A is for awkward

I wish someone would do a study to determine just what portion of the male mustache-wearing population is pedophiles. Because we have a foreign neighbor who sports a 'stache who has taken a liking to Miss Dub. It's nothing too strange; he comments on how cute she is, and waves "bye-bye." He doesn't seem overtly creepy, but we're not setting an extra plate out our table, ifyaknowwhatimsayin.

He does like to call Miss Dub "baby girl," which is more embarassing (for him) than alarming (for us). So we may have rushed into the house a few times to avoid the 'stacher, as well as the enormous suckers he likes to give Miss Dub. (So far, none have tested positive for razors or Roofies.)

Things got a little weirder the other day, however, when he ran up to apartment and brought back a - wait for it - Hannah Montana doll for Miss Dub. I didn't even know what to say. "Why are you buying gifts for my child?" seemed too cold. And, "My child is more fond of Elmo than wig-wearing tweeners," seemed too rude.

So now we have a really obnoxious Hannah Montana doll lost somewhere in our toy stash. And we have me wondering if I should change the locks or pen a thank-you note:

Dear 'Stacher,

Thanks for buying a doll that's not age-appropriate for my daughter. If you were really creepy, you would probably know to buy something else, so that's a good thing, I guess.

In the future, however, if you wish to make sweet comments and/or distribute gifts, you will have to have to shave your mustache.

Thanks again!
The Dubs

And so it begins ...

Sticky hands + cotton balls = this

When people spoke of the "Terrible Twos," I always thought of it as a phase. Like, a gradual descent into temper tantrumdom, with a gradual ascent into not-as-adorable, but still cute kidhood.

I was wrong.

The "Terrible Twos" came to our house yesterday like a package arriving in the mail. Just when I was feeling Brangelina in my baby-making desires - "But seven just seems too small!" - I was faced with the most evil, the most defiant Miss Dub I'd ever met - and she's not even two until October.

It began with a battle over wearing a diaper. Not knowing I was about to sink into the depths of motherhood, I took this to be a sign that potty training had arrived. (Not the best timing since I'm leaving for two weeks on Friday. Oops, didn't I tell you already?) I said, "Well, if you don't want to wear a diaper, you can sit on the potty and ..." (I'll spare those without children the cutesy phrases I use to refer to our excrement.)

That was when I got a diaper throw in my face, while Miss Dub shouted, "No potty! No diaper! Naaaaked!"

I'll spare you the nitty-gritty on the rest of the day, but there was a two-hour battle over wearing shorts, a battle over coming inside, a battle over taking a nap, a battle over leaving Target without purchasing a very large doll house, which she physically removed from the shelf herself.

And then, just when I thought she was ready to rest from her loud labors, she preceded to screech when I put her to bed. I did the typical mom debate - Is she hurt/sad/soiled v. Will she become spoiled/dependent/needy? - ultimately siding with my eardrums and the very real possibility that someone would call CPS on me. THREE times I tried to get her back into bed with various bribery techniques, including stuffed animals, books and "candy milk" - vanilla soy milk - all to no avail.

At 10 p.m., she finally fell asleep on Mr. Dub's lap while watching "The Office."

So now I'm thinking five kids might be just right.

What about you?

Miss Dub chronicles

Yes, I let her out in public in her pajamas.

I fear that my portrayal of Miss Dub has led some of you to believe she is a genius. And while she probably will graduate from high school at 10, she's also a typical toddler. Also, even though she talks like a teenager, only a few people can understand what she is saying. I happen to be one of those people.

So without further adieu, I'll share a few things Miss Dub has been doing and saying as of late:

1) The other day I was getting ready and trying to ignore my puffy midsection. Just then, Miss Dub shouted to me, "Mommy's skirt is pretty." This not only made me feel good, but gave me an incredible urge to eat her, which you will be glad to know I resisted. Then she added, "Mommy, you're pretty!" So I ate her.

2) Every time we drive in the car, she shouts out the windows, "Piiiiink! Piiiiink! Piiiiink house!" After some investigation, I discovered that she is on a quest to find and purchase a pink house. If anyone finds one, please let me know it's geographical coordinates so we can drive by and promptly never return. Maybe then she'll stop screaming while I drive.

3) When we were in Nauvoo, she wanted to get on stage before a musical performance. I indulged her since only the brass band was playing. Immediately, she began to shake her thing for the crowd, which they loved. Just then, the band stopped playing and the audience clapped. Miss Dub thought they were clapping for her. Confused when they stopped, she raised her hands and clapped again. The whole audience began clapping with her. She stopped, they stopped. And so on it went for a few minutes. She was beaming the whole time. When I finally got her down, she kept saying, "I want to go on stage." And when she awoke the next morning, the first thing she said to me was, "Clapping with me!" Looks like I'm going to be a show mom. Now, I just need to take a class on how to pressure my child and/or steal her earnings.

4) Miss Dub's favorite joke is to call grapes, apples. In fact, she doesn't even have to be eating grapes to crack herself up. She'll just look at me and say, "Aaaapples!" And I have to say, "No, grapes!" And then she laughs for 30 minutes, which is nice because it's hard to get anything done with a toddler around.

5) We recently purchased Juno. In one scene, Juno's friends suggests she might be pregnant with a "food baby." I guess Mr. Dub and I have been quoting that on occasion because Miss Dub recently turned to me and proclaimed, "Food baby!" I had to explain to her what that meant, at which point she motioned to my stomach. And no, she didn't say I was pretty this time.



p.s. Happy Birthday to me mumsie! She's an amazing lady and a great rhymer.

How I survived my first heart attack

The Lord works in mysterious ways ... sometimes through hypochondria.

Last night, Mr. Dub had a friend over for one last hangout - he's moving, not dying - and they decided to watch "Live Free or Die Hard." I say "they" because I generally don't like to watch movies with action sequences that last more than 30 seconds at a time and/or involve planes, tunnels or abandoned warehouses. (Check, check and check.) But I decided to watch it, and even though some of the scenes gave me an ulcer, it was pretty enjoyable. (I should note that my love for fictional terrorism outweighs my aversion to intense action.)

When the movie was over, I felt a sharp, shooting pain in my chest. This is not abnormal. I don't think it's my heart, but my proclivity to sit in uncomfortable, compact positions while watching TV. Then, the pain was followed by tingling in my left arm. I let this go for a minute, but it continued to persist. I jokingly asked them about the signs of a heart attack. Then, Mr. Dub's friend left, and I didn't have to pretend to joke because Mr. Dub knows how paranoid I can be. We researched it a bit on line and found out that "numbness in the left arm" is actually not as common of a symptom as you think. Sorry to shake up your world, but do be alert for pain in your jaw.

Wow, this is getting long. Short story not as short as it could be, I decided it would be best to call a doctor. She was basically asleep and said something like, "Who knows?" so I decided to it was OK to go to bed. Still, I wanted to be prepared and keep my phone by my bed just in case. Unfortunately, I realized my phone was still in our swimming bag, which was in Miss Dub's room.

I tiptoed into her room and was hit by a smell wave. Clearly, someone had soiled her diaper, and it wasn't me this time. While I got out my phone, I debated whether or not to wake her. Just then, she woke up. I asked her if she wanted me to change her and she said yes. Then she said, "Mommy, I'm scared." I held her for a bit, and put her back in her crib.

This morning, I asked her if she remembered me coming in. After some prying and translation, I found out she had a bad dream about drowning and that she had been praying for me to come in her room. And I did ... because I was possibly having a heart attack.

So there you have it. Next time you have numbness in your left arm - and I admittedly still do - you should first check on your child, then turn off the intense action film you are watching and, finally, go straight to bed.

HTT - Modesty Edition

Miss Dub and I recently went swimsuit shopping since at 19 months she is already growing out of her 2T suit. (Is this normal?)

I told her she could pick one out, and pick she did - a nice tropical-patterned one with a plunging neckline and deep backside. Whaaaat?

I had to give her a quick lecture on modesty, which I really hadn't been planning to deliver for a few more years. As a result, it was a little haphazard and may have included the word "skeezy."

I'm all for kids clothes that mimic certain adult fashions. I adore a toddler in capris or a cropped sweater; I love tiny Converse or Pumas - but I do not want my daughter dressing like a grown vixen.

I think some people take this concept too far - it troubles me when I see a 3-year-old in a one-piece outfit with snaps, and I'm not into baby clothes adorned with Winnie the Pooh*. Also, I'm totally cool with my daughter wearing sleeveless tops or dresses, as long as they don't have spaghetti straps or the aforementioned Pooh graphics.

But small girls in plunging halters and skimpy bikinis trouble me. Not only because they are a pedophile's dream, but because such fashions send a message that more skin is better. (And that how you look is more important than who you are.)

I mean, they sell thong underwear in some children shops. Seriously? Because I don't think VPL should be a concern for someone who still wets the bed.

But obviously someone is buying it because it's available at most stores, and I see it on little girls in my area, although winter makes modesty more common.

What do you think?

Are we dressing our kids older than we should?

What are the fashion rules at your house?

And who is buying all the Pooh Bear clothes at Target?* (If you are, I never wrote that.)



*If you haven't caught on yet, I'm concerned about Pooh Bear's intentions. No offense to the rest of the Hundred-Acre Woods posse.

C is for Compassion ... and Clavicle

Miss Dub has been naturally blessed with a strong sense of compassion. Not only does she voluntarily offer hugs and kisses to me, but she offers them to others, including strangers and television characters. (She also tickles the TV.)

Yesterday, I overheard this conversation between the little Miss and her toys while taking a bath:

Miss Dub: Ready? Go!

Pig: I winning.

Sheep: No winning.

Miss Dub: Good job, pig! Fast!

Sheep: (pretend crying)

Miss Dub: Good job, sheep!

Sheep: (sad voice) No winning.

Miss Dub: You winning. You trying.

Miss Dub: (kisses sheep) Ready? Go again!

Gone Swimming!

* A winner has been announced here.

My little drummer girl

Miss Dub already likes to dress herself. And if you think fashion sense is genetic, it's not. It's an acquired skill, and I can only hope that these early, awkward acquisitions lead to future outfits with coordinating colors. (Or at least thoughtfully mismatched ones as is über-hip these days.)

It takes some serious self control to let my child out of the house wearing pink cowboy boots and red shorts. I try not to be embarrassed or make explanatory comments to strangers - after all, isn't fashion about discovering yourself? - but it's hard not to when she looks like I just found her on the doorstep ... of Weird Al's house.

So much of parenting is trying not to control your children - forcing them to do or behave the way you would. Like, I'm obsessed with simple, modern children's products. I daydream of toy boxes full of wooden blocks and kid gear void of plastic, bright colors, characters or noises. So far, I'm failing, mostly thanks to grandparents who are happy to give Miss Dub the brightest and loudest toys they can find.

And you know what? She loves them. She likes her big turtle-shaped toy-holder in the bathtub, even though I lay awake at night thinking of ways I could make a simple beige pouch to replace it. She likes her Winnie Pooh plastic car, complete with obnoxious songs. (And, let's be honest, Pooh is one creepy bear.)

I need to make peace with it. I need to realize that she's not going to like the same things and styles as me for the rest of her life. I marched to the beat of my drum, so why should I try to keep control of her drumsticks?

But I seriously draw the line at light-up character shoes ... but ask me again in a few years when she's throwing a fit in the middle of Target.

Sundays with the Dubs

For those of you who don't have the pleasure of attending church with us every week, let me summarize Miss Dub's behavior in two words: loud and crazy. Yesterday, for example, she hung herself from the pew and swung her body, shouting, "Swiiiing, Mommy, swiiiing!" Sounds cute on paper, but it was actually pretty annoying, mostly to the people sitting in the pew in front of us.

And that's just a sampling of her bad behavior, which included roaring during the sacrament and playing peek-a-boo with the general audience. Eventually, Mr. Dub gave up and took her out. She just doesn't get the concept of whispering and nothing about her personality is demure. That's also why I love her. She will dance on command. She can speak in full, albeit hard to understand, sentences. She has a vivid imagination already. She gets many adult concepts. She says, "Cool man," "Cool dude," and "Cool beans" without prompting. But she is very loud, very stubborn and very energetic. (This is probably the part where my parents chuckle and say, "Pay back!")

It's funny how certain qualities are appreciated at different times in life. I have no doubt her enthusiasm and stubborness will make her a very successful career woman. I also think her outgoing personality will make her quite popular in school. But as a toddler, it's a lot to control. I find myself looking at more subdued, proper children and wishing Miss Dub could be a little more like that, but then I remind myself, "That kid is on the road to nerdom." And nerdom brings its own set of challenges, like bad fashion sense.

I really have no one but myself to blame. I'm loud and crazy myself. And I'm just not a discipliner. I don't tolerate really inappropriate behavior, like biting or kicking, but I can turn a blind eye to most other things - including pouring water all over the ground and pretending it's a pool. I don't have the energy to fight every battle, plus I just love to see her imagination and independence at work.

But on Sundays, it really comes back to bite me.

Mom moment

I had a total mom moment last month. As my husband headed off to be a good lil' church boy, I took Miss Dub to Target for some bonding time. OK, so our normal time and special time are one and the same. She didn't care, so why should you? Things got a little crazy when she demanded pizza in lieu of a pretzel. So we split a pan pizza, which is sort of like eating healthy food.

Miss Dub was feeling this pizza. "Peec-suh!" she would squeal between bites. Then, she'd take a swig of lemonade. Then, she threw it up all over the floor. (Hitting her clothes and my feet in the process.)

Now, when I witnessed such mom moments from an outside perspective, I thought the mom was thinking, "Great! This is so disgusting! Where are some Targeteers to clean up this filthy mess?"

Instead, I found myself thinking, "Poor, Missy. I hope she's not sick. I feel terrible about this mess. I hope I can clean it up before anyone sees it."

I wasn't grossed out. I wasn't mad. I wasn't even stressed. I was, however, a little weirded out when Miss Dub's only response was, "More pizza, please!"

I did tell a young worker about the mess since it needed some serious mopping after my initial chunk-removal. But he just went and got some fellow worker friends, all who seemed more concerned about what caused her vomit incident rather than cleaning it up.

Luckily, I ran into a church friend who helped me get some bags to put Miss Dub's dirty clothes into. I then put her into my cardigan and took her home.

I must say, she was pretty excited about wearing my cardigan. In fact, she didn't even notice that we never made it to our friend's house, where we were supposed to spend the evening. And I didn't even notice how gross it was to wipe off her clothes before tossing them in the laundry.

But that's being a mom, I guess - when your child's vomit and poop doesn't make you vomit or poop.

But what do you think? Fill in this sentence:
Being a mom means _________________________.


*For more on being an adult, read my review here.

Tagging begins at home

How's your Phlebotomist?

The other day I went to get my blood taken. If you feel sorry for me, you have no idea, because I go every, single week. So maybe up your sympathy a notch, OK? Anyway, while we were getting my blood taken from my least favorite phlebotomist, who happens to be Filipino, she mentioned Miss Dub's (unnaturally huge) blue eyes.

Phleby: Such blue eyes! Do you have blue eyes?

Me: Yes, and so does her dad, so I guess it was sorta inevitable.

Phleby: But her eye shape is different than yours.

Me: I know, I don't know where she gets them from.

Phleby: I like yours much better. Yours are (motioning up and down with fingers). And hers are (motioning side to side with fingers and squinting).

Phleby: I think she got those eyes from me.

Whaaat?

Attention: Pay attention

The other day I was feel a little stressed out. It's not like I'm busy curing cancer or anything - oh, how I wish! - but I have my fair share of play dates, church meetings and household responsibilities to keep my days quite full. Sometimes I feel like I'm going at 100 mph.

At the same time, Miss Dub's behavior is becoming almost laughable, if it wasn't so cryable. She's been whining, hitting, biting, begging, you name it, but no, not that. She's just not happy unless I'm giving her constant attention, which sort of makes my fair share of stuff hard to accomplish.

As I pondered over the two issues, I thought of two things: First, I need to live in the moment. Perhaps Miss Dub demands my constant attention because she never gets my total attention. I've been known to cuddle and pay bills online at the same time. I've been known to read a book to her while thinking of my next household task. I've even perused a catalog out of the corner of my eye while playing dolls with her. And while multitasking might be fulfilling for me, I think it's leaving Miss Dub feeling half-empty.

Second, I need to stop over-scheduling myself, even when they are good things. Service is great, but when I'm serving others more than I'm serving my own family, it's not so hot. I need to remember that NOW is my time to be a mom; My time to wow everyone with surprise dinners and a willingness to drop everything in a moment's notice can come later. For now, an occasional casserole - (mental note: learn to make a casserole) - will have to do. Even a friend in need comes second to a daughter who needs me.

This is all easier said than done. Making it through the day without a temper tantrum doesn't sound quite as satisfying as refurbishing a side table. And helping someone out usually sounds more important than reading Goodnight Moon for the 20th time. Although, when it says, "Goodnight stars, goodnight air," I always get the chills.

So here's my pledge to be a better mom - one who "[treasures] the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less."*

(*Quote by Anna Quindlen as quoted here. I know I totally Ballard-ized this whole concept, but can you blame me? That talk was gooood!)



.... and a Happy B-'licious-day to Mrs. Jay, Darren Lees, Lisa Parker, Mark Lambert and Angie Earl. But mostly Mrs. Jay.

More crazy

In one of my few successful attempts at being Super Mom, we taught Miss Dub how to sign. (A DVD may or may not have played a part. This cannot be confirmed.) Since she now speaks - "I like to kiss!" she recently announced - we don't have much need for signing. But she can't let go of the "more" sign, which she does by putting together the tips of her two hands and shouting, "Mo'!"

Initially, this sign was limited to food and beverage requests. Like, "more carbohydrates because I'm your daughter and a gluten-addict, please!" These days, however, she's requesting items I can't always replenish. Like, "mo' planes!" after we see an airplane in the sky. Or "mo' quack-quacks!" after we see some ducks. But the weirdest one came the other day after we heard a little boy crying at the store.

"Mo'!" Miss Dub shouted.

"More what?" I asked.

"More sad!"

Is this normal?

Call me Richter

Not my house or my buttocks

Last night I had the "privilege" of being up during the night with a sick Miss Dub. (To her credit, she asked to stay in her crib the whole time but wanted us to rub her back.) Around 4:30, I returned to my bed, when it began to shake. Having been privy to a few major earthquakes and thousands of aftershocks when I lived in El Salvador, I knew the feeling. I told Mr. Dub, "I think it's an earthquake." Still standing, he said he didn't feel anything, but I stayed firm in my opinion. Then, a strange whining noise came from outside, shortly followed by a strange whining noise coming from inside. Who knows what the first sound was, but the latter was our own Miss Dub in need of some more back rubbing.

Sleeping on her floor distracted me from the whole quake controversy, which I totally forgot about until this headline greeted me this morning: Earthquake shakes Midwest. Yep. A 5.2 magnitude temblor centered in southeast Illinois hit at 4:37 a.m. So I was right. And it's not the first time - I felt an even smaller, more distantly centered earthquake when we lived in Utah. And while I don't mean to question the good folks at USGS, wouldn't I be a lot cheaper at measuring and predicting earthquakes than expensive and impersonal equipment?

Just an idea.

Here's my first prediction: I'm going to need a nap before the "big one" hits.

So much cooler than blue jumping

Me: What's your favorite thing to do?

Miss Dub: Jumping!

Me: What's your favorite color?

Miss Dub: Pink jumping.

Panty pride

Yesterday, Miss Dub and I went shopping for her first pair of panties. I don't like the word panties. I told myself I would never use the term, but somehow I just feel like Miss Dub will end up with a gender identity crisis if I don't get all creepy-feminine when talking about her underthings. She picked a set adorned with images of Elmo and requisite doses of pink. I'm not sure why she is obsessed with "Mo" since she's never really watched Sesame Street, but it appears she came with an inborn knowledge of Big Bird and his gang of furry friends.

You might be wondering why I'm trying to potty train my 17-month-old. Well, for starters she has an unnatural interest in potties and poop, including public declarations of the latter, so I thought she might be ready. Also, I just read a little blurb from the Baby Whisperer which declared that Americans are lazy and potty train their children much later than any other nation, even though it's easier for children to do it before 2. Did I mention she's British? I feel like British folk should be trusted for anything except dental referrals.

So I'm going to give it a half-hearted attempt since whole-hearted is not my cup o' tea. (See, I feel British already.)

But as the panties get rolled across the scanner by our young, male Targeteer, I got a little embarrassed for her. (This from someone who proudly purchases tampons and enemas without any cover-up items.) And wouldn't you know it - Miss Dub didn't even care. She was like, "Check out my sweet chonies! They're awesome!" Though it came out like this:"Look! Mo!" To his credit, the cashier acted mildly interested and didn't even blush.

I'm not sure where this panty pride is headed, but I worry it may be my fault. Would underwear have been a better word choice?

You tell me.



p.s. See Miss Dub in all her fairy glory here. Thanks Glamma!

Little Boogies

I don't mean to consistently make you feel bad by flaunting my family's bevy of talents - trust me, I feel plenty bad myself - but this is my sister's new children's clothing line, Little Boogies. Click here to check out their fabulous collection of onesies, shirts and prints. As for my talent: clicking on the different animal graphics. I'm, like, really fast at that. So maybe Mrs. Gee isn't the only star in this family.


* Lest you are worried, Boogies is not a reference to boogers. Read the charming story behind the name here. And then go pick your nose.

* Click here to see Miss Dub's modeling debut.

Like a post, but not really

FIVE reasons Arizona is better than where you live*

1. Blue skies - natch.

2. Higher percentage of stairwells = more hare-tossing opportunities.

3. World's largest collection of porch swings.


4. Easter every day!*


5. Better acoustics.

* Does not apply to anyone living near a beach or in the south of France.
* Does not apply to any day except for the Sunday immediately following the first full moon after the vernal equinox.

Babies and boxes

This is Baby Zee's box. For now, it is her resting place until we can make it to Utah and bury her ashes with her Great-Great-Aunt Zee, who died as an infant, as well.

But more importantly, this box is full of the only mementos I have of Baby Zee's short life. Inside it I've placed blankets, hats and bracelets from the hospital. I've put ultrasound and post-delivery photos. I've included a birth announcement made by her Aunt Gee and a sweet poem written by her Aunt Bee.

Tonight, Mr. Dub and I are going to write letters to Baby Zee, and Miss Dub will scribble some sort of abstract tribute. Then, the box will be complete. And that's all we'll have to remember Baby Zee by for the next 50 years, unless I start wearing more sunscreen, in which case I might make it a little longer.

I never thought I'd be this sentimental. I didn't think I'd need formal reminders of our baby's existence. And I didn't think I'd be so adamant about including Baby Zee as an official member of our family - but I just can't count her out.

The other day I was at a new pediatrician and she asked me if I just had one child. I said, "Yes," at first, but found myself disturbed by my response and five minutes later blurted out, "I actually have two children." I quickly explained that I had one here and one up there (motioning heavenward) and felt much more peace. Of course, she was a doctor and wanted an in-depth retelling of my situation - I find I'm somewhat of a medical celebrity these days - and expressed sincere sympathy afterwards.

But I don't know what I'll say when the Target cashiers ask me a similar question. Will I be quick to include Baby Zee, or will I avoid any awkwardness by subtracting her short existence? It's tough to say. I don't think either one is wrong, but I do hope that if I include her no one will think that I'm crazy or sappy or "not over it."

Because the reality is that you never get over these sorts of things - you just get through them.

So for that reason I've given my baby girl a special box, just like her sister has a special bag filled with her newborn mementos.

They're both my girls, after all.