Motherhood Uncensored

Tales from the Consignment Sale

Consignment sales are like some underground cult around here. I'm certainly not averse to buying other people's used things, but not enough to buy a ticket just so I can peruse through a shitload of used sleepers and plastic toys before all the lowly people do, or worse standing in line to rush through the doors like crazed animals just to get last year's well worn Gymboree outfit for $5.

My philosophy with these sales is that it has to be a pretty damn good deal for me to fork over a few bucks for an outfit that's been washed, worn, and very likely peed or shit in. Call me picky, but when I can hop over to Old Navy and snag a brand new outfit for $7 on their sale rack, I'm not so motivated to buy one that's drenched in Dreft and is thinning in the butt.

And sure, these sales can be a great place to snag toys, but in all honesty, plastic toys are a dime a dozen, so I am not swayed by how nice of a ziploc you packaged your Fisher Price Little People. I'd just as soon hit a garage sale and get them all for 25 cents. Or free from my local Freecycle.

When it comes down to it, when you buy something new or hit the Freecycle list, you don't have to deal with crazed mothers nearly snatching clothes right out from under your nose, piling their strollers high with stuff that they haven't even actually looked to see how much it is and will probably not even buy at the end of the day, but insist on snagging just so someone else doesn't get it.

Since attending a few of these [sporting events; wrestling matches] sales, I've come up with my own set of rules, that until now have remained unpublished, but are implemented without warning - with extra gusto thanks to my "just take the baby out now" status. Granted, I've seen some of the actual rules they post on their websites, like how the clothes have to be in excellent condition, but apparently that doesn't include how they smell, because if the outfit smells like my dead Aunt's smoky apartment or baby puke, I'm going to pass. Yes, "excellent" is indeed quite subjective.

And this whole "price your own" bullshit is ridiculous. If I can buy the outfit cheaper at a regular store (like say that used Ralph Lauren newborn dress you're trying to pawn off for $20 - c'mon), then you can forget it.

But what really kills me is when the moms become so ridiculously territorial about their potential purchases, like it's the freaking Hope Diamond and if any other hands go to touch it then all hell will break loose. Granted, I'm not going to mess with their castle of crap that's now denting their stroller and slowly inching towards their screaming kid's head, but just because I glance over at what they have doesn't mean I'm concocting a plan on how to swipe it. Paranoid, much?

Even better is when these moms tell your kids to keep their hands off because Lord knows a 4-year-old girl is most definitely going to walk right off and purchase that dirty plastic push toy you covet so desperately. Best not let another child taint it or covet it so desperately that she will throw a raging fit over not being able to have a toy that have clearly seen way better days.

"Don't touch that. Someone's already buying that, little girl," she said to Quinlan.

"I'm pretty sure she was just looking at it" I replied, looking over from my position in front of the loads of newborn girl clothes.

"This is the 'reserved' section" she said, like it was literally some freaking limited edition Coach bag that she had snagged and Quinlan had climbed behind some shiny glass counter. 

"Well, I don't think you need to worry about her running off with it," I responded, beckoning Quinlan to come back my direction from the crazed plastic toy obsessed mother, or "anyone else for that matter," I said under my breath.

I mean, I'm all for finding a damn good deal, but if it means scolding an extremely cute four-year-old to get it, I'm just thinking you've got your priorities all wrong.

Project Runway - Preschool Style

More tambourine, Gov'nor?

We call her "Handy Mandy."

[We're doing a Blog Blast with Polly Pocket this week and their new Pop 'N Swap toys, which are fantastic if only because you will no longer be asked 4000 times to dress a teeny tiny plastic doll. (Praise the Lord!). Instead, your child can interchange already dressed body parts all on their very own. Scary? Maybe. Smart? Totally.

So, share your stories and pics of your kids' most fabulous mismatched outfits (dress up or not). Put them in our flickr pool, if you feel so led! You have until Thursday Midnight PST to be entered to win one of two $250 Visa Gift Cards. Make sure to click the Blog Blast link to see how to participate]

A Conversation with My 16 Year Old at a Restaurant. Oh Wait. She's Only 4.

Me: Hey look at the cow on the television!!

Q: DUH! *rolls eyes*

Me: That's ONE.

Q: I was saying it to myself.

Me: Then say it inside your head.

Q: You just don't understand me.

We're screwed.

The Land of the Free and the Home of the Gay

There's nothing like a little boy carrying a bright pink Dora purse to bring out all the homophobic tendencies in grown women and men. He might as well just start collecting Barbara Streisand cds and joining Cher chat boards for God sakes.

Aside from what happens to be a pretty cool way to carry all your tools, trucks, and other shit, a handbag is hardly an indicator of someone's sexuality. Are there hordes of men blaming their gayness on the fact that they, at one point in time, played with girl toys?

Yeah, I just don't think so. And yet, people get incredibly squeamish, particularly when it comes to boys.

A few weeks ago, Quinlan brought a tote bag along in the car to carry around her [crap] toys and upon exiting the car for our shopping trip, Drew needed something as well or he would surely unleash his "bats out of Hades" scream. And the only thing I had laying around was the aforementioned pink Dora purse.

He carried it proudly, hanging it on his forearm like a small purse should be carried, and grasped his favorite matchbox car in his free hand. And wouldn't you know how many people felt the need to share their opinions about such a ridiculous sight, to the tune of "Oh don't let your daddy see you!" or "You might want to put that away before people catch you!"

Good thing I didn't show them that I had painted his two big toenails pink. People would have called protective services on me.

Truth be told, I can't say I'd purchase a handbag for my son without his prompting. It's made a bit easier to incorporate toys aimed at both genders thanks to his older sister who is obsessed with all things pink, and a soon-to-be younger sister who will most likely be quickly schooled in the ways of the Disney princesses.

But you can't blame a kid for being fascinated with all the things that glitter. Regardless of what you're sporting in your underpants, a baby-sized stroller is pretty freaking cool, and a baby doll that robotically coos and talks when you walk by it is damn mesmerizing.

And glitter. I mean how can you pass up something glittery?

Both my husband and I are inclined to believe that kids like what they like, not only from what's available to them in their toybox, but also what they see their siblings and their parents using. Both my kids enjoy playing dress up and pushing strollers. And they're just as infatuated with a rubber ball, a set of pretend tools, and race cars.

I'm not even going to tell you how many UFC-reminiscent fights they've had over that plastic power drill.

I think being a kid means enjoying all kinds of toys, and the experiences of all different people, regardless of their gender. So if painting his toenails pink and carrying a purse "makes" him gay, then so be it.

I happen to think that a good sized dose of estrogen pumped into our sons might not be such a bad thing afterall.

The Things You Do for a Case of Fat Tire Beer

So my almost Mississippi BFF and his family of 6000 (okay, six total but criminy it seemed like a lot of people) visited our humble abode on Saturday upon our invitation. This was done, mind you, because he had brought back my husband's beloved Fat Tire beer from Little Rock (where they were reaquainted a few months back) and we needed to get it from them.

We're damn classy here, aren't we?

And so, we cleaned, we cooked, and we emptied our beer refrigerator in preparation for their arrival. And aside from a few awkward moments at the beginning, it really was quite enjoyable.

Beer with a side of damn fine homemade spaghetti and chicken meatballs tends to have that effect on people.

And aside from the awkward sort-of-drunken waist grab and tug (you know those, right?) by my almost Mississippi BFF, the strawberry popsicle stains on our carpet, and the fresh scent of preschooler wizz on our new couch courtesy of their kiddo who gets enthralled with the television, doesn't feel like getting up to use the bathroom, and then pees, it was actually quite a successful visit.

Mainly because not only are we stocked with really good beer (which I shall soon be able to consume in large quantities), but my husband is pretty much convinced that a vasectomy is the way to go.