Electrical Tape Isn't Just for Wire: Sticking It to Them When They Stick It to You at Target

I admit. Pre-Critter I was one of those superior Mommies-to-be. You know, the one who won't turn on the TV, or feed junk foods, or Heaven forbid, allow their child to pitch a fit.

Fast forward til yesterday found me at the local Target, deeply engrossed in the mind numbing task of deciding whether or not the more expensive baby detergent is really worth the extra 3 bucks and if I don't dish out the dollars, does that indeed make me a Bad Mother. (Answers: no it is not, and maybe)

Then, the phone in my pocket began to ring. Critter's beady little eyes zeroed in on my right hip while I began to furiously run through my mental list of evasive maneuvers. The battle line had been drawn. He wanted the phone because the buttons beep and the screen lights up. I didn't want him to have it because he reprograms my emergency contact from Husband to the To Go phone at my favorite lunch spot. And while the craving for a dill tomato sandwich constitutes an emergency to me, I don't want the gum snapping teenager at the sandwich counter making any snap decisions regarding my vegetative state.

I pulled out the cell just as the call went to voicemail. Dang. Now he'd seen the thing and I didn't even get the chance to talk to the caller.

In my best Superior Mommy voice I told him "No, Critter. This is Mama's phone. Not a toy. You may play with your phone." I handed him his Playskool cell that calls some crazy cartoon duck and he deliberately dropped it to the floor while eyeing my LG.

At my firmest "No!" he reached out and intentionally smacked my phone to the floor. I could read the thought bubble above his demonic head: "If I can't have it, can't no body have it." The bubble even contained the eye cutting that I hadn't penciled into his schedule for another 14 years.

I retrieved the phone and stuck it back into my pocket. Seeing his favorite play thing disappear caused his bottom lip to began to jut out. Crud. I realized I had about .2 seconds until the sounds started. I hastily looked around for witnesses, hoping to find myself alone. No such luck. At Target in suburbia with a fit-pitching-baby, I'm just lucky my in-laws and pastor weren't hanging out by the aisle end cap.

As the wailing began I tried desperately to decide what I could do. My first thought was to book it to the school supply section and get some scotch tape to silence that fat lip and it's partner in crime. I wasted another valuable few seconds trying to decide if the store security guys would turn the surveillance tape into child protective services if I went with this option.

I admit. It wasn't the thought that I would be portrayed on every major news station across America as the nut-job-mouth-taping mommy that stopped me. It was the knowledge that scotch tape loses it's sticky within seconds of coming into contact with spit. Electrical tape holds much better.

Boo On Poo: How I Learned Never To Leave the House Without an Extra Onesie

This morning my mom called to tell me that she was playing hooky from work and wanted to go shopping and out to lunch, would I like to come? Critter and I were in the car before I finished drying my hair. Nothing says Happy Friday like free lunch.

As Madre and I were finishing eating, we noticed Critter was turning a funny purple color. I leaped up and pounded him on the back thinking that he was choking on a cheerio. He returned to a normal shade and I returned to my seat, only to have him do another Barney impression a couple of minutes later. Before I could dial 911 my mother informed me that she thought he was "making number 2." Which she said just like that: making number 2.

When we were done with lunch and Critter had gone through several rounds of color change theory, Madre volunteered to take him out to the car and change him while I cleaned up the table. I threw the trash away, refilled my drink, went to the restroom, and ran into and chatted with a friend before finally making it out to the parking lot. So, I was pretty surprised to see my mom standing by the back door instead of huffily waiting in the passenger seat.

As I rounded the front of the car I could see that she was gingerly holding up a giggling Critter by the feet. "What the....?" I started to ask. I was cut short, however, by the shock of noticing that Critter appeared to have had a run in with the crazy-eyed spray tan lady at our local Ultra Tan. A second later, I figured it out. Critter had poo (POO!!) smeared all over his legs and stomach. I then noticed that his onsie, which had been a cream color at lunch but was now closer to that of mud, in a heap on the pavement.

My mom narrowed her eyes at me. "We need napkins." She growled. "And a cup of water." The travel wipes box lay empty about a foot from the mud onsie. I turned on my heel and scampered back into the restaurant before she could demand that I hold his feet.

As I got back to the parking lot, I could see my mom shaking her head while a group of teenaged girls walked by laughing. When they passed I heard one saying "Eww, that is so gross! I am so never having kids!"

"Girlie," I wanted to say "I'm in total agreement."

The A$$ Hat: This Summer's Must-Have Accessory for Opinionated Strangers

There is little in this world that brings out stupid comments from friend and foe like pregnancy. I'm not sure if it's because the majority of the population is aware that preggos aren't recommended to partake in fist-fights or because the sight of a pregnant person automatically bestows the seer with a medical degree, but there is no other time in a persons life when they will more wish to live on a deserted island than while with child.





It was during my 4th or 5th month of pregnancy with Critter that I ran into a person who has always been a mega-butt and I should expect no good to come from. Butt Head looked me up and down with his critical eyes and said, not "Congratulations" but "Wow, you've gotten really fat." Which was an especially cruddy comment for him to make, considering I had only gained about 10 pounds.





As I blinked in shock, the only comeback I could think of was to tell him that I was right on target with my weight gain and my doctor had congratulated me for being exactly average.



His response? "Huh. Well, she's not concerened that your butt appears to be what's pregnant, not your stomach?" I had nothing to say to this, so I pretended not to have heard him.




However, when I got home I curled up next to Husband and told him the story with tears streaming down my face. Husband looked at me and responded with all the sympathy of his gender. "Well, what can I say? You know he's an ass hat!"



And out of the ashes of my self-esteem arose the A$$ Hat:








See those little slips of paper sticking out of the top? Those are all the crappy comments people have made to me over the course of my pregnancies. When someone says something stupid, mean, or completely inappropriate, I jot it down on whatever is handy and when I get home I put it in the A$$ Hat. Then, when I'm feeling creative and/or mean spirited I pull out the A$$ Hat and try to come up with retorts to all the stupid things people say.



As you can see, the A$$ Hat is pretty full. And so recently, I changed the Hat's rules. Now I play a different game.



Friday's are pretty boring for me, so Fridays became my Game Day. Each morning on My Most Special Day, I close my eyes and pick a saying from the Hat. Then I pack the diaper bag full of Critter essentials and run all my errands that I have been saving up since the previous Game Day. I make a tally on the slip of paper for each time someone makes the same, or a similar comment. And then I picture them in the Hat, a la Jeff Foxworthy's "Here's Your Sign."



So, Strangers, if you are unable to keep your opinions to yourself, and you run into me on a Friday, and I'm laughing maniacally, that's why. It's because you are wearing the A$$ Hat.

Reason #42 Why Pregnant People Shouldn't Grocery Shop While Hungry

Well, I Guess There Isn't Any Doubt About What Color to Paint the Nursery

Introducing Baby Nudger, coming October 9th, 2009

This Just In: Babies Still Don't Like Lemons

But Critter still loves eating 'em anyway.

Being Poor Sure Can Give You a Rich Imagination

Everyone who knows me knows that I'm no Stephen Hawking at math. I'm not much better at logistical thinking. So when I decided to be a Stay-At-Home-Mom my brain didn't process the fact that David and I would be going to a double-income family of two to a one-income family of three.

The closest I came to thinking about our new income tax bracket was one night out at dinner with friends when I was about 6 months preggo with Critter. I was discussing my career move with the guy next to me while he lovingly nursed his scotch and I swirled the ice in my tea. "Boy," he murmured. "This sure will cut into your fluid assets." Since he was clearly beginning to enjoy his buzz, I assumed he was refering to my ability to drink half a bottle of wine a night. "Yeah," I responded, more on point than I knew at the time "it sure will suck for a while."

Fast forward a year and find me sitting on the sofa researching vacation places for this summer. "Look" I squealed one night to Husband, waving the laptop in his face, "we could leave Critter with a sitter and go on this cruise! It leaves right from here, so we wouldn't even have to buy plane tickets!" I'm nothing if not a cutter-of-costs. (Yeah, right.)

Husband looked at me like I'd suddenly started speaking ancient Greek. His fingers paused over their furious punching of the calculator, and a couple on envelopes slipped from his other hand. "WHAT?! Are you kidding me?!"

I was confused by his incredulous tone. "A cruise." I pronounced each word carefully. "It leaves from the port here. We should go."

He pinched his nose and rolled his eyes. Picking up his dropped paperwork he informed me that we don't have any money. "Oh, but it's only 499.99 per person" I told him. "Really cheap as cruises go."

He looked me full in the face. "Uh, huh. But we don't have 499.99 a person." He explained. He turned the calculator around so that I could see it. "We don't have 4.99 a person. See these pieces of paper? They are bills. We must pay them if we wish to continue living here." He had taken on my patronizing tone, and I must say, I didn't care for it.

"Fine." I grouched, disappointed as my dreams of relaxing on a deck watching the ocean swoosh by swirled into one of me sweating buckets on the neighborhood pool chairs while swatting at mosquitoes. I picked up an interior design magazine I'd been flipping through earlier in the day.

"If we can't go on a relaxing vacation, I'll just re-do the bedroom like this one in this picture." I told him. "If we can't relax in a 5 star resort, at least we can have a beautiful bedroom." I was immediately lost in visions of 3000 thread count sheets and cedar closet hangers.

David's deep breathing broke me from my reprieve. I turned to look at him just in time to see him getting shorter. "Anne." The patronizing I'm-speaking-to-a-kindergardener tone was back. "Redecorating costs money. We. don't. have. any."

I nodded at him, finally comprehending that we, like so many others, are strapped for cash right now. "Ok." I agreed, smiling at him encouragingly. "For my birthday then."

"Holy SH%$!" He yelled, jumping up, and stomping into the kitchen, where he poured himself a big glass of his own favorite liquid asset. He downed half the glass and returned to the couch. "Darling. Sweetheart. Love of my Life." He picked up my hands and held them while looking deep into my eyes. "We are poor. You don't have an income, Critter costs more than a Kennedy, and Nudger will be here in a few months. If you're lucky, I'll get you a pack of gum for your birthday. Do you understand? We can't go on a cruise, redecorate the bedroom, or get you that diamond upgrade for a long, long time. K? Maybe we'll go somewhere next year, but not this one."

"Oh, alright." I sighed, resigned. I returned to surfing the web while he calculated those bill thingys. "You know" I said to him after a few minutes of silence, "my toes really need a pedicure."

When I received no response I looked over at him. Unfortunately I'll never know what he thought about the state of my toenails, as his head had exploded. On the plus side, now that he has no head, he also doesn't have any eyes to see me sneaking in the Gap Baby shopping bags...