Halls, I hate you.

Not because of your menthol goodness. Not because I've been hack hack coughing enough to need you in the first place. Because of the stupid little messages on your wrapper.

"Power through!" "Take charge and mean it." "Fire up those engines!" "Tough is your middle name!"

No, actually my middle name is "Hates Going to Work While Hacking Up a Lung." It's a little long for monogram purposes.

Now I am completely late to the party on this because the Interwebs tells me this particular stealth ad campaign has been going on since last year. But I didn't hack this much last year, or else I was, you know, too busy ripping open the wrapper in an attempt to stop a coughing fit to bother seeing what was written on it.

I'm going to guess somewhere, out there, are people who enjoy these little pick-me-up messages. Maybe they even feel inspired. Maybe they also enjoy learning Chinese from the backs of fortune cookie fortunes. (I like the fortunes. But only when everyone reads theirs aloud to each other and then we all mock them.)

All I think of when I read these messages is "I feel lousy and I have no voice and I still have to go to work and potentially conduct business calls while hacking into the phone and everyone around me will recoil in horror in case I'm contagious, even though the doctor said I'm not and shrugged the whole thing off, as in: Sucks to be you, take some Mucinex." And then I kind of want to punch the wrapper.

I'm just not an inspirational-message kind of person. Those messages always seem designed to make people do things they don't want to do, or shouldn't be doing. I don't get inspired by the kitten hanging from the branch. I think, "Why is that kitten in the tree? He's way too young to be climbing trees like that. What if he falls? Where's the fire department?" Partly because I'm a cat person. But mostly because I'm a smartass. Want proof? I thought this was funny.

So I keep taking the Halls and I keep going to work (since calling in sick did absolutely nothing for my cough). Today I seem to be coughing only a little bit. I'm hoping that's some sort of upward trend.

Because otherwise I'm going to have to keep reading those stupid messages.

Featured post on BlogHer ...

http://www.blogher.com/baby-doll-dilemma

Enjoy.

And the house is still standing

I suppose when several moms in a row tell you how brave you're being, it probably means they're thinking you poor dumb sap, nice knowing you. But really I didn't think of it as "brave" to host kiddette's 2nd birthday party in our house. There are almost no kids in her school/daycare class, and we weren't sure how many friends of ours with kids were going to show up, so it didn't seem to pay to book a kiddie party place. Plus we tend to invite family and close friends back to the house anyway after one of those shindigs -- which after all are only an hour and a half, and our family/friends are scattered all over several state lines -- meaning we end up holding two parties, basically, with two parties' worth of food. So DH and I shrugged at each other and said, let's just have it here.

We did have a momentary panic when we realized we were expecting 40-plus people, 14 of which were children ages baby to 5. And then we shrugged again. We were going to order pizza anyway, we could figure out some games, we could toss the kids in the back yard if it didn't rain. We have a playroom and a mostly empty living room, on account of we moved here from a condo and are a little light on furniture. It would be fine. And if it wasn't, kiddette wouldn't remember any of it anyway.

Some lessons learned:

• Party hats are a waste of money because they are easily disassembled.

• Pin the Tail on the Donkey is not played at kiddie play places and therefore will not be a hit at your house party.

• Go light on hors d'oeuvres, heavy on juice boxes.

• Your pizza joint may say they'll double-cut a few pies for you, but you will end up doing that yourself with a random kitchen knife -- because you don't own a pizza cutter -- as hungry kids watch.

• The hardest part isn't getting the food, or preparing it; it's serving it to said hungry kids while trying to make sure there's some left for the grownups.

• If your son takes a few buddies upstairs to play in his room, that means they're jumping on the bed.

• If you go to the trouble of creating an iPod playlist for the occasion, the speakers won't work.

We had no particular schedule of events. No clown. No musician. No balloon artist (in fact, no balloons. Kind of a choking hazard). No traveling zoo or costumed pirates/princesses or any of that. Just a bunch of kids running around, and room to run in.

Needless to say, they appeared to have a blast. And the grownups, who were able to mingle and chitchat in a way they can't while watching their kid climb the inflatable slide at a play place, seemed to enjoy themselves as well.

Don't get me wrong -- it was chaos. But the happy kind. I don't think I heard one tantrum or argument (although possibly I was deaf at that point). And since there were adults in nearly every room keeping an eye on things, I was even able to mingle a tiny bit.

I don't think we would do a house party every time. It's definitely more work, in terms of the cleaning and the cooking and the logistics of serving the food. But it was -- dare I say it -- fun.

And as soon as we get the empty gift bags off the floor, toss the tissue paper and boxes and find a spot in kiddette's bedroom for the mini menagerie of plush she got, we'll be back to normal. Ish.

He makes me proud, and then he makes me nuts

Our fine young kiddo has gotten himself potty trained. To the point of peeing by himself, washing his hands by himself, and five hours later, turning off the faucet by himself. (Just can't wait to see the water bill this month.) I'm still waking him at night for the after-hours bathroom trip, but nine times out of ten, he's still dry when I do it. Then he staggers, blank-eyed, down the hall, and after I prevent him from walking into the wall three or four times, he goes potty. Halfway through this process he wakes up a little more, and gets this grin on his face, like oh, here we are again. And then I guide him back to bed.

We're also still using the suppositories, but some nights he doesn't need them. Sometimes he goes all on his own, like the other day at a restaurant where he and I were eating lunch before our monthly Trader Joe's trip. He announced that he needed to poop, we hurried down to the restroom, he did his business, no problem. Absolutely the opposite of a few months ago.

So all appears more or less well there. Now if only he would, oh, I don't know, listen when I talk. Like if we're at the farmers market and I tell him to stay with me, I would appreciate it if he did not run right into the street. (The street is blocked off for the market. But still.) Or if I tell him not to touch anything, it would be nice if he did not use his hand to compress a loaf of bread into flatbread. Or if I say "no doughnuts," if he would be so kind as to not whine "I want a doughnut I want a doughnut I want a doughnut" until my ears want to crawl right off my head so as not to hear the whining anymore. Or also, if he would not sit on the ground under the produce tent and throw a mini fit because of the no doughnuts.

Really, I think the farm salesfolk dread our visits at this point. I go to pay for my produce and they have this look on their faces like You are a horrible mommy and we hate your child. I would buy produce elsewhere, but support local farmers/get fruits and veggies as fresh as possible/etc.

What's irksome is that the entire reason I bring him with me is for some mommy/son time, since kiddette has gotten especially clingy lately and does not think she needs to share her mommy with anyone on the planet ever. But mommy/son time is getting seriously compromised by the fact that I just want to buy some lettuce and peaches, dammit, without having to run after a small whiny person who seems to have a perverse desire for time outs.

I'm just wondering how long it will take for him to get the message on this one. The message being "No means no and whining annoys Mommy and then there is time out." Considering how long the potty thing took, I guess I shouldn't hold my breath. But you'd think he'd catch on that I don't change my mind and he doesn't control the universe.


While at Trader Joe's, he insisted on holding something, so I gave him a bag of raisins. In the checkout line, he broke into dance, wearing the raisins like a hat, chanting, "I'm a raisinhead! I'm a raisinhead!" Which I tried very hard not to laugh at, since I figured it was annoying the people around us. Then the cashier mentioned how funny he was. And the woman behind me said "He's so cute" and proceeded to tell me about her grandchild.

I know most people (farmers market excepted) find him far more charming than I do. Just a thing for me to keep in mind.

Stupid natural disasters

Clearly someone hates New Jersey. I mean, someone besides the usual. Because why else would we get an earthquake, a hurricane and a tornado warning in the same week?

Right, I know, the earthquake wasn't too bad up here and West Coasters are mocking us for being wusses. (Oh yeah? Well ... you have bad pizza!) Irene was slightly worse, in that one person died and there's flooding all over the state. And since I have basically lived all over the state at some point or another -- south, central, north, northwest -- it upsets me to see streets flooded and towns damaged. But where we are now, the power is on, my garden is still intact (though the tomato plants appear to be doing the downward dog) and only a little water seeped into the basement, so really we can't complain. I have no idea what the rest of the town looks like and I have no intention of finding out until tomorrow. Way too windy.

I could've sworn we were leaving all this behind when we left Florida. In 2004. The year four hurricanes hit Florida, one right after the other. And we thought, man, are we making the right decision.

Poor DH had to suffer through the one that most directly hit Broward, where we were. I'd already gone back north to start the new job. Our apartment complex (pink. The whole exterior. Not kidding) had storm shutters available for the sliding balcony doors, and our downstairs neighbors were nice enough to help him put them on. And then they lost power during the storm. So he had to sit there, in the pitch dark -- those storm shutters are seriously thick -- with the cat, all five thousand of my orchids he'd hauled in from the balcony, the metal chairs and table he'd also hauled in from the balcony, and a non-working fridge. For more than 24 hours. He kept calling me for storm info, since he had no way of looking it up himself.

A few weeks later, I came back. For the cat. Because I knew he wouldn't be able to bring her to a shelter if there were another hurricane. Shockingly, he did not divorce me on the spot.

So things this time were a bit of an improvement, I guess. I was even able to get the usual milk/bread/produce on Thursday night and avoid the apocalyptic madness that is the supermarket right before any kind of weather happens. I couldn't find flashlights anywhere, though.

We got worried about the tornado warning, since if there really was one coming we'd have to get the kids out of bed and hide with them in the bathroom. So we stayed up, in shifts, watching News 12 and making sure no tornado happened. Today we're both a wreck and the kids, having had the best night's sleep ever, are running circles around us. Now they are napping and it is blessed silence, except for the wind outside.

But definitely, could've been worse.

I look forward to the locusts and fiery hailstorms next week.

Come on with the rain, there's a smile on my face

Okay, no, not me personally. I dislike rain. I'm fine with it if I'm inside at the time. Best-case rain scenario: comfy chair, cup of tea, good book, warm fireplace. Cat purring on lap. Ideally not dislodging tea. (Bit of a moot point since I'm catless at the moment.)

Outside in rain is bad. It's wet. It feels clammy. It frizzes out my hair and then I flip because I hate when my hair frizzes. You have to be careful when you have curly hair. Why yes, my name is Frieda, how did you know?

So having a picnic in the rain did not seem like the most fabulous idea to me. Except that we were meeting up with, among other people, friends who were visiting from across the country, and this was the only day to see them, and who knew when we'd see them next. Last time we'd seen them? I was still pregnant with kiddette, who is almost 2.

So I made my bean dip and we headed south. Hoping that maybe the rain would let up.

It did not. It became ark-worthy. Fortunately the park had a fairly sturdy pavilion that we were able to hide under. And by "we" of course I mean the parents. The kids, nearly all 19ish of them, gleefully dashed out into the rain. They puddle-jumped. They chased each other. They played in mud. Kiddo made his toy truck go swimming. Kiddette happily wandered the park path, raincoat hood down, hair soaked.

Some of them had raincoats. Some of them had boots. Some just had T-shirts and shorts on. All were equally drenched, and none of them cared, including the barely-walking toddler who was following kiddette around. We watched them from under the pavilion, occasionally shrugging at each other.

I do realize that letting one's kids play in the rain non-stop for a couple hours would probably raise a few eyebrows in the antibacterial playdate era. But you know, they had a blast. I keep forgetting: Kids don't think like grownups. They think, I'm not supposed to be doing this and it's awesome!

And hey, I can remember going down to the neighborhood beach as a kid and jumping into the water fully clothed with my friends, because we didn't have our bathing suits, and because it was fun. And our parents let us. Even though we'd drip all over the car seats on the way home.


(As our Pacific Northwest friends pointed out, if they kept their kids inside every time it rained, they'd never get outside at all. So everyone does everything in the rain there. In other words, we are East Coast wusses.)

So despite all appearances, the party was a success. And I got a reminder that sometimes the best thing a parent can do for their kids is lighten up. Even if the kids' shoes take four days to dry out afterward.

Totally wrecked my hair, of course. What did you expect?

And it's nature over nurture, by a mile!

I'm really fairly sure we've been treating kiddette the same way we treated kiddo at her age. Same foods. Same bed/bath routine. Same more-or-less unstructured playtime. The three major differences: Pink clothes (with an occasional side of purple). Full-time daycare at an earlier age. And full-on exposure to Boy World.

Thomas. Planes. Trucks. Running. Throwing. Climbing. The absolute preference for sneakers over any other type of shoe. The sheer joy of running around the house shrieking at the top of your lungs. (Which they do every night. Earplugs. Someone buy me earplugs.)

And yet despite all that, kiddette has somehow morphed into ... a girl.

She puts her plush Elmo in her booster seat and gives him a drink from her sippy cup. (I have drawn the line on her sharing food with him.) She brings her blankie over to him on the floor and covers him with it. If she's sitting on my lap while I eat, she monitors my food intake: "Eat? Yes? Good? Yes!" She is instantly drawn to stuffed animals. She proudly wears her fairy wings. She is a serial hugger and insists on goodnight kisses.

Kiddo did none of this. He ignored stuffed animals in favor of toys with wheels and gears and battery-operated noises. He demanded we sit at the train station and wait for a train to go by so he could watch. He figured out how to turn on the Christmas lights at his first daycare provider's house, and then kept turning them on and off over and over again, because he could. He didn't pay much attention to what I was eating, unless he wanted some.

To be fair, he's still a pretty good hugger.

It's kind of amusing to watch, this very boyish boy and this very girlish girl. And kind of reassuring, in that clearly they are wired to be into what they're into and I shouldn't stress about imprisoning them in gender roles or trying to subvert the gender roles or whatever it is we're supposed to be doing these days. They'll be what they'll be.

Of course, toy guns and play makeup are still not allowed in this house, but that's just being reasonable.