Motherhood Uncensored

Because Not Every Moment Has to Be a Teaching Moment

As if mothers don't have enough to worry about, like granny panty wedgies and remembering to pack our Prep H wipes along with the baby ones, we now must be concerned as to whether we are providing as much educational stimulation as possible.

And it starts even before they are born.

But you knew that, right? Apparently every moment must be a teaching moment. I mean, if Baby Einstein had their way, we'd all be purchasing their color coded dinner ware. Clearly, my son needs to have a spoon and bowl that spells out the color of it otherwise he will be sorely behind all his peers of the same age. Soon we'll be dressing our babies in onesies that say "BLUE," you know, in case our babies can see their onesie, read it, and learn the color before the kid down the block could and beat his little ass out of the last open spot at Princeton, Class of 2025.

And because I don't buy into that shit, my friends, makes me incredibly careless. Or at least that's what all these toy makers would have us think.

The same goes for the "super baby" classes -- baby yoga, cirque du sol-baby, and all the 200 other classes that tout advanced developmental learning for your child who can barely see past his own nose let alone move rhythmically to the music. And while I've taught and enjoyed mommy-baby music classes, it's never been to ensure my daughter's status of Concertmaster of the Philadelphia Orchestra. It's more because I think they can be valuable as a social and musical experience, let alone allowing you to interact with them over more than just a screaming match. That's worth the $150 for 10 weeks right there. Or, at least you subtract that amount from their therapy later in life. 

But what about television? Since our basic cable doesn't afford us Noggin privileges (I know. I nearly cried to the cable guy), I've been researching some new shows, one of which is called "Word World" and will be airing soon on PBS. And as you might have guessed from the title, all the cute creatures and their surroundings (for the most part) are made out of words.

It's not as scary as it sounds. The narrator, however, is scary. William H. Macy he is not.

But really, it's a lovely concept. The characters are adorable, the music is tolerable, and the scenery is well, wordy. Well, everything is wordy. And for the most part, it makes sense, except for the BEAR who is tall and therefore spells RAEB unless you tilt your head over. And hey, my daughter can spell BOX because they show the picture, spell it out, and sing it a few thousand times.

B-O-X BOX! B-O-X BOX!

Okay. We get it.

But when it comes down to it, I wonder if it's just a bit much -- if we're inundating our three year olds (the bottom target age for this show) with way too "educational" information. We've got the toys that talk, whistle, and now apparently poison us. And we've got the classes and the preschools with application processes longer than college. So do we really need another show that helps our three-year-olds read?

Of course my daughter enjoyed the show. She asks to watch it several times a day, and considering we're still mourning the loss of The Backyardigans, I'll happily let her. But instead of giving in every time she asks, I direct her to the huge pile of blocks, legos, and other toys that she can play with to her heart's content.

Plus, we live in the South. No one here knows how to read anyway.

(Ha)

But seriously. Have we gone a bit too far with this? Or do you owe your reading 14 month old to Baby Einstein?

If you're feeling ranty today, write a post in honor of this mom and all those damn nasty trolls out there.

And once you're done with all that, check out this cool blog blast today. Have you seen this new service yet? I'm going to reco my car just on the fact that the backseat is roomy enough to have sex in (although not anymore with those damn carseats). The prizes (5) rock. Post anytime today to be entered.

An Open Letter to my 2003 Chevorlet Trailblazer

Dear Car That Has No Name Because I Don't Name My Cars -

We fought long and hard for you with a very stinky Southern gentleman, and dare I say it was worth every whiff.

And it's not just the 0% financing (although that does help. a lot).

I know you used to be a glorified gig mobile, lugging instruments to and from the local Mississippi bar. You lived the high life, parked up front, cute girls and hot guys breezing by you.

We took you to New Orleans. But what happens on the way to New Orleans, stays somewhere on highway 45, right?

*ahem*

But now, you're a kid mobile. It's not your fault. With two kids, two car seats, and too many toys, you've lost a bit of your sex appeal.

Okay. All of it. I mean you're riding around with a freaking high chair germ cover in your trunk for goodness sakes.

But I still love you. We all still love you. Even your piss poor gas mileage.

Because no matter how you look at it, you're not a minivan.

And that's a very good thing.

--

Tell us about your car and win a chance at five of these freaking awesome bags ($160 value). Just write your post sometime today, send it here, and you're entered! Seriously, someone has to win, so it might as well be you!

Plus, you can also enter Car Blabber's promotion (just sign up and rant about your car) and win a bunch of other cool car stuff too. (Cool car stuff being technical terms, of course).

Loose Bandits. And No, Not My Children. *Now with updates

I leisurely went out my unlocked front door in glasses, day-after pool hair, nursing bra, and pajama pants this morning to check my mail when my neighborhood representative called to me from across the street.

"Mrs. Chase," he called, coming towards me. "There's a manhunt going on right now."

I looked up from my mail.

"There are four fugitives that headed towards this subdivision on foot. Just stay in your house and lock the doors."

Um. Okay. Thanks for that. I suppose I should have been less concerned with my dryer not working and more so with purchasing a hand gun.

Even though I live in the sticks, I'm still pretty paranoid. But I double checked all the locks, brought the dogs upstairs, and stared out the window at the screaming sirens and helicopters circling overhead.

We made a quick run to the neighbor's house for a little bit of company. Apparently, they were driving down the road behind my house, jumped out of their vehicle, and started running -- over the siderail, through the woods, and probably past my house. Perhaps my large sun-drying underpants scared them off.

They're still loose. I'm bunkered up.

And honestly. I know I just got to Georgia and I do need to focus on the unpacking, but what about a nice party, balloons, or hell, a stripper?

Some fucking welcome, Atlanta.

*The word on the street is that they're still loose, so they've got unmarked and marked cars everywhere in the neighborhood. I'm trying not to obsessively look out the windows but rather occupy myself with other things. Oh. Like my children.

The good thing is that no one will recognize me because I just got my hair cut. By my 3-year-old. Not on purpose. Apparently we were playing beauty salon. With real scissors.

Mommy. I'm too smart to cut my own hair. So I'll just do yours.

Oh well. I guess I was due for a change.

My New House

My mom says that's a closet. I call it "Favorite Hiding Place #45."

That's the potty. Enough said.

Every day is a picnic. Except with air conditioning. And less bugs, unless you count my brother.

My mom tries to tell me to clean up my room. Please mom. Your secret is out.

That's the big gigantic television that doesn't play Noggin. I'm still trying to figure out how to fix that.

I call this "Highchair with a View." I'm still planning what kind of artwork to do on the wall there.

Hey. There's our bathtub. Ha. Just kidding.

Ugh. That's my little brother.

He's always cramping my style.

That's my mom. Come to think of it, she's always cramping my style too.

And this is me, Quinlan. I want to paint my room pink and purple. And I love my new house. I hope you do too.

Because Without You I'd Be Destitute. Okay, Not Really, But Doesn't That Make You Feel Wanted?

Problem 1: I need to create a budget. Granted we just moved so expenses are a bit higher than usual (seriously, that first grocery bill is a killer), but I'm thinking I need to just get on it. If you use a budget, how do you do it (Quicken? Excel? Back of your kid's coloring books?) and if so, how the hell do you stop from having to go to the supermarket three times a week? (I know. Meal planning. I loathe it. But am willing to do it. Just need help).

Problem 2: I need to lose 20lbs. I realize this may not happen because I just moved and I'm running around like a nut with no working dryer yet (it's plugged in but all it does is toss my wet clothes around). There's a gym in my neighborhood that has a kid's room -- so I can actually go, use the treadmill, and they can play! When it's not so hot, I can walk outside as well. And I know I'll have to put down the ice cream, just drink water, you know, all that crap wonderful lose weight stuff. Any other suggestions?

Problem 3: So, I'm feeling the ovarian rumblings. I don't remember these from my daughter. I've been tired, cranky, bloated, gassy, exhausted, weirdly hungry, icky, and bitchy. I got my period back with her the night before her first birthday party. At the beach. TOTALLY no warning.

Before we moved, I took a pregnancy test because, you know, why not spend $14 on a stick, right? and it was negative. But now I'm wondering if it's possible that I'm pregnant or my body is getting ready to have my blessed period again. My boobs don't hurt, my son is nursing fine again, and I haven't had any weird nose or gum bleeds (typically a sign for me). BUT, I have been peeing a lot and did I mention I'm tired. Of course, my son isn't sleeping that great either. And yes, I know. Test again. I will. But let's have fun and speculate til we're blue in the face, shall we?

So, care to bestow your wisdom upon me?