I think I need a pick-me-up

They aren't puppies and rainbows, but these two videos put a little bit of a warm glow in my heart:

Filipino prisoners recreate Thriller:


Having mum & dad over for tea:


For more foul-mouthed hilarity go to dlisted.com

Who are you?

Anonybabe has always been incredibly deliberate, slow to roll over, crawl, walk, sing. She waits until she can do things well before unveiling them. She talks with a pause between her words, thinking about and choosing each one carefully, and starting her sentences over if she can't get the words out right.

She was born looking like she was trying to solve a hostage crisis, with a furrowed brow and stricken eyes, and the look lasted for weeks. These days she laughs, sure, but she never, ever approaches anything with reckless abandon.

When we go to play group at the YMCA, and I watch other kids who run hell-for-leather with a damn-the-torpedoes guffaw, I sit and watch and soak it in. It's visual therapy to see kids being impetuous.

"Joyous." "Raucous." I don't think these are words that will ever describe Anonybabe.

She is such a beautiful puzzle to me.

YOU know

I decided to throw out a parenting book the other day. Right in the middle of reading it. Montessori, for 0-3 year olds.

Now, I don't think there's anything wrong with Montessori schooling. From the little I know about it I still think it's pretty great, with its emphasis on community and history and self-actualization. Some of this particular author's theory smacked of bs, but that's another matter, for another blog entry.

Here's what I want to say: I just...I started to feel bad as I was reading the book. Bad and scared. Scared that I'd been screwing Anonybabe out of a happy childhood because I hadn't been following the Montessori method. Bad that I'd been carrying her around so much. On the plus side, the Montessori book brought up some important questions. Didn't I want to foster Anonybabe's independence (yes!) and what was I doing towards that end? (not much!). But overall I was feeling guilty and sad.

Finally, I decided the book had to go. There's a world of hurt and a world of good out there. I choose to focus on the good. Rather, I refuse to make decisions based on guilt and fear when I could be making them based on hope and love, creativity and joy. I refuse to spend time sorting out why the Montessori book makes me feel bad - I've wasted enough time on navel-gazing in my short life. I'd rather spend my time following a thread of inspiration, to see where it leads.

I felt unsure and upended for a couple of days after tossing the book: gasp! I can't just stop a book in the middle because the ideas make me feel bad...and then I'd think...actually, yes, yes I can. Part of me thinks this is dangerous and wrong and part of me thinks I've been crazy not to do this all along.

Living by my own lights. It's kind of a switch for me, and a scary one, too.

Starry (cross) Eyed

A friend chatted with me last week while watching his toddler daughter sleep on the kitchen floor, her blanket gripped in her hands, and her hair spread on the linoleum. She'd woken up and gotten out of bed to go be where he was while he worked at his computer. He looked at her while he typed. "Sometimes I think about how arbitrary we are. One small change in the particulars of my daughter's conception and she wouldn't be here. I'd be living with a completely different person, or no person at all." I told him I'd thought the same thing and that - to my surprise - it made me think we were each supposed to be here. Like the stars aligned so Anonybabe could come into my life.

He elaughed. "Ha ha. My reaction is pessimism and yours is optimism." We had to cut our chat short soon after and I've had a protest to his label for me - "optimist" - simmering ever since.

It doesn't feel like I'm being optimistic when I choose to believe we were all meant to be. Or maybe it's just that optimism feels different than I always imagined. My "optimism" has a healthy dark streak. An acceptance of my own fear and ignorance. I don't know why we're here. I don't know that we have a purpose. For the most part I think "purpose" has such a broad meaning that it becomes meaningless when you narrow it down to individuals.

But there's a part of me that sees how it could be, and I let myself cling to the belief. Because it's better to believe than not. My optimism is strictly utilitarian. This is what my psyche needs to be content, to function. So I give it what it needs. Why not?

Let Her Be

Anonybabe and I were sitting in the front seat of our car today, goofing around after a class at the Y, waiting for our windows to defrost before heading home. We were playing a game where she would name something and I would sing about it in a goofy voice.

Anonybabe was sitting in my lap, facing me, and she said "Weh!"

"Red?" I asked, and she nodded her head.

"Weh A!"

"Red Aaaaa, Red Aaaaaaa!" I sang.

"Weh See!"

"Red Ceeee, Red Ceeeee!" I could see her looking over my shoulder at the Y building.

"Weh Em!"

"Red M, Red M!" This time I knew what was coming, but didn't quite believe it.

"Weh Why!"

No motherflippin' way. My baby can read the letters on the side of the YMCA?!? That's great, right? And a little, um, crazy.

Flip It and Reverse It

Life with Anonybabe has been challenging lately. I went home last night with my loins girded, ready to put in the hard work to enjoy her.

She was an angel last night! She happily kissed and hugged me when I got home, sat in her high chair while we ate, sat at the table and played with play dough with me, helped me load and unload laundry, and then played contentedly around the house while Anonyhub and I did chores, sang songs, and enjoyed each other's company.

It was toothbrushing time that blew my away, though. I got out a Bert finger puppet, ready to try to coerce Anonybabe to let me brush her teeth before she dissolved into her usual shouts and tears. She willingly opened her mouth to let Bert brush her molars, then stopped him and said, "Mama bus tee toooo?". So I took the toothbrush and brushed her top molars! Then she calmly took the toothbrush and scrubbed at her front teeth, handed it back to me and tried to open the bathroom door to get out. When she couldn't she turned to me. "Mama hep Anonybabe?" she asked politely, and when I opened the door for her she turned back to look at me and said "tank you, mama."

?!?!?!? You'd see tears of joy if I weren't so disoriented.

The Poop and the Fury

Sunday night I learned I'm the only person in the world Anonybabe gives a hard time to about diaper changes.

A friend and her daughter kept Anonybabe and she mentioned A had taken a dump. I took this opportunity to give my little song and dance about how Anonybabe'll be in diapers until she's six because she would happily play in one for hours. Anonyhub concurred until I went on.

"Yeah", I said, "she cries and howls every time I put her on the changing table." Surprised looks from Anonyhub and my friend.

"Really?" said my friend, "because I asked her if she had pooped in the diaper and she said 'yeah' and when I asked if we could change it she held up her arms for me to pick her up."

"Yeah, she doesn't give me a hard time," Anonyhub said, "she just doesn't mind staying dirty.

I looked, shocked, from one to the other. Anonybabe cries and whines every freaking time I take her to the changing table. Has done this consistently for months. My friend - who has a 12 year old daughter - recognized the look on my face and patted my knee.

"Oh honey," she said, "It's only for you. Get used to it. "


Last night I told Anonyhub about the recent spat of biting and fussing while he was at work. "Wow," he said. "She's just so mean to you. She doesn't do any of that with me. But she really loves you. Like, she really loves you. It's like you get the extremes - the best and the worst of her love - and I'm somewhere in the middle."

I'm flattered that I'm the object of her strongest emotions, I guess. But I don't like being the whipping boy for her frustrations. I think it means she feels safe with me, that she can vent her worst. When I step back and look at it I feel like this is supposed to happen, like this is the fire in which our relationship is going to be forged. Lordy. When I said I wanted a fireball, I guess I didn't expect to be taking the brunt of her fire. I don't know what the hell I expected, though. I'm her mother. That's my job. Not to lay down and take it, per se, but to endure it. Help her learn how to direct all her joy and fury. To be there with her and help her when I can. And apologize to her when I can't. Because there are times when I just can't. I'm human.

Bad Mommy: The Aargh Edition

"Fond as we are of our loved ones, there comes at times during their absence an unexplained peace." - Anne Shaw, seventeenth-century poet across the pond





This was the quote on my day calender today. How fitting. I mean, I love Anonybabe and all, but yesterday in particular, I did not like her. I did not like her one bit.





It was, truly, quite the bitch. As was I. I find that I am an exceptional parent - gentle, loving, kind, gracious...as long as things aren't challenging. Like, when Anonybabe was 3 months old? I was a beatific vision of motherhood.



But aside from crying at the drop of a hat and changing her mind about what she wanted every two seconds, my child bit me repeatedly this weekend. On the arms, on the fleshy part of my boobs, and again and again on my legs as I tried to get things done around the kitchen. I think I horrified one friend when I told her about it. "That's...mean".

Well...no. Anonybabe wasn't trying to hurt me physically. She wasn't biting to draw blood. She would do so slowly, coquettishly, looking up at me to watch me react while she did it. She was trying to get a rise out of me. And the fact that my child was toying with my emotions like that made me crazy. It hurt my feelings and my knee-jerk reactions were childish and wrong.

I bit right back, baby. Okay, I didn't really, but I strongly considered it. And I did swat her butt, pinch her ear, push her roughly away, and tell her I didn't want to be around her. All horribly inappropriate and yet briefly satisfying. And then I would feel horrible. And then she would bite me again and make me want to tear my hair out and/or lock her in the closet for a few hours. Let the childhood scarring begin!

Grin and Bear It

Lately Anonybabe throws a shit fit when it's time to brush her teeth. She wants to do it herself - great, and she even manages to get a little legitimate back and forth scrubbing on her front teeth. But it's the molars that really need brushing, and for that we have to convince her to open her mouth and hold still.

For the past week or more we've basically had to hold her down to do this accompanied by the wailing and gnashing of teeth. By the time we are forcibly brushing those back teeth, I keep it gentle but there's a part of me that enjoys the forcible part.

Good god, sometimes I hate being a parent. Being responsible for someone else's dental hygiene? Sucks! It sucks donkey balls! I swear I'm going to invent or at least market the shit out of something that lends itself to mouth cleaning: a stick to chew on, for example. A bristly stick. A pacifier/toothbrush. Something, anything but a traditional toothbrush. There has to be an easier way.

Anonyhub spent lord knows how much on a Thomas the Tank Engine toothbrush from Target recently. When you press Thomas's face, a tinny Thomas theme song plays loudly from a little speaker in Percy's face. For the next 2 minutes you know how long you are letting your child's teeth decay while you try to wrestle the toothbrush and paste into her mouth. I hate it. Why slap a lot of bells and whistles onto something that already doesn't fly? Anonybabe loves it, but not for its teeth cleaning properties. In fact, tooth brushing has gotten exponentially harder since we got the toothbrush.

Hasn't anybody out there heard of or experienced a better way?

More David Eye Candy

Short shorts! Skip to 0:39 to see some skin:



Trees (huh), what are they good for?:


I have a round bottom, too, David. Poor Bob. Token white boy got no soul!:


Here's Northern Calloway and Frank Oz, as puppets. I just always liked this one:


Gimme some sugar! I am your neighbor! Ow!

It feels good when you sing a song

Call me a cheeseball. You'd be absolutely right.

If you can't tell from the 1:1 ratio of personal essays: sesame street blog entries, we watch a lot of Sesame Street in the Anonymom household.

We've been watching Sesame Street Old School DVDs (which have episodes and clips from the 70's) pretty regularly for the past year. Which is how I started to get attached to David. He helped Mr. Hooper out at his store. And he was kind of cute. Kind of super cute. In the last month of so I've really gotten all crushified on him and the song he sang with Olivia below sealed the deal. You will rightly laugh at me for getting all tingly from this, but if I were Olivia and David started boogieing down to try to cheer me up, I'd have the same reaction she did. But with more puppy dog eyes.

I finally decided to google him and find out where in the world he ended up. Why wasn't he doing Elmo's Potty Time DVDs with Gordon and Maria? I was half hoping it was because he'd been living a life of ill-repute.

He died. In 1990. Of stomach cancer. I'm really, really bummed about this.

RIP Northern J. Calloway.

****(Added later). Okay, it may not have been stomach cancer. His family chose not to talk about it too much but apparently there were rumours of mental illness, drug addiction, you name it. It doesn't change the fact that losing this smiley gem of a human being was a sad loss. There's a new book out about the history of Sesame Street (yea!) that I plan on buying to get the goods. I wish I could take Maria out and get her drunk and talking. The stories that woman could tell!

Miss Anonymom if you're nasty

Having a toddler is disgusting. Maybe you could blow what I say off if I were a reasonably neat and clean person to begin with. But I'm a nasty, notorious slob. I decided basic acts of hygiene like bathing and shaving were horrible, electable chores a long time ago, didn't accept that I really should wash my face/brush my teeth/take out my contacts every single night until I was well into my twenties. And my housekeeping skills...well...thank goodness Anonyhub values a clean floor, otherwise sweeping and mopping might be an annual event. So I'm not averse to slovenly messes.

And yet I can say this, and say it without reservation: living with a toddler is disgusting.

I live with someone who shits in her pants. Who has no qualms about popping things into her mouth that she found on the floor, or in a hardened mass in her high chair seat. She thinks nothing of peeing in her bathwater and then trying to drink it. In fact, she thinks it's quite amusing.

Here's my freshest tale of woe: with all of the snow and cold in Chicago recently, Anonybabe and I have been home bound a lot on the weekends. It makes a soul want to get out and do things really really bad. So Anonybabe and I had been doing a lot of farting around the house for a couple of days, and she didn't really want to go outside any more than I do. I think she has a snow phobia after watching Frosty the Snowman a few months back, but that's another story. The one activity that seemed to hold it's appeal for her was a trip to the toy store. So we bundled up, ran to catch the bus, motored down to our local (green, organic!?) hot dog place where Anonybabe proceeded to refuse to eat and then wolf down her peanut butter sandwich, demand a hot dog, scarfed half of her apple sauce while using the other half of it for finger painting the table, refused ice cream while crying (?! though it will become clear why she did this later). I slowly and tentatively ate her kiddy ice cream cup, convinced that as soon as I was through she would scream for ice cream.

She didn't, and we headed to the library where she happily ran around pulling books off of the book shelves and squealing with delight when I found some Arthur the Aardvark books. "Ah-tur...wight...TO-wee" she repeated when I announced we were checking out "Arthur Writes a Story". I'd smelled a horrible smell several times while we were cruising the stacks, since she had a onesie on I could only assume she had a messy shit we needed to clean up before moving along so I took her to the family bathroom. She cried and resisted, and I peeled off her many layers only to find a nominally wet diaper. It was only killer gas.

So I got her re bundled and we got in the mile long check-out line. The eastern European couple behind us laughed while Anonybabe wiggled and asked to climb the stairs and yelled "No No NO, Mama" when I tried to move her forward from the bench where she was flipping through books. "No, No, No!" the couple behind me laughed and smiled at me and chatted away in Polish, perhaps, while I sweated and tried not to drop our coats and books and pulled out our library card and attempted to keep my mouthy 21 month-0ld from wandering too far up the stairs or away from the line.

I was both crabby and determined to play with toys, dammit by the time we got to the toy store - a quaint, individually owned place that is tightly packed with lots of old-fashioned and new fangled stuff, sans any flashing lights. We peeled off our coats and hats and I asked a sales person if we could set my bag and our coats behind the counter so I wouldn't have to carry them and monitor Anonybabe. He started to say no until the owner stopped him and said "of course we can" and took them with a smile. I was grateful to her but worried that I'd made a potential enemy of this salesman who looked as hot and bored and cramped as I felt...especially when I didn't plan on buying anything.

Anonybabe toddled about like she owned the place and I sat wishing she would be quieter. We played with the puppets for a while, where she demanded that I hold each one and have it talk to her. She proceeded to take a sippy cup from a display and put it in her mouth. Then when we moved on to a table they had set up with some toys and Anonybabe took delight in running the truck toys over on to the floor, toddling away and ignoring me when I tried to give her a lecture about picking up her mess. By this time she smelled terrible again. But there's no changing table in this place and I hoped that the smell wasn't carrying too far beyond us. I was determined that we were going to stay a little while before leaving. I tried to keep Anonybabe from pulling a few more things off the shelves, then directed her to the Thomas the Tank Engine table. She was delighted and played around it happily while I tried to ignore the smell emanating from her pants and promised myself that as soon as I had just a teensy more energy for it, I was going to ask for our coats and train us back home.

I'd long tipped the balance into assholery for subjecting other patrons to her smell when I finally asked for our coats and bag. When I carried her to the front of the store to put on her coat I discovered why. She'd had a diarrhea blow-out and the yellowy shit had shot up and above the waistband of her diapers, seeped through her onesie and her two shirts. There was nothing for it but to put on her white coat over the shit stains, put her in the carrying wrap, hold her close and pick our way over the snowy sidewalks to the train for the 15 minute commute home.

When we got on I tried to stand as far away from people as possible, and with the cold I don't think the smell started to gain traction until right before we got off. You know how you smell shit on a train and you look around for the homeless person. We were the propagator.

Anonybabe fell asleep as we were approaching our block but started to bawl when I tried to lay her on the changing table. I'd already gotten shit on the inside of my coat, so I laid her on it instead and proceeded to peel off layer after shitty layer of clothes, hers and mine. She woke up for real when I started wrestling off her tights and I was able to sit her up so I could just cut off her onesie without having to pull all of that shit over her head, face and hair. All this time I'd been making a putrid pile of clothes on the changing table. I took us, both naked, into the bathroom where I showered us down, flecks of roughage swirling down the drain.

The whole experience was disgusting and humiliating. I was the person with the feisty, crabby, belligerent toddler. I was the person whose attempts to guide and discipline sounded flat and lame. I was the person who smelled strongly of shit.

Beet this

I'm eating some beet & carrot pancakes right now. They are like potato pancakes, but with...well...you know.

Damn, they're good! Does anybody know how to cook potato pancakes, though? Mine always come out greasy-soggy and/or charred. I'd like them to be crisp and browned.

Herd immunity

Anonybabe has not yet gotten her measles shot. She was due to have one 3 months ago but I didn't feel comfortable giving her the full MMR (measles, mumps, rubella). It's the controversial shot that the CDC swears has no connection to autism while many angry parents swear that it does. Our pediatrician is all for giving as few shots as possible, but thought a stand-alone measles shot was a good idea since measles are harsh. His office didn't have just the measles shot on hand, so we were going to reschedule another appointment to get it. I just haven't.



Now, listening to this podcast, I feel like a heel. The interview with the mother of the 10 month old who lost 1/3 of his body weight in 5 days was particularly poignant.



I do believe in doing what's best for public health. I do believe I'm responsible if I or my baby pass on a disease that has negative effects on someone else's family.



But I also believe that the federal government, the CDC, and my family physician have to prove to me that the stuff I'm injecting into my daughter's body is harmless...or less harmless than the diseases they aim to prevent. They seem to be. I truly hate to sound like a paranoid person, but public institutions don't always have the best track record of keeping the individuals best interest at heart. I sort of applaud the guerrilla tactics of the parents who aren't getting shots, but I think they should only do what they do in order to force pharmaceutical companies, the CDC, etc, to be more trustworthy.

Ugh. Vaccination issues are in an ugly place right now, but heading towards a better tomorrow, where people know more about what they are injecting in their kids and why.

Wow factor

I'm kind of contractually obligated to say this, but I mean it anyway: Anonybabe is cute. With her big, big, eyes and long eyelashes and buster brown bob. Ca-yute. And as far as I can tell, she appears to have a brain in that pretty little noggin. She talks - oy, does she talk - giving what sounds like a helium laced narration to every aspect of our day. "Mama ee why cookie! Daddy ee why cookie! Mama, Daddy, Anonybabe ee why cookie too!" (Mama, Daddy, and Anonybabe are all eating white cookies together; hooray!)

To anybody else, she might not seem like much more than a dirty little imp who says
'no" and/or "top it, Mama" at every opportunity, but i know her inauspicious beginnings. what you see before you may not seem like much, but dude, did you see what we started with?