So our day care, which is also a school but really day care, does fun things with its classes like Pirate Week. An entire week of fun activities like Treasure Hunt and Make a Pirate Picture Frame and Sprinkler Day, which seems slightly unrelated to the rest but hey, it's hot out. And Friday was Dress Like a Pirate Day.
Never mind the fact that I'm not actually sure 3- and 4-year-olds are ready for pirate chic. Or for the real-life pirates who were in fact fairly bloody people. If I wouldn't bring my kid on Pirates of the Caribbean yet, should I be dressing him pirate-ish?
But hey, new town, first time in a formal school (day care) setting, new friends, he's been a little slow to adjust, bring on the pirates, maybe he'll like it.
Two problems. One, last year was the first year we actually bothered to dress him up for Halloween (if you've ever seen this kid on sugar you'd understand), so we don't have a backlog of costumes for him. Two, where do you find pirate gear in July?
Answer: Nowhere. Unless Babies R Us happens to have some early Halloween stuff in the back and will sell it to you for full price.
You may be cringing. I was cringing. I don't buy Halloween costumes. I make them. Thrift stores are my friend. One year I found a giant inflatable shark, attached him to my shoulder and went as a shark attack victim (we were living in Florida at the time so it was funnier. Um, in that sick way). Another year DH and I wore a dress and a tux, added horns and creepy makeup and went as demon prom dates. He even made me a corsage of black roses. (And now I can say that yes I did wear that bridesmaid's dress again.) So the very notion of shelling out for a pre-fab costume, especially one too hot to wear in July anyway, was bothersome. But we figured, it's a backup option in case I didn't find anything else.
Yeah. The closest I came was a pj set with a big shark on it and a pirate ship in the background.
Somewhere in all this I realized, we've become those parents. The micromanaging ones. The neurotic ones who would spend $30 on an unnecessary costume just so their kid wouldn't feel left out on freaking Pirate Day. Geez, next we'll be hiring him happiness consultants.
Anyway. I decided the best compromise was, he'd wear the pj shirt and use the floppy skull-and-crossbones hat and sword from the costume. Pirate-ish and no heat stroke. Which seemed to suit him, although he'd rather tote a Matchbox car around than a sword. We even got him to do his pirate impression.
"Kiddo, how does a pirate go?"
"Aaaaaarrrrrrr!"
Apparently they made telescopes out of paper towel rolls, got temporary tattoos and had a fine time. And I still have the option of bringing that costume back to the store. So let's call that a win-win.
Next week they want the kids to come in dressed like cowboys. Honestly.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Do chipmunks eat plumeria?
Because dammit if my plumeria in a pot gets eaten I will go after Chip and/or Dale and I will have my revenge. I saw the little bugger sniffing the pot the other day. I've had that thing for three years, ever since I got it at the Philly flower show. I did not in the least think it would survive, let alone bloom. Plumeria (aka frangipani) were among my favorite aspects of living in Florida and I do not want this one to die.
So here we are in what might be reasonably considered "the country." Or as country as North Jersey gets. Mountains all around. Farms all around, with yummy yummy apple cider doughnuts (and also produce). Horses. Occasional country music. Quiet. Peaceful. How quiet? Both the supermarkets close at 10 (and the cashier I was chatting with, after frantically rushing to grab everything in 10 minutes, commented how great it was for parents that they're open that late. I noted that I was used to 24-hour supermarkets).
So far I've attended a craft fair (very nice) and a vintage rummage sale (so-so) and otherwise unpacked and rearranged and we've bought things like a lawn mower and a grill and a spade, which we did not own before since we lived in a condo and had no yard. I love love love having a yard. It's nice and flat and there's space for kiddo to run around -- which he does -- as well as a garden bed that was just sitting there, waiting for me.
Not that I know in the least what I'm doing. Plants in pots I understand. Like the orchids currently scattered around the house, all recent acquisitions. (The nice lady at Lowe's gave me one half-off. How cool is that?) But plants in the ground I'm a total newbie at. Also I missed the early part of the planting season because we didn't close until May. So this year is purely experimental. I just threw plants in the bed to see what they would do. Conveniently my family, knowing me well, gave me plants. So I have a rosebush and a moonflower; some marigolds; a clump of Johnny-jump-ups; some lavender that lived in a pot on my balcony and, against all odds, survived last winter; a couple of tomato plants, some basil and some oregano. And that still doesn't really fill the bed, but I think I'll leave things be and see how they grow.
-- Incidentally, that bit about how marigolds repel rabbits? Bogus. This one *ate* the marigolds. I saw it hopping away from the scene of the crime. I shall name it Hasenpfeffer!
At some point we will need to figure out things like lawn care and how to trim shrubs. But our neighbors don't appear too anal about their landscaping, so I don't think we've become a blight on the street just yet.
The sky here at night is unreal. Nothing but moon and mountains.
I still can't quite believe we did it. We sold our place -- for a decent amount, if not quite what we paid for it -- and got the house we needed. And now I have a nice size master bathroom and a little corner sitting area in the bedroom, from which I am writing this post. It feels almost as strange as moving to Florida in the first place.
Well, not quite as strange. Florida greeted us with giant roaches.
So here we are in what might be reasonably considered "the country." Or as country as North Jersey gets. Mountains all around. Farms all around, with yummy yummy apple cider doughnuts (and also produce). Horses. Occasional country music. Quiet. Peaceful. How quiet? Both the supermarkets close at 10 (and the cashier I was chatting with, after frantically rushing to grab everything in 10 minutes, commented how great it was for parents that they're open that late. I noted that I was used to 24-hour supermarkets).
So far I've attended a craft fair (very nice) and a vintage rummage sale (so-so) and otherwise unpacked and rearranged and we've bought things like a lawn mower and a grill and a spade, which we did not own before since we lived in a condo and had no yard. I love love love having a yard. It's nice and flat and there's space for kiddo to run around -- which he does -- as well as a garden bed that was just sitting there, waiting for me.
Not that I know in the least what I'm doing. Plants in pots I understand. Like the orchids currently scattered around the house, all recent acquisitions. (The nice lady at Lowe's gave me one half-off. How cool is that?) But plants in the ground I'm a total newbie at. Also I missed the early part of the planting season because we didn't close until May. So this year is purely experimental. I just threw plants in the bed to see what they would do. Conveniently my family, knowing me well, gave me plants. So I have a rosebush and a moonflower; some marigolds; a clump of Johnny-jump-ups; some lavender that lived in a pot on my balcony and, against all odds, survived last winter; a couple of tomato plants, some basil and some oregano. And that still doesn't really fill the bed, but I think I'll leave things be and see how they grow.
-- Incidentally, that bit about how marigolds repel rabbits? Bogus. This one *ate* the marigolds. I saw it hopping away from the scene of the crime. I shall name it Hasenpfeffer!
At some point we will need to figure out things like lawn care and how to trim shrubs. But our neighbors don't appear too anal about their landscaping, so I don't think we've become a blight on the street just yet.
The sky here at night is unreal. Nothing but moon and mountains.
I still can't quite believe we did it. We sold our place -- for a decent amount, if not quite what we paid for it -- and got the house we needed. And now I have a nice size master bathroom and a little corner sitting area in the bedroom, from which I am writing this post. It feels almost as strange as moving to Florida in the first place.
Well, not quite as strange. Florida greeted us with giant roaches.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
How not to sell a house
This one's for you, Realtors!
1. Don't call the seller to say you're running two hours late on a showing.
2. Don't call the seller to say you're not coming at all.
3. Show up at the seller's house without making an appointment first, beg your way in anyway, then casually reveal later your "client" is your daughter.
4. Get so chitchatty with the seller you fail to notice your client has let the seller's small child out onto the balcony.
5. Stay home sick, but send your clients over anyway to roam a stranger's home unescorted.
6. While running an open house at a different unit, tell a random unescorted person to go check out seller's unit, without calling seller's agent first, just for kicks.
7. Get so distracted by cooing over seller's cute baby that you forget to give seller your card.
8. Make it exquisitely clear you'd rather deal with husband seller than wife seller, from returning phone calls to introducing yourself. Because wife seller, obviously, is brainless idiot who makes no money.
9. Bring in snotty out-of-state clients who know nothing about (still-pricey) North Jersey market and snottily declare, "If I had to live here, I'd kill myself," before ditching agent while he's in the bathroom.
10. Bring stairs-allergic clients to a unit with two sets of stairs.
aaaannndd finally:
11. Make lowball offer that sellers spend days negotiating to a halfway decent offer, get outbid by a better offer, throw an e-mail tantrum at seller's agent in which you declare sellers are not trustworthy and you found your clients a way better deal in the same complex anyway, so nyah nyah. Then call seller's agent days later to explain deal was not so good after all, and what's the status of the seller's deal again? Definitely under contract? Oh.
1. Don't call the seller to say you're running two hours late on a showing.
2. Don't call the seller to say you're not coming at all.
3. Show up at the seller's house without making an appointment first, beg your way in anyway, then casually reveal later your "client" is your daughter.
4. Get so chitchatty with the seller you fail to notice your client has let the seller's small child out onto the balcony.
5. Stay home sick, but send your clients over anyway to roam a stranger's home unescorted.
6. While running an open house at a different unit, tell a random unescorted person to go check out seller's unit, without calling seller's agent first, just for kicks.
7. Get so distracted by cooing over seller's cute baby that you forget to give seller your card.
8. Make it exquisitely clear you'd rather deal with husband seller than wife seller, from returning phone calls to introducing yourself. Because wife seller, obviously, is brainless idiot who makes no money.
9. Bring in snotty out-of-state clients who know nothing about (still-pricey) North Jersey market and snottily declare, "If I had to live here, I'd kill myself," before ditching agent while he's in the bathroom.
10. Bring stairs-allergic clients to a unit with two sets of stairs.
aaaannndd finally:
11. Make lowball offer that sellers spend days negotiating to a halfway decent offer, get outbid by a better offer, throw an e-mail tantrum at seller's agent in which you declare sellers are not trustworthy and you found your clients a way better deal in the same complex anyway, so nyah nyah. Then call seller's agent days later to explain deal was not so good after all, and what's the status of the seller's deal again? Definitely under contract? Oh.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Driving down Route 80 today ...
... saw a woman in sunglasses barreling past in her SUV, toss a cigarette out the window. I pulled up to her and mouthed something nasty through the window, but since she was incredibly absorbed in her cell phone conversation, I don't think she saw me.
And Happy Earth Day to you too.
And Happy Earth Day to you too.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Happy Birthday, dear kiddo
I'm still trying to figure out this whole kiddie party etiquette. Which little friends do you invite? All of them? Some of them? The ones whose parents you like? The ones whose parents you actually know by name? How many adults? Any adults? Is there something fundamentally wrong with getting the kids all worked up, filling them with sugar and sending them home? And if you put a minimal amount of cheapie plastic in the goodie bags, are you being eco-savvy or just chintzy?
Anyway kiddo's third birthday party was over the weekend and I think it went well. In that the kids seemed to be smiling and such. We used one of those kiddie play places with the crazy padded indoor jungle gym-like contraptions, where the guests all run around for a bit and then do games, then have the inevitable pizza and cake and get tokens for the downstairs video games on the way out. We're now veterans of these places, having been to a few kiddie parties. They're a pretty good idea, in that the party is more or less planned for you and the kids are stampeding around a place that is not your house. (We had the grownups and a few of the kids back to our place after; every toy in the house ended up on the floor and DH's laptop was mysteriously non-working the next day.) Some are better designed than others; if there's no barrier between the play area and the spectator seats, you're a little too much in the action. If there aren't enough seats, you're left standing uncomfortably waiting for your kid to hurtle down the slide for the 25th time. There's never room for a stroller. Apparently infant siblings are not invited to these parties.
I needed hands free for my decaf coffee (I'm pretending it's real coffee, dammit!) so kiddette promptly went into her sling, which promptly prompted some to ask whether that was one of the recalled slings. (Told you.) I kept my sling rant to a minimum. Kiddette, not especially interested in the conversation, proved my point by peacefully dozing off.
I hope I was a decent enough hostess. I didn't actually know all the parents involved, and casual conversation with strangers is not my strong point. But then you spend most of your time at these things watching your kid anyway.
Kiddo ran around like the maniac he is, though seemed a little overwhelmed by being the center of attention. They even skipped the parachute. By the time the food came around, though, he was back to normal. He even blew out the candles on his own (unlike last year, when he tried to grab the candle on his brownie and I blew it out for him).
High point of my day: I'd just put a skirt on as we were getting ready to go, when kiddo saw and said, "Mommy a princess!" Too. Cute.
Now only about five months to go before we have to throw another shindig for kiddette. At least she won't be wanting a Thomas cake.
Anyway kiddo's third birthday party was over the weekend and I think it went well. In that the kids seemed to be smiling and such. We used one of those kiddie play places with the crazy padded indoor jungle gym-like contraptions, where the guests all run around for a bit and then do games, then have the inevitable pizza and cake and get tokens for the downstairs video games on the way out. We're now veterans of these places, having been to a few kiddie parties. They're a pretty good idea, in that the party is more or less planned for you and the kids are stampeding around a place that is not your house. (We had the grownups and a few of the kids back to our place after; every toy in the house ended up on the floor and DH's laptop was mysteriously non-working the next day.) Some are better designed than others; if there's no barrier between the play area and the spectator seats, you're a little too much in the action. If there aren't enough seats, you're left standing uncomfortably waiting for your kid to hurtle down the slide for the 25th time. There's never room for a stroller. Apparently infant siblings are not invited to these parties.
I needed hands free for my decaf coffee (I'm pretending it's real coffee, dammit!) so kiddette promptly went into her sling, which promptly prompted some to ask whether that was one of the recalled slings. (Told you.) I kept my sling rant to a minimum. Kiddette, not especially interested in the conversation, proved my point by peacefully dozing off.
I hope I was a decent enough hostess. I didn't actually know all the parents involved, and casual conversation with strangers is not my strong point. But then you spend most of your time at these things watching your kid anyway.
Kiddo ran around like the maniac he is, though seemed a little overwhelmed by being the center of attention. They even skipped the parachute. By the time the food came around, though, he was back to normal. He even blew out the candles on his own (unlike last year, when he tried to grab the candle on his brownie and I blew it out for him).
High point of my day: I'd just put a skirt on as we were getting ready to go, when kiddo saw and said, "Mommy a princess!" Too. Cute.
Now only about five months to go before we have to throw another shindig for kiddette. At least she won't be wanting a Thomas cake.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Still slinging
I'm a little annoyed about the Consumer Product Safety Commission's sling warning. Not because it's unwarranted -- three babies dying in one year is alarming -- but because it's not making any distinctions. The sling that keeps coming up in news reports by way of example is this one -- and I have to say, I breezed right past it when I was sling shopping because it looked chintzy. I've used this one and this one, and they've both struck me as being pretty well made and durable. I feel like the warning is lumping all slings together as being dangerous, which may be overstating the case.
The key to using a sling properly is the sizing. If it's too small, the baby doesn't have enough room; if it's too loose or hangs too much away from the mother's body, the baby is more likely to slide around or fall out. Reputable sling sites emphasize this and suggest you whip out a tape measure to be absolutely sure you're ordering the right one.
And even still, I refused to use one with kiddo until he more or less had head control, because it made me nervous. I started earlier with kiddette, for the sheer practical reason that I needed my hands free to corral kiddo. But I always stuck a small blanket under her head and neck to give her extra support, and I glanced down to check on her constantly, listening for her breathing.
Mothering magazine awhile back published a guide to babywearing that more or less sums it all up -- the different types, the pros and cons, some specific products to try out. And it specifically warns to make sure the baby can breathe properly. Among other things like, don't cook with the baby strapped to you, or bend over without holding the baby in place. As though you needed to be told that.
Here's what's frustrating: Apparently some people do need to be told that. I have absolutely no desire to trash parents who lost their babies, because that isn't right. But if you're going to carry your baby around strapped to you with a piece of fabric -- that's fabric, not armor -- you have to exercise more than the usual amount of common sense.
It reminds me of the Bumbo seat recall of a few years back. Seems some parents were leaving their babies in these things on top of tables and other such elevated surfaces, and then the baby would arch backward out of the seat, fall off the table and fracture their skull. Right. So why would you put your baby on an elevated surface for any reason, no matter what they're sitting in? We have a Bumbo. We used it with kiddo. We're using it with kiddette. On the carpeted floor. Like the instructions said to do.
Look, it frustrates me beyond belief how often products designed for children are cheap pieces of crap. But knowing that, I'm as careful as possible about what we use and how we use it. And maybe some people just grab whatever off the shelves and figure it's fine without reading the instructions, or researching it. Parenting = research. It just does.
There are apparently industry trade standards in the works for slings, and I think that's a good idea. All I know is, the next time kiddette and I venture out sling-style (she sits upright now, making things easier), if I get a fish-eye from someone about it, there will be an unpleasant scene.
The key to using a sling properly is the sizing. If it's too small, the baby doesn't have enough room; if it's too loose or hangs too much away from the mother's body, the baby is more likely to slide around or fall out. Reputable sling sites emphasize this and suggest you whip out a tape measure to be absolutely sure you're ordering the right one.
And even still, I refused to use one with kiddo until he more or less had head control, because it made me nervous. I started earlier with kiddette, for the sheer practical reason that I needed my hands free to corral kiddo. But I always stuck a small blanket under her head and neck to give her extra support, and I glanced down to check on her constantly, listening for her breathing.
Mothering magazine awhile back published a guide to babywearing that more or less sums it all up -- the different types, the pros and cons, some specific products to try out. And it specifically warns to make sure the baby can breathe properly. Among other things like, don't cook with the baby strapped to you, or bend over without holding the baby in place. As though you needed to be told that.
Here's what's frustrating: Apparently some people do need to be told that. I have absolutely no desire to trash parents who lost their babies, because that isn't right. But if you're going to carry your baby around strapped to you with a piece of fabric -- that's fabric, not armor -- you have to exercise more than the usual amount of common sense.
It reminds me of the Bumbo seat recall of a few years back. Seems some parents were leaving their babies in these things on top of tables and other such elevated surfaces, and then the baby would arch backward out of the seat, fall off the table and fracture their skull. Right. So why would you put your baby on an elevated surface for any reason, no matter what they're sitting in? We have a Bumbo. We used it with kiddo. We're using it with kiddette. On the carpeted floor. Like the instructions said to do.
Look, it frustrates me beyond belief how often products designed for children are cheap pieces of crap. But knowing that, I'm as careful as possible about what we use and how we use it. And maybe some people just grab whatever off the shelves and figure it's fine without reading the instructions, or researching it. Parenting = research. It just does.
There are apparently industry trade standards in the works for slings, and I think that's a good idea. All I know is, the next time kiddette and I venture out sling-style (she sits upright now, making things easier), if I get a fish-eye from someone about it, there will be an unpleasant scene.
Friday, March 5, 2010
The things she carried
On the left side: One five-ton breast pump, masquerading as a large black briefcase, likely not fooling anyone. One Coach bag, proving that I do in fact possess some sense of style and at least one purse that is not designed to hold diapers. One tote bag full of kiddo's lunch, kiddo's diapers and kiddo's backup outfit in case the diapers are overwhelmed. On the right side: One small hand, preventing kiddo from picking a direction at random and running off to play in traffic.
My left arm has been feeling weird for the past couple days. Think the pump is killing it?
It's more or less the same morning routine as before -- get up, get fed and dressed, get kiddo fed and dressed, get out the door, drop him off at daycare, get to work -- with the addition of a hungry kiddette who also needs to be fed and dressed, and is in no hurry to finish feeding. Ever. This is not helping time-wise. I have a mark I'm trying to hit and I keep missing it. I'd rather get in to work earlier and leave earlier, but when other small beings are involved the equation gets tougher.
But then I stubbornly refuse to skip breakfast or resort to sugar-bomb pastry crap, so that takes a little more time. Fortunately kiddo is pretty happy with Joe's O's and fruit every day, so I don't have to overthink anything. And I've been eating my regular yogurt/fruit/English muffins/tea meal for about my entire adult life. Boring? Sure. Easy? Yay.
Every day is a race: How fast can I get in? How much can I get done? How fast can I get home? How many times will I get stuck in traffic on the Parkway? (Curse you, Parkway.) How many seconds after I walk through the door will I have to feed kiddette? How much playtime will I get in before double bedtime? And how much of one "Daily Show" episode will I get to watch before conking out on the couch?
I already knew this would be the case. It's just that the second child means more coordination, more energy, more strain on the left shoulder. Seriously, if my arm keeps bothering me I'll have to get one of those little dolly things. Stupid pump and its stupid five tons.
The nice thing is watching kiddo and kiddette interact. He flops down next to her on her mat; she smiles up at him and reaches for his hair, his nose, his hand. He gets right in her face and laughs. She gives him a big toothless baby grin. I still worry he'll accidentally squish her, but at least they like each other. For now.
My left arm has been feeling weird for the past couple days. Think the pump is killing it?
It's more or less the same morning routine as before -- get up, get fed and dressed, get kiddo fed and dressed, get out the door, drop him off at daycare, get to work -- with the addition of a hungry kiddette who also needs to be fed and dressed, and is in no hurry to finish feeding. Ever. This is not helping time-wise. I have a mark I'm trying to hit and I keep missing it. I'd rather get in to work earlier and leave earlier, but when other small beings are involved the equation gets tougher.
But then I stubbornly refuse to skip breakfast or resort to sugar-bomb pastry crap, so that takes a little more time. Fortunately kiddo is pretty happy with Joe's O's and fruit every day, so I don't have to overthink anything. And I've been eating my regular yogurt/fruit/English muffins/tea meal for about my entire adult life. Boring? Sure. Easy? Yay.
Every day is a race: How fast can I get in? How much can I get done? How fast can I get home? How many times will I get stuck in traffic on the Parkway? (Curse you, Parkway.) How many seconds after I walk through the door will I have to feed kiddette? How much playtime will I get in before double bedtime? And how much of one "Daily Show" episode will I get to watch before conking out on the couch?
I already knew this would be the case. It's just that the second child means more coordination, more energy, more strain on the left shoulder. Seriously, if my arm keeps bothering me I'll have to get one of those little dolly things. Stupid pump and its stupid five tons.
The nice thing is watching kiddo and kiddette interact. He flops down next to her on her mat; she smiles up at him and reaches for his hair, his nose, his hand. He gets right in her face and laughs. She gives him a big toothless baby grin. I still worry he'll accidentally squish her, but at least they like each other. For now.
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