made to feel stupid for even suggesting that injecting a two-week-old infant with a bunch of vaccinations might not be such a good idea? Are you nervous/disquieted/scared to death of the autism epidemic and the number of parents who swear their child "changed" after getting immunized? Or do you think this suggested vaccination-autism link is all a bunch of hooey? Tell me. I really want to know.

Teen Pregnancy: No Big Deal?

"If I got pregnant,"my 17-year-old asked casually the other night while she and a friend were talking about a girl they knew who'd gotten knocked up, "would you want me to keep it or get rid of it?"

"We'd want you to keep it," I said. "I mean, having a baby and giving it up for adoption would be extremely traumatizing. But I think abortion as a teen would haunt you more later in life, especially since you live in a family that could deal with a pregnancy."

She nodded, still looking a little too casual for my comfort. Oh. No. Juno.

"But you would totally be grounded the whole time!" I added quickly.

The blase attitude melted. "What?!" she sputtered. "Grounded?!" This hadn't figured into her scenario at all.

"Yes. Grounded." I said flatly. "For the duration."

She sighed heavily and began discussing with her friend whether it would be fair to be grounded during pregnancy. The whole thing was more than a little unnerving. After 17 and her friend had graduated from junior high, several girls from their neighborhood school had gotten pregnant and gone through with having their babies, either letting their moms raise the child or giving it up for adoption. The two girls talked about teen pregnancy like it wasn't all that out of the ordinary.

It didn't help matters, I realized, that Juno had emerged as one of 17's all-time favorite movies. And why not? It was a funny, heartwarming film, and Juno was the kind of girl with whom many teens could identify, a smart, sarcastic and deeply witty teen who didn't quite fit in with the high school crowd. The problem was that in Juno's Hollywood-ized world, a girl could get pregnant, face a minimum of criticism from friends and family, give her baby up for adoption, get her man, and live happily ever after in blissful song-singing satisfaction.

The image is so potentially problematic that USA Today now has devoted an entire article to it.
Here's an excerpt:

Sarah Brown, CEO of the National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy, is concerned about the message girls will get from Juno, which she believes is unrealistic. The movie paints a portrait of a pregnant teen who is not only extremely self-possessed but who also has a very supportive family.

"Adults understand the bigger picture and what the risks are of adolescence and childbearing," Brown says. "Adolescents see it through the lens of the 'me generation.' Adolescence is also a self-absorbed time. If the baby got handed off and she got the boyfriend back (as happens in Juno), what's the problem?"

Brown says part of her concern is the film's tone toward unintended pregnancy. "We're all now tolerant and non-judgmental. Apparently that now extends to getting pregnant and having babies," she says.

It's a tough call. On one hand, I don't think we as a society should come down too hard on a pregnant teen who's chosen to have her baby. She has made a brave decision, one that will brand her with what's essentially a large sign bearing the words "I HAD PREMARITAL SEX" for months. Pregnancy and its aftermath were some of the most difficult challenges I've ever faced. I don't feel I need to add to it with a disapproving glance when I see a teenager with a baby bump.

On the other hand, I feel squeamish hearing my stepdaughter and her friend discuss it like it's no big deal. I was appalled to hear about a baby shower one of my stepdaughter's pregnant acquaintances had, one that was given and attended by teen girls. I don't want her to feel like getting pregnant is just one of many possible and unexpected directions her life could take, hence my ridiculous behavior when the subject came up.

"It would be weird to be grounded while you're pregnant," my stepdaughter's friend said. "But Laney's mom wouldn't let her wear makeup after she got pregnant, so..." I giggled, despite myself.

"Okay, she wouldn't really be grounded," I said. "I just don't want you guys to think that it wouldn't be a big, horrible ordeal. Because it would. Having sex in high school is just a really bad idea."

"It's not just pregnancy," her friend mused. "You could also get an STD,"

"But aren't those curable?" my stepdaughter asked.

"The problem is, you don't always know you've got one until it's done serious damage," I said ominously. "You could end up with major problems. Infertility. Cancer. Bad, bad problems." I must have looked like a moron. This was not how I'd pictured myself discussing teen sex at all.

So how will you handle it with your kids when the time comes? How did you handle it, if you have older children? And do you worry that Jamie Lynn Spears, movies like Juno, and even pregnant teens in your own community will give your kids the impression that teen pregnancy is no longer that big of an issue?

Deep Thoughts, Updated

My family gets all excited when it's the weekend, and so do I. I mean, their enthusiasm is contagious. But then I wonder why I'm so excited when for me, the weekend means an incredible amount of work. And then I wonder, 'When's my weekend?'

And that's my deep thought for today.

Okay, now here's a roundup of the latest installments from my Parents.com blog...

• One of the youngest members of the Ferrier fam came inches from certain disaster this past week. I don't even like to think about it now, but I did write about it. Read the chilling details here.

• Isn't it strange that our grandparents were encouraged not to love on their babies too much? Doesn't that just explain a lot, when you think about it? Read what I'm talking about here.

• And four inches of snow last night! Unbelievable. Here's what I've been up to ever since.

With all the snow, it seems like a good day for blog reading. But I'd like to visit your blog, not just the blogs of random strangers. So leave me a comment if you'd like a visit and I'll head on over! And uh, if you'd like to click on my Parents posts, it would make me really happy (Can you tell that self-promotion makes me really uncomfortable? I feel like a Parents.com pimp...)

****************************

Well, hello. I'm back.

Here's the deal. Some of you out there, I know, would love to help someone, particularly someone in whom you can feel you've invested, someone you can count on to update you on his or her situation, someone who strikes you as a person not so very different from yourself. We like to think that if we were in unimaginably difficult circumstances, people would help us, and that's often why we reach out and help others.

Here's your opportunity.

Suburban Turmoil reader Michelle O'Neill has organized a fundraiser for three young sisters with autism whose father recently was laid off from his job. The family is struggling mightily to make ends meet; they've come to the point where the situation is looking dire and have agreed to accept gift cards that will allow them to buy special food and other essentials for their girls. If you think you might like to help, head over to Michelle's for more details.

I'm also going to direct you to another Michelle's blog, one of my readers who left a comment on this post. I hope she doesn't mind! I visited her blog and was just overwhelmed by all she's going through; I can't stop thinking about her and her family. Michelle's 13-year-old daughter, Karly, is currently being treated for a rare form of ovarian cancer. Michelle also has an active 4-year-old son and a baby girl named Ruby, born in May with Down Syndrome. Ruby was a twin, but her sister died shortly before Michelle was due to give birth. How Michelle bears all of this, I have no idea, but she does it with grace and spirit and courage and an incredible lack of "Why me'ing." I was so impressed by her blog posts and her positive, unquestioning attitude.

I tell you all of this because as you can imagine, the treatment for Michelle's oldest daughter is expensive. Michelle writes her blog partly to keep friends and family updated on Karly's progress, and has the donate button for Karly's trust in the sidebar of her blog. She doesn't in any way make you feel like you should give anything, which is part of what made me want to help her. If you're looking for someone to help, check out Michelle's blog and see if you don't feel compelled to contribute.

See? I'm not always just sitting around thinking of ways to antagonize MOMS Clubs, television producers and stay-at-home dads!

And I'm enjoying visiting all of you! Thanks for the comments.

And You Thought Your Child Was Hard to Handle?