Hands off the goods, lady.

     When Jen from Something Clever 2.0 announced that the next topic for this Thursday Soirée was going to be Breastfeeding, well, I just had to add my 52.5 cents.  I will caution you that my… uh… feelings, opinions, intense emotional outbursts on this subject may shock, awe, and even offend.  I will use words like “milking” and “Nipple Nazi”, so those of you who may be squeamish or belong to La Leche League may want to click off for now and go someplace fuzzier....

     I will start by saying that I DID breastfeed both of the wigglers.  Sass for 8 months and Sprinks lasted a whole 3.  Being gifted with Holstein like Mam-bags I felt obligated to at least try.  While preggo with Sass Monkey I researched a bit on the subject but didn't worry about it too much.  I had spent a lot of time on a dairy farm as a child, if I could get a calf to suck, couldn't I get my own to do the same?  It’s all about instinct, right?

WRONG!

     Fast-forward to being induced a month early because my water broke.  Then through an 18 hour labor and delivery where the epidural gave out at the most crucial time (like, for most of it).  I spent hours cursing, sweating, pushing, and begging for someone to just please reach inside and pull the little sucker out because that was the most painful thing I have ever endured (and folks, I have had horses FALL on me, if that puts this in perspective).  So there I lay in the post-partum room, still a bit in shock, with this tiny, HUNGRY creature screaming at me from a bundle of blankets nestled in my arms.  Hubbs and I could only sit and stare.  Well, I guess I should try and feed him?  Let’s whip one of these suckers out and take ‘er for a test drive!  Aaaaaand we stalled in the driveway…

     No milk?  I had no milk!  How was this possible?  They had gotten HUGE!  Oh wait!  Drip…  That’s.  IT?  Freak out time!

OhmygawdhowamIgoingtofeedhimandwhatiswrongwithmeandIamgoingtostarvemybabyandIamsuchaterriblemother!

     My husband (who had researched lactation, latching, and feeding holds to the Nth degree as always because "an attorney never enters the courtroom unprepared") assured me that this was normal.  He’s so good like that.  "Remember… Sass came a month early and this was my first.  My body just wasn't ready yet.  Maybe his tiny sucking muscles weren't fully developed?"

And enter Lactation Consultant stage left… the sinister side…

     "It’s okay!  This is a natural process and the best choice for your baby!  Let’s try this!"  She proceeded to grab my already cracked and bleeding nipple in her icy claws and squeeze it flat while shoving it into my enraged son’s mouth.  At this point, the boy was really hungry and this stranger who smelled of Purell and False Advertising didn't help.  For the rest of the day Hubbs and I milked, cajoled, and teased only a few precious drops from my abused and terrified mammaries (Me-effing-dela) while the Nipple Nazi  would continue to “pop in and out” to check on our progress.  Cheerily.  It most certainly wasn't the four courses the boy was looking for so he continued to scream. 

   
     This went on for 2 effing days.  "Oh, he'll be fine!", she would coo, "They don't actually need to eat for 72 hours after delivery!"  Basically...let him starve sweetie, it's your fault he's not eating anyway.  Did she at any time acknowledge that he was a preemie and may not have been strong enough to latch?  Did she consider that my body might not have been ready yet as he has emerged a full 4 weeks early?  Did she take into account that stress keeps your milk from dropping?  She did not.  She only ever so politely suggested that to give in and give my baby boy a bottle of formula would most definitely ruin him for life.  He would never latch!  He would never like the taste of breast milk!  I wouldn't bond with him as quickly!  Nipple confusion!  My body needed to be forced to produce! 

Bull-effing-sh*t.  I wish I’d known then what I know now.  And I swear... if I EVER see that... that woman again....

     At the end of day two Hubbs and I conceded a temporary defeat and fed Sass some Similac but we felt awful about it.  Or I felt awful.  I felt I had failed as a mother and as a woman.  My husband knew the truth you see, but I just wouldn't or couldn't listen because my raging insanity/hormones were holding my rational hostage (for like, years).  Formula isn't the devil.  Sass’s brain would be fine and develop normally (Well… as normal as possible).  We would all bond and my milk would eventually come in and it would all be OKAY no matter what.  But good luck telling me that because society tells us that “if you can’t do X then you can’t be Y” and I had bought that crap hook, line, and sinker.

   With Sprinks I had milk in time... I just had given birth to a baby piranha   She latched on like the world was gonna end 20 minutes after she popped out.  She sucked and she sucked... and ... oh gawd that hurt and ...  Holyjezusandchristonacracker she ATE a piece of me!  Sucked a chunk of nipple clean off and then puked up a belly full of my blood.  Yeah... unsettling doesn't cover it.  It took weeks to heal.  I gave her 3 months and then we were done.  By that time she was getting more Nystatin than milk anyway as we had a never ending case of Supa-Thrush.  We be a thrushy people.

     Now, I am not saying that you shouldn't try breastfeed  even if the going gets tough.  If that’s what you want then go get it… just don’t stress yourself out if things don’t go as planned.  I was wracked with guilt for weeks after the birth of my first about my “failings” and all it did was make it harder for my milk to drop.  Breastfeeding, in the beginning is hard, bloody work.  But it can also be wonderful.  I still miss snuggling up with my babies and watching their eyes glaze over in sleepy ecstasy as their little bellies filled.  It was something special that I could do just for them…. But it is not the end all be all.

It is NOT the only way to bond with your child.  Daddies don’t lactate and seem to do just fine.

It doesn't make or break your woman-ness.

     It isn't the only way to feed your child.  I refuse to believe that formula companies would mass produce poison and charge you $24 a canister just because they want to kill babies.   I don’t believe that they are out to get your kid.  In.  Any.  Way.  (Just your money).I also know that formula has saved the lives of thousands of children… if not millions… around the world as an easy food source for babies whose mothers are in dire straights health-wise.  And what about those lactose intolerant children?

Colostrum is important and helpful but not a necessity.  Not these days.

I will end this rant with something I tell everyone who either feels guilty about not doing it or goes all Red-Star-Regime about it:

My husband was exclusively formula fed.  I was exclusively breast fed.  Who’s the attorney with the crazy high IQ?  Well it ain’t me, folks.

Now... you want to read the good stuff?  Then head on over to here and read some top notch material on THEME THURSDAY hosted by the oh-so-talented Jenn from Something Clever 2.0!

I know I'm late but at least I'm not pregnant!

SO.... about an eon ago, a wonderful woman by the name of Meredith from Mom of the Year gave me my first award.  The...

... and it rawked mah sawks.  Why did she give it to me?  I'm still not sure, but I'm leaning towards pity.  No shame in that... I'll take pity.  :)  Having only been at this blogging thing since September, I am a little slow on the up-take niceties-wise and waited far to long to thank this wonderful Angel of the Blogging World for inflating my ego far past its normal and safe dimensions.  I'm talking balloon head for weeks... just ask Hubbs.

Here are the rules should you choose to follow them:

You are to thank the blogger who gave it to you, include the logo in your post, note 7 things about yourself, and pass the award onto 7 other bloggers.

So without further adieu....

Thank You Meredith!  Your candor and wonderfully unique sense of humor have continued to inspire me throughout my brief sojourn into the blogosphere.  I have loved seeing your world through your words and look forward to learning from you in the future!

As for my 7 deadly sins fun facts...

1.  I would take warm sourdough bread slathered in butter over ice cream any day.  I have a carb problem.

2.  I used to drive a school bus... the short one, of course.

3.  I have a "shark tooth".  i.e. - one of my eye teeth came in completely behind my other teeth like a second row.  Hence "Shark Tooth".

4.  I can ride a horse but I can't climb a tree.  Thanks Nebraska.

5.  My favorite color is blue.  Wait, that's not blue.  Is that purple?  Grey?  I am partially color blind which has led to some EPIC fashion FAILS.

6.  I saw the first "Twilight" out of spite.  Wished it was "Interview With A Vampire" the entire time.

7.  I can read Middle English.  Why, do you ask?  Because I wanted to owe a sh*t-ton in student loans for No.  Reason.  At.  All.  

And now on to the list of those I would like to pass this prestigious award on to...

Please don't hate me guys....

My Half Assed Life

I laugh every single time.  Seriously... this is some funny sh*t, ya'll.  And I can only hope that my kids will love each other enough one day to zap one another in the pink parts with an electric BBQ lighter.

My Home Is With You

Meara has opened up her world to us in an amazing way.  She has allowed me to catch a glimpse of a place I wouldn't have been able to know... and the knowing has left me humbled.

The Sadder But Wiser Girl

Nerds got to stick together ya'll and CAN she rock a tie-dye!  She's funny and smart and never leaves you wanting in the laugh department.

Life On The SONny Side

She's a warm fuzzy in the blogging world with a wicked sense of humor.  Not only are her posts a must read but she is TWITTER-IFIC!

Laugh Lines

Witty, funny, and unabashedly enthusiastic she gives me hope that my crazy wigglers might turn out to be decent contributors to society.  And she has taught me the value of a naked Happy Dance!

Something Clever 2.0

I'm not brown nosing!  I swear!  ;)  She tells it like it is!  Funny and truthful, I always find myself looking forward to her next post.  

I Like Beer and Babies

A working Mom who tells it like it is... I like her.  And she's as all about the self medication as I am.  :)

"To know them is to love them" or something like that...  Enjoy!

A Little Life Form Learning....

    My baby won't talk.  (Well, not a BABY, really.  She's 15 months old....) She understands English well enough, she just won't use it.  Grunts, groans, jabbed-a-pig-with-a-hot-poker squeals, she's got those, she's just not big in the word department.  It may be that she's just making us work for it, or it may be that Sass won't let her get a word in edge-wise.  My vote is the latter.  That boy has been talking since conception... may be even earlier.  His 3rd or 4th day home from the hospital we started calling him "Tweeter" due to the fact that we had to wheel his little bassinet out into the hallway outside of our bedroom to get even a moments rest because he was constantly "tweeting".  I'm talking non-stop, 24/7 chirps and squeaks, even in his sleep.  It was cute for all of 8 hours.  He did that for 2 months straight and then moved on to coos and squeals... and then there was the "singing"/shrieking phase... *shudder*.

Fast forward to about 30 seconds in...

All.  Day.  Long.

And yes... his eyes always looked like that.

At eight months the little booger said "ball" and knew what he was talking about.  It was all downhill from there...
   
     Sprinkles has been a foal of a different color... naturally, I suppose.  She will say a few words when prompted, like "Daddy" or "Owl", but nothing really consistent.  Oh, and she will call everyone "Mama" but me.  Like, she will look at one of my friends and call her "Mama" and then turn to me and smile sweetly with a touch of evil.... I know, we are in trouble.  She understands what we are saying to such a degree that I worry that we may have underestimated her level of understanding one to many times, and I really shouldn't have mentioned my bank pin number out loud... in front of her....  She got that gleam in her eye after I said it, too...
     We aren't worried about her.  You can tell her that "Your milk is in the refrigerator   Would you like a drink?" and she waddles on over to the kitchen and starts hauling on the fridge doors.  She gets it... she just doesn't speak.  Fine.  She will when she's ready.
     With Sass, the allholyfirst, we researched and Googled and Baby Einstein-ed and, as a by-product, picked up some simple sign language along the way.  You know, 'cause with the first-time-freak-out we wanted to "enrich" his little mind as much as possible. (Because gawd forbid he get even a little frustrated with verbal communication and isn't it responsible of us to give him this wonderful opportunity to talk with his hands and aren't we great and flying unicorns on rainbows...)  Or as he saw it, bore him to tears....  Needless to say, sign language wasn't his thing.
   
But....

A week ago, while sitting at the dinner table, Sprinkles signed "more" when she had finished her milk...

"Was that...?"  I asked.
"I... I think it was."  Said Hubbs.

*shocked silence*

     They must have worked with her on this at school because, as with many second children, we hadn't the time, neurosis, or neurons to work with her on it.  Holy sh*t.  And she loves it.  Time to dust off the first-time-freak-out box and get this girls fingers wiggling!

And go you, little girl.  Way to show us....  :)

Scroaty Kitties and Soul Mates

Car conversation on the way home last night...

Me:  "I'm never going to be able to have a cat in the house again with all your allergies...  Wait...  I could get one of those hairless cats!"

Hubbs:  "But they are so ugly.  Why would you want one?"

Me:  "They are so ugly they are cute!  Sass looked like an angry, hairless man/monkey when he was born and you thought he was cute".

Hubbs:  "Yeah, but you can't choose your kids.  You choose a cat.  And he was cute..."

Me:  "I am getting a hairless cat and I will name him... ummm..." *flash of genius* "Scroat!"  *hysterical laughter* "That settles it.  Scroat.  And he can wear little scroaty sweaters!"

Hubbs:  *eye rolling*  "What are we having for dinner?"

Me:  "Why are you trying to change the subject?" *giggle* "Scroat sweaters...  Hey look!  Scroat's on the couch   Awww... Scroat's making biscuits   And when he would sit on your lap it could be a little Scroat on scroat action!"

Hubbs:  *heavy sigh and more eye rolling*  "Yeah, but they would have to be hairy sweaters.  You know... like brown shag carpeting."

Me:  "Yes, yes, YES!  I love this!  It must happen!"  *deep thoughts*  "I could get two!  Just one might be awkward, you know... unbalanced.  Scroat and Tum.!"  *more hysterical laughter*

Hubbs:  *snort* "How about Lefty and Righty?"

I didn't know it was possible but I love this man more and more everyday.  We will grow old, happy, and wrinkly together.... surrounded by little, scroaty kitties.

Here kitty, kitty!  Come get your sweater!

The Princess Problem

     

Tristram and Isolde... *sigh*

Nothin' wrong with a little sap, now...

     Recently I stumbled upon a few articles/posts claiming that obsession of the american girl-child with princesses is bad.  Like ruin-them-for-life bad.   This has chapped my ass a bit.  For some reason, some folks have gotten it into their heads that if your child likes pink, frilly, sparkly, princess crap then she will be weak and never reach her full potential as a thinking feeling human being...  on which I call bullsh*t.  This is why....

1.  Lets start with the fact that no one screams "Bleaching the Brains of the Youth of America" when your BOY child is obsessed with Spiderman.  I mean... we've got the Talking Mask, slippers, 2 sets of PJs, the exploding car, the 3 season (air, water, death ray) with back pack attachment, the web-slinging glove, the web-shooting arm attachment, the costume, the underwear, the 3-D book with talking flashlight, and don't get me started on what had happened to our DVR...  But that is okay because Spiderman is a Superhero!  A sass-mouthed, rule-breaking, puberty-riddled, spandex-wearing Superhero.  Yeah... princesses man, they suck with their manners, and their cleanliness, and their thinking before acting...  

2.  Read a fairy tale.   Not the new ones... the OLD ones.  The REAL ones.  I'm talking the original Grimm, Straparola, Basile... those girls have to face some pretty nasty sh*t, ya'll, and come out on top.  There is no middle ground for these ladies.  It is either death or success.  Incestuous family members, jealous step-mothers, stupid social constraints, and witches of all shapes, sizes, and creeds... these princesses handle them all with grace and wit and strength.  Because they had to.

3.  What is wrong with pink?  Especially pink with some sparkles! I'm sorry it's not all seriousness, death, darkness, and all  (Batman needs an ant-depressant, STAT.) but come on!  Why can't you be a doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief, ect... and not rock a little pink puffy goodness from time to time?  Colorists....

4. Pretty dresses and heels?  Yesss, please.  Have you seen a high heel?  That's not a shoe, it's a deadly weapon you can wear... that makes your butt look good in the bargain.  I call that a win.  And how many knives could you hide in a pair of spandex meggings?  That's right.  None.

5.  The Disney princesses aren't throwing punches or wielding the latest super death machine but they are solving problems, surviving hardships, and muddling through life just like the rest of us.  They cry, they are afraid, but they keep going.  Isn't that the point?  And if they get a handsome prince at the end, well... go them.  We all need someone to love who loves us back.  It helps if they are hot....

6.  On being rescued and the Handsome Prince:  

I will admit that I do not want my daughter to think that a man will make everything better, but what is so bad about knowing that you have someone that will try their damndest to rescue you when you do need help?  Isn't that, by definition, a healthy relationship?  We cannot go it alone...

7.  At 6 years old, is a girl really supposed to know what she wants to be when she grows up?  My son wants to be a Superhero.  Not a doctor, not an engineer, a Superhero.  So, what's wrong with a girl saying she wants to be a princess?  Does that automatically mean she has given up any career goals she may have in the future?  And, btw, I STILL haven't decided what I want to be when I grow up so BACK OFF!

     I guess my point is that the objectification of the princess as the weak, silly girl doesn't necessarily come from the source, but from the interpreter.  In other words, see it right.  Don't go all 1950s, get-me-my-coffee-and-make-me-a-baby on the poor princess character!  Give her a chance to shine and your little girl will too.

And you should see my Sprinkles streaking around the house in her pretty pink princess skirt wielding the TMNT Battle Sounds Katana... she is terrifyingly amazing.  And so well dressed....


And if you don't like me now you can go suck it because Check.  This.  Out.

Boom!

For me!  That's right Jen from Life on the SONny Side took pity one me likes me and that's all that matters.  To be continued....

Update:
And the Liebster from Jenn @ Something Clever 2.0?  Holy crap ya'll are making my head swell!

I guess I need to get serious now, huh?

Is Spoon-Guy your Daddy?

     Back in the day (in the early 00's) Hubbs and I had a life.  I know... crazy, right?  Love was new, pant sizes were considerably smaller (on me anyway), and bed times were non-existent.  It was a beautiful time filled with college classes, friends, drinking, and ... clubbin'.  Not always in that order... *ahem*

     While out one night at one of the many *stop reading now if you are my in-laws* clubs we frequented with our group, we met the "Spoon Guy".  And by met, I mean watched in horrified awe and amazement.  Let me explain. The night was winding down.  Beer money was spent.  Glitter had been rubbed off.  Feet were aching.  It was time to go home and as the dance floor began to thin out we noticed a man was walking around trying to snag the attention of anything without a dangler.  This was not unusual behavior at this time of night given the amount of booze that had crossed the bar... it was his methods that caught our attention.  You see... he had this white, plastic spoon and he would walk up to a girl, dip it toward her crotch, bring it back to his mouth, and say "mmmmm....".  *shocked silence*

W.  T.  eff....?

     Why did I tell you this?  Why have I permanently burned this noxious image into your brain, you ask?  Partly because pain is better shared but also because eventually his... ummm... system... ploy.... pick-up thing worked.  He left with a girl firmly wrapped around his neck and attached, leech-style, to his face.  This means that possibly somewhere out there, in the general population, is Spoon Guy progeny.  Maybe sitting next to Sprinkles or Sass as we speak.... let's hope, for the poor little booger's sake, that it has skipped a generation....

 So I ask you now... Is Spoon-Guy your Daddy?

Iridescent Indecency

     This post is written in response to the "Follow The Sentence Friday Blog Hop (FTSF #2) hosted by Janine @ Janine’s Confessions of a Mommyaholic and Kate @ Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine with My Morning Quiet Time and co-hosted by Stephanie @ Mommy, for Real and Jen @ JenJen’s Soapbox of Parodies.  Check these ladies out for a good time.... (No... not like that....) and peruse those in the hop who have bared their souls for your amusement.  Good times, good times....

     I took a Public Speaking course in college.  (Kind of has that "I had a farm in Africa..." feel doesn't it?  No?  Well....)  Why did I do this, you ask?  Because I had to but I also had to take Badminton so none of it really made any sense anyway.  (Shuttle Cock, anyone?)  

Anyhoo... let's cut to the “One of the most embarrassing things I ever did was…” part...

     Long story short, I had to give a 5 minute speech on something that I can't for the life of me remember now.  I had agonized over this particular project for weeks so the morning of, as you can imagine,  I was petrified.  I would have to stand up in-front of a classroom filled to the brim with my peers and sound intelligent, well put together, and even throw in a joke or two...   SO I armored myself and prepared for battle in the best way a 22 year old girl knows how.  I dressed fancy.  Generously supporting undergarments, my favorite sparkly shirt to further enhance my... em... more noticeable attributes.  Maybe they would be so entranced by my genetic abnormalities (I come from a family of modestly chested women.  My chi-chi's were a freak of nature... and a back problem.) that my class mates would completely ignore the fact that I sucked.   I chose a particularly sexy pair of tiny see-through, iridescent thongs to wear to match under my best butt-shaping pants.  (Yeah... I know... But this was WAY before the body-breakers made their appearance) I added some substantial heels, my favorite lipstick, and I headed to class.  How could I fail?  I was 5 feet in 6 inch stilettos of pure fury and dead sexy!  

Guess what guys... it wasn't the shoes that brought me low!  This time, anyway....

     I got to class, waited my turn, and gave my presentation.  As walked back to take my seat, I was beaming.  "Well, THAT wasn't so bad!  I was great!  They laughed at my jokes and I really kept everyone's attention.  I am getting an "A" for this!"... and then I took my seat and looked down to see....

...my zipper....

.... undone.....

And my little, iridescent, see-through thongs winking up at me conspiratorially....

Oh.... NOOOOOOOOOOO!  

No wonder I kept their attention.

So, "One of the most embarrassing things I ever did was…" give a 5 minute presentation with my zipper down in see-through underwear to a room full of 20-somethings.

 End.

He's been holding out!

     So... I'm sick... again.  WTF?  This one definitely rode in on Sass like a Boo Hag and snagged me on the way out.  Sneaky little creature... (the virus, not Sass... this time.)  Tonsils the size of angry cats, neon green goo EVERYWHERE, and an internal body temp around 100 degrees... kelvin.  Yerg.  Thanks buddy.  He certainly can share.  Speaking of which, he about shocked the pants off me this morning!  Confusing?  ... sorry. That's the cold medicine typing.  Just give me a minute and I'll make better sense.  Or sense better.  Or not at all.  Whatever...

     Hubbs and I divide the drop-off every morning as the wigglers both go to the same school but inhabit/maraud different buildings.  Those poor, brave individuals.... but I digress.  I grabbed Sprinkles while he walked Sass in to his classroom.  Upon returning to the car, Hubbs informed me that Sass had been very excited to show him the "Star Chart".

"What Star Chart?" I gurgle from beneath a veil of cold medicine hangover and Kleenex.

"The one on the board right up front."  He looked at me incredulously.  How have you missed this? he said with his eyes. "They get stars for good behavior and helping to clean up and he had the most out of everyone in the class!"

Shocked silence. 

"OUR Sass?  The one we drop off every morning?  Are you sure?" Little booger has been holding out on me....

"Yeah.  Apparently he is very helpful."

"Wha?" gurgle *choke*

"I know.  We should get one of those chart things for the house."

Like, double time, husband dear.....  Who knew?

Yeah... this kid.  With "Stars Upon Thars"...?  

What parallel universe...?

I have a project! Come and help me out!

In amongst the pile of papers from our son's pre-school class folder we found this guy....

Meet Flat Stanley!  For those of you who are familiar with Mr. Flat please bear with me but for the rest of you....

     Flat Stanley is a world traveling, accident prone, 2 dimensional fashion faux pas who, after a tragic bulletin board squishing incident, realizes he could travel to see his all friends by mailing himself in an envelope.  Weird... yes.  Creepy... try not to think about it.  Incredibly educational... an extra helping please!  

I was intrigued... so then I Googled (like I do with everything... which usually is a BAD idea) and, instead of pulling up 17 different kinds of Russian porn, I found the Flat Stanley Project...

"In 1994, Dale Hubert began the Flat Stanley Project in Ontario, Canada. Hubert had the brilliant idea of having children create their own Flat Stanley paper cutouts and mailing them to friends and family around the globe, in order to foster authentic literacy activities for kids and get them excited to write about Stanley's adventures. Hubert invited other teachers to take part by "hosting" Flat Stanley visitors in their classrooms as they arrived in the mail, and encouraging students to keep their own Flat Stanley journals. Jeff Brown, author of the original book, Flat Stanley, was delighted with the Flat Stanley Project. An enormous resurgence of interest in the character of Flat Stanley followed, eventually resulting in a new sequel by Brown, almost 40 years after the original book's publication. Hubert and Brown remained good friends until Jeff's death in 2003. Today, the Flat Stanley Project is a uniquely multi-generational, global literacy activity that engages hundreds of thousands of children on a daily basis. The Project encompasses more than 6000 schools registered in 88 countries around the globe, and is included in the curriculum for more than 15% of elementary schools in the US."

Tres badass, nons?

     My son's preschool has, of course,  altered the idea to fit the fact that these kids would rather eat pencils than write with them.  Parents, friends, and family have been asked to take pictures of Stanley doing everyday/fun/ridiculous things in their home/area/town.  Last year, someone sent in pics of a relative who had taken Stanley to the Palace in London!  I love this idea as the world as we know it is no longer defined by the edge of our country, and I make it a major point in my house to try and explain that there are as many ways to go about your day as there are Cheerios in a box... and to a 3 year old that means an uncountable number.

     As I gazed into Mr. Flat's blank little eyes, envisioning all the ways I could make this a fun project (and completely inappropriate.. . thank you Elf Shaming), I suddenly had a thought.  Now, this doesn't happen very often, aaaaaand it hurt a little, but what if... WHAT IF I enlisted the help of all my wonderful Bloggy friends?  Talk about a fantastic and geographically varied group of creative noggins!  The possibilities are endless!  This could be huge!  I am a GENIUS!!!!  *Ahem*

So... could you, would you help me... please?  Just print the little guy out, snap a quick pic, and e-mail it to www.dontchewonthedinnertable@gmail.com by January 22nd and I will pass them along.  It could be in your back yard, next to your breakfast, at school, anywhere you would like to showcase your daily-life-difference and/or fantastic-ness.  We want to know... what makes ya'll, ya'll?  (And, if it's next to shoes, because you think Nashvillians don't have any... we have them.  Now, if it's next to, say, something liberal-oriented... yeah... feel free... 'cause red is EVERYWHERE down in these parts.)

Whoa!  Lighting strike of brilliance!  I will also post them here on my blog and link back to you, if you'd like!   I can't wait to see what you come up with!

Tantrum Gris-Gris bag anyone?

     Sprinkles threw her first big girl fit last night and folks, we be f*cked.  The other-worldly rage noises that gurgled out of my sweet baby girl made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.  Lemme tell ya how it went down...

     Sprinkles was down for the night and all the racket I was making while wrestling an errant stalk of celery from the garbage disposal must have woken her up.  (Just so you know...  Me - 1  Garbage Disposal - 0.)  She began to cry.  Okay.  Normal so far.  Hubbs and I gave her a second to fall back asleep, but the crying just got louder... and then it began to take on this... tone.  What before had been merely the whine of a startled child became this groaning roar... it was like tires squealing on hot asphalt mixed with sounds that I have only heard coming from an enraged sow.  (My Daddy was a pig farmer... don't judge, ya'll.)

   We bolt upstairs (certain we would find her battling a rabid wolverine or some other beast because there was NO WAY a human could actually make those noises) to find her writhing around in her crib, beating her pudgy little fists into the mattress with her sweet little mouth set into the hard rictus of her first feral snarl.  Ummm... THIS first will NOT be going in her baby book.  Hubbs and I could only stand there, shocked, while considering whether or not to draw straws to see who would stick their hand into the tiger cage first.  Hubbs lost anyway.  (He is so brave.)  As he reached in to pull her out, the "growling" only intensified in volume and in ferocity.  Nervous sweat broke out on his brow as he attempted to pull her close, foolishly exposing his unprotected neck to her sharp little teeth.  But the snuggling only made the flailing worse so we all sat on the floor and I tried to placate her with sippy full of milk.  My measly offering of milk only further angered the demon now living in my child and she began to crawl around the room on all fours while periodically throwing her self to the floor, kicking anything within reach, and attempting to skewer Mommy and Daddy with a gaze full of malice and half-sleep.  This was one mad 15 month old.  Hubbs and I could only sit and stare as the full implications of her behavior sunk in.  Wow... Sass really wasn't that bad.  Who knew?  And, oh sh*t, one day she would be 2.... and then 3.  *groan*  And then... no... no... don't think about puberty....

   She eventually wore herself out enough to be cornered (Does Wal-Mart sell tranquilizer darts?), placed back in her cage crib, and soothed back into her human form now soggy with her tantrum tears.  As Hubbs and I trudged back downstairs, we could only look at each other and fear for the future.....

Yeah... one of these with extra mojo please!