Who knew carving a pumpkin was so hard? It never used to be. Huge steak knife + triangles + half-moon smile = jack ‘o’ lantern. Right? Yeah, not so much, anymore. Here we go…the bane of my Saturday afternoon:

10:20 a.m.
10:43 a.m.
11:23 a.m.
11:38 a.m.
11:39 a.m.
11:40 a.m.
11:42 a.m.
11:49 a.m.
12:17 p.m.
1:28 p.m.
2:53 p.m.
3:00 p.m.

So, we are all sick in my house. Actually, my husband is no longer sick, but now that he’s well, me and my son are stuck with his bug. This is the first time Squid has been sick since he was born, and I actually don’t think he’s got it as bad as me - just a runny nose, basically. He hasn’t had a fever, so I’m not too worried. Still, we’ve got an appointment in 2 hours to get him a flu shot. Me? Ehh, I’ll stick it out.

Being sick when you’ve got a baby to take care of really sucks. All I want to do is lie on the couch drinking hot soup and tea, but instead I’ve vacuumed the carpet, folded laundry, fed the baby, bathed the baby, played with the baby, made the beds and done the dishes so far this morning. Oh, wait, did I say morning? It isn’t anymore, is it? Shit, I guess I should take a shower now.

Who says I can’t be sick AND look good?

This morning I noticed how dirty the bottoms of my kitchen cabinets are. I bent down to pick up a dropped fork and for whatever reason, my eyes focused in on them and the sick, crusted accumulation of filth. I’ve never really considered this before, but with the cats and dogs, and unnoticed spills, they really are hideous. Anyway, it almost tipped me over the edge. I just thought, “I cannot do this!” But then I realized I’ve come this far without ever doing anything about the stupid bottoms of the cabinets before, so fuck it.

It’s interesting, you know, reading others’ blogs, finding out how wide the parameters of parenting really are. Everyone seems to have their own style, their own method, their own way of getting things done.

I’ve never really thought of myself as having a “style” of parenting, though I was always sure of two things: I will listen without judgment and I will never, under any circumstances, spank my child.

I figure the rest I’ll just make up along the way. I know what I don’t want, which is a pretty good step, I think, in creating what I do. I see children crying in fits on the street, pulling their parents’ arms and making demands, and I think it is disgusting. Not just wrong - like actually, in the complete sense of the word, disgusting. To think how these kids have developed the art of manipulation so well at such young ages makes my stomach turn! In a way, they are already adults, fighting in a race to get what they want, refusing to be left empty-handed, poisoned by consumerism!

I want my kid to be a kid, to be able to live inside his imagination and pull from the inspiration of what only his mind could create. I don’t want him to be reliant on the newest and latest gadgets and games to make him happy. I want to surprise him with presents when he least expects them and watch the glow on his face when I tell him I love him.

We all have an image of how we wish our children to be, how we want them to grow up. I honestly don’t think the mother of the screeching, red-faced, angry kid thinks, “I just don’t care.” I think she’s pressured and under stress, tired and worn out; she’s been used, abused, left. She doesn’t take care of herself, so she takes it out on her kids by keeping them trapped where she is, in that spiraling pit of unhappiness. Her children, then, know no other way than to scrape the bottom of life, grovel until their eyes are bloodshot and whine about how it’s all so unfair!

I truly believe the more I love myself and the more I can learn to be gentle, forgiving and trusting of myself, the image I have of my child will only prove more and more possible every day.

My cousin recently sent me an email about how a child died from playing in a ball pit at McDonalds. As the story went, the child was pricked by a hypodermic needle that had been thrown into the pit; later, he complained of a burning sensation in his buttock. His mother, noticing the spot was swollen, assumed he had a splinter in there and took him to the ER. The boy died that night of a heroin overdose.

I checked up on this story and found that it is, in fact, an urban myth. However, I am not any less relieved, because I know that something like this IS possible! I mean, how often do you think these ball pits (found at many children’s playgrounds) are cleaned out, inspected or even disinfected? Any number of items could be in them at any point.

Even though this specific story is fabricated, just knowing that it could be true will prevent me from ever permitting my kid to play in a ball pit. Call me paranoid, but I’d rather not take that chance, thank you.

The recent tragedy involving the Amish community of Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania, has got me going again. Immediately after hearing the news, I called my husband at work and told him, “That’s it! We’re home-schooling Squid!”

Where do I draw the line? Already, I’m freaking out about the possible harms that could be done to my child. And, while I know I must allow him to experience life just as it is - pain and all - I want to protect him as much and as long as I can.

Perhaps my biggest fear, though, is turning into a total freak! I don’t want to be one of those overbearing, anxious, nervous mothers. I don’t want my child to end up resenting me for taking away his right to be a little kid. I can obviate risk, but I can’t eliminate it; I know that. Yet, the thought of anything bad ever happening to my baby scares the shit out of me. How do I protect him without depriving him of experiencing the joys of childhood?

I have a major love/hate relationship with my pets. Before I had a baby, I loved them more than I hated them. Now it’s the opposite. The cat’s too needy, the dogs are too loud. One of them rubs his body on the carpet, creating the most hideous hair balls which I then have to vacuum right away because I don’t want the baby crawling around in nasty dog hair; the other one can’t NOT make noise: he eats, sleeps and breathes louder than anything, EVER. Snort, snort, snort - he may as well be a pot-bellied pig. The cat has to be everywhere I am at all times and meows so as to let me know she’s right there with me. Thanks, cat. Don’t even get me started on the “accidents” in the garage I get to wake up to on certain glorious mornings, or the undigested meow mix that the damn kitty leaves in wet clumps under the bed.

But!…I have found a way to keep the love alive! All I have to do is put the baby next to one of them when he is crying or cranky, and MAGIC! Silent baby! He is so enthralled by these obnoxious creatures, it takes his tears away! Looks like I can keep them, after all.


Here, Squid can’t get enough of Cookie the Cat.



Buzz the Pug provides entertainment by eating his toes. (Hey, whatever works, right?)

I should really be napping right now. It’s 2 pm, and I’ve been up since around 4 - up, that is, with a cranky baby. Correction: up with a cranky, poopy, gassy baby. I didn’t realize the source of Squid’s restlessness until I lifted him from his crib in the middle of the night to find that his diaper had failed him. He was wet from armpit to ankle. Oh, great, he’s dipped in piss, I thought. I should be so lucky…

No, as it turned out, he was blanketed in diarrhea; it had filled his diaper and then some. His clothes (both layers) were soaked. I woke up Jason and together we cleaned the mess. “What did he eat?”

I hesitated telling him. “Pureed pears. Lots.”

“O…kaaaayyy. No more pears!”

“Right.”

We attempted to put Squid down again, but he was inconsolable. And farting. Loud. Really loud. So, I held him on the couch until he seemed to be getting sleepy again, watching Planet of the Apes to pass the time - you know, the one with Charlton Heston. P.S. Why do you think actors of that time overacted? They always sound so cheesy to me. In 40 years, will my grandchildren think the same of Matt Damon?

Anyway, so Squid finally began to doze off, at which point Jason took over and held him on his chest while I gratefully slipped back into the bedroom. A few hours later, he was up again, screeching from the living room. Not again…

Yes, again.

Poop as far as the eye can see. Ugh. Off with the clothes, out with the washcloths, wet wipes, powder and diaper. By then, I just decided it wasn’t worth trying to get back to sleep since Squid was clearly not going down again anytime soon. I crawled to the kitchen (at least that’s what it felt like) and made a pot of coffee - which, by the way, still hasn’t kicked in.

Yeah, I think I’m gonna take myself up on that nap…

Madonna’s done it all - pranced around in lace and leather, kissed Britney Spears, worn pointy bras, horribly acted in shitty movies, had a baby with a Latin man, had one more with a British man, practiced Kabbalah and written children’s books. And now, to top off the list, she’s followed Angelina Jolie’s lead and adopted an African child.

Or, at least, she plans on adopting him. Apparently, there are a few legalities to work through before they bring the Malawian child home. In the meantime, they’ve already called in the nannies. May as well get him used to it.

Alright, I think I am being way too cynical on this one. It is possible that Madonna is doing this for purely humane reasons, that she is not doing this for publicity or to follow what has become a recent celebrity trend. I know, it’s hard to imagine, but let’s just pretend she is a completely selfless person and driven exclusively by her compassionate nature. Now try not to laugh.

Still, a life with a self-obsessed celebrity is no doubt better than life in an orphanage. The story, thus far, is that the prospective adoptee - a one-year old boy named David - was orphaned after his mother died due to complications during labor. His father, who has expressed happiness in Madonna and Mr. Madonna’s choice to adopt his son, gave David up after he was born.

Suddenly, so many issues are raised for me. Why did the father give the child up? Is it because his culture doesn’t support/accept/condone men rearing children? Is it because he must work and has no family or other outside resources to help watch and care for the child? Or, is it simply because he doesn’t want the child?

In any case, it makes me think Madonna is doing a great thing. And, if it is indeed just a trend, I could certainly think of worse. Like, say, skinny jeans.