Dress your kid like a ho... spin them round doe si doe!

A few weeks back, this bathing suit was all over the news. Parents all over grabbed their pitchforks and torches (or iPhones held up high with their screens on) and demanded Abercrombie & Fitch stop selling the item. They claimed child endangerment, child pornography, and everything in between. I know, I know, normally my posts have a humorous slant to them. But nothing makes me blow my top more than things like this. So if you're expecting the normal post, stop reading now.

First, Abercrombie & Fitch is a company operating in a capitalist economy (or so-so, but that's for another post and blog). The head baddie at A&F didn't just wake up one day and say, "Hey, you know what we should sell to corrupt our nation's youth? Push up bikinis for pre-teens. To the Bat Cave!" No, companies like A&F invest in things like market research before investing millions in a new product. The real shame here is that their research uncovered a market for an item like this. So on to point two...

Second, how about a little parenting here people? And no, I don't mean from your kids' teachers, coaches, or the cast of Glee. I mean from you, their parent. Instill in them values like charity, modesty, and kindness. Foster an open line of communication between you and your children. Lead by example. And for the love of all things holy, don't strive to be your kids' friend. Strive to be their parent. Do you think Patton was friends with his troops? No, he was their leader because that's what the circumstances called for, and they admired and respected him. Be your child's Patton.

Third, accept the fact that you can't shelter your children from everything. They will be exposed to things like peer pressure, body image issues, and that darn social ladder. But that's where a strong foundation of values and morals comes into play. So Betty Sue got the latest and greatest push up bra bikini and the boys can't wait to see her in it at the swim club. But guess what, your child Sally isn't in the least bit jealous, why? Because she values modesty and doesn't see her mom prancing around in a g-string at the beach.

At the end of the day, it doesn't matter whether you teach your kids values from a spiritual, cultural, or basic human perspective, all that matters is that you do it, and live every day of your life being a walking, talking, breathing example. And guess what, things like this teensy weensy bikini won't even be a blip on the radar.

Wait, I have a toddler???

Here's the thing about having children: they grow up, but you don't really notice it until it Chuck Norris roundhouse kicks you in the face. This happened to me this week, when I finally realized I have a toddler. I mean, there should really be some kind of warning sign that grows out of their heads on their first birthday that says "Warning: Wild Animals Do Bite." So, I've come up with some warning signs that your sweet baby has turned into a toddler. You might have a toddler if...

1. Going to the bathroom has become a spectator sport. You'd think with all eyes on you while you do your business that they would potty train themselves. I mean, this is the time when they are learning the most right?

2. Your life has turned into the Twilight series, but not in the romantic taboo vampire love sense. So far I've been bit in the face, boob, side, arm, knee, and (because Scooter has a foot fetish) countless times on the toes. I've yet to turn into a nocturnal blood sucker, so it's pretty safe to say Scooter is not a vampire, though she may be a cannibal.

3. You can recite Good Night Moon, Where the Wild Things Are, and Green Eggs and Ham by heart. The hubs told me last night I was saying "I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them Sam-I-am" in my sleep.

4. Buying shoes is more complicated than Rupaul's makeup routine. Why can't shoes be sized by the length of the foot? 4.5" would equal 4.5 size shoe. No, I have to measure the foot, multiply by 5, divide by 7, carry the one, add Scooter's birth year... wait what? Ellen is on?

5. There's a world beyond the front door. Scooter loves being outside... I mean L.O.V.E.S. it in the way stoners love Cheetos. Which is pretty great, except for when she sits at the front door pointing saying "THAT!" eight million times while I try to work. I'm seriously considering buying her one of those real grass potty patches for dogs.

6. You have master culinary skills in PB&J and grilled cheese. You also discover toddlers have no palette for marinated filet mignon with a side of grilled season potatoes and spring veggies.

7. You find yourself singing "Lalala, lalala, Elmo's World" in the toilet seat aisle of Home Depot. You also walk through the window aisle expecting to see Mr. Noodle in one of the displays.

8. All surfaces under three feet are a barren wastelands. But don't worry, whatever clutter that was on these surfaces will now be on the floor of your family room in the form of Toys R Us toy diarrhea.

9. You have about a 1.5 hour window to run errands in a day. Between naps and feeding times, there's that precious 1.5 hour window when you can actually leave the house. However, this is only if you've mastered the ninja skills required to strap a kid into a convertible carseat and pre-pack the diaper bag. Word of advice, do not rush getting out the door. It will only result in a deuce being flung across the room during the quick diaper change that you thought was only a wet diaper.

10. You actually start getting semi-coherent answers from your toddler. This is probably one of the greatest parts of having a toddler. Granted, Scooter can only say "yes" (which is far and above better than "no") and I'm pretty sure I could ask her "Do you want mama to sacrificially kill Dora and Boots?" and I would still get a yes. But still, it's a far improvement over desperately flinging every toy and sippy cup known to man at her to stop her crying.

How the Modern Homemaker takes out the trash...

I was taking the trash out yesterday when I stopped in my garage, looked at my pile of trash, and realized just out amazingly complicated taking the trash out is in my house. Let me walk you through a week in the life of a full trash bag.

1. Trash bag is full, but still remains in the can. The hubs and I continually push down on the full bag in an attempt to compact and use every available space in the bag. Inevitably we either a. rip a hole in the bag (Glad Force Flex, you are no match for me!) or b. we suffer through the God awful smell coming from the no longer closing lid. GAG!




2. After a gagging fit, the bag is removed from the can, set on the kitchen floor, and tied shut. Scooter then crawls over, puts her hands all over the bag, manages to find the open hole and grab a fist full of a. dirty diaper or b. raw meat. GAG!




3. Process is put on hold while whatever mess Scooter has gotten on her hands is wiped away, which is kinda like wrestling a greased up monkey.




4. The bag then makes the journey to the garage where it is set ON TOP of the the trash cans. Why? We will get to that in a minute. If the top of the trash cans are full, the bag is randomly thrown into the garage where it hits any number of unorganized items, knocking them over. Oh slitz!




5. Tuesday rolls around and the decision is made as to whether the hubs or I feel like taking the trash out. If we don't, then the bag hangs out for another week with it's other bag friends having martinis and making fun of the disorganized garage. If we do feel like taking the trash out, we move onto step six.




6. Our tractor is fired up and the bags are loaded into the front end loader. The tractor is backed out of the garage (yes, our tractor sits in the garage while our cars are parked outside) and makes the climb to the end of our 200 foot drive way (we.are.so.lazy.) Bag and all it's bag friends are dumped at the end of the driveway and the tractor is parked back into the garage.




7. The garbage fairies come and take our bag away to garbage land where they have a trash bag party.
   
   
   
   So why don't we use the cans? Because the hubs and I really can't handle processes longer than seven steps, and cans would mean we would have to add a seventh to bring the cans back into the garage, which just ain't happening. However, this process is an improvement over when I used to take our trash to my in-laws every week for pick up because the hubs and I were too cheap to pay for pickup ourselves.

Tap tap, is this thing on? Sorry for the lack of posts recently, life's been busier than a one legged man at a butt kicking contest.

So on with it. A few weeks ago I went to lunch with my dear friend Super Mommy. Scooter was with me being her usual cuteness self, casually stuffing a peanut butter sandwich in her mouth, when a lady comes up to bask in the aura of said cuteness. Then this woman said, quite possibly, one of the worst things you can ever say to a woman. She asked Super Mommy if she was the grandmother. OH NO SHE DI-IN'T! Ok, let me paint a little picture here. Yes, Super Mommy is older than me, but not by much and seriously looks about seven years younger then her real age. So we both laughed off the incident. Truthfully, I was still giggling on the way home, but also because I started thinking of all the things that have been said to me in the past that pissed me off and/or gave me a little chuckle. Here's a list...

1. You look like you're going to pop any minute! This one got so old during my pregnancy that at one point I said, "Yeah, all over your face." I know, so classy. This one goes right along with the "You must be carrying twins" gem.


2. Are you wearing that? Yeah hubs, I am. I'm bloated thanks to Aunt Flo and there's no way in hell I'm squeezing this fat ass into a pair of Spanx. If you tell me I'm pretty, you might climb your way out of the no nooky hole. Especially if you buy me a Hershey Bar.


3. Are you breastfeeding? Response: Sure am, want some? Inappropriateness breeds inappropriateness.


4. You look... different. Standard response from the hubs whenever I get my hair done. Joke's on you, I just spent $150.00 to look "different."


5. Here, let me demonstrate our product. I'm specifically talking about those annoying sales people at the mall hocking those nail buffing kits. First, don't touch me. Second, I'm pushing a toddler in a stroller. Do you really think I have time to do my nails? See, they're trimmed and clear of the poo I just got in them changing my toddler in the mall bathroom. That's about as close to a manicure as I'm getting lady.


6. Did you get me anything? Another gem from the hubs. Nope, I gave you 24 hours notice to put anything you wanted on the grocery list. Pepsi and chips means Pepsi and chips. It does not mean Pepsi, chips, Slim Jims, underwear, pork chops, Call of Duty, hot dogs, ice cream, Little Debbies, socks, motor oil, shotgun shells, deodorant, and those "watcha call it things you got me a few weeks ago that I really liked."

The Great Diaper Switch

Disclaimer: This letter is based on the "Dear Life Cereal" letter from Family Guy. Thank you Family Guy writers, there is no way I could ever be as funny as you.

Dear Luvs Diapers,

Where do you get off? Less bulk and absorbent? Who do you think you are? By now, you may have guessed I'm speaking ironically and have nothing but good things to say about what you do. Luvs Diapers, do not change a thing.

Signed,

The Modern Homemaker

Dictated but not read

Apparently two weeks ago the Army Corp of Engineers rerouted Niagara Falls into Scooter's diaper and didn't tell me. I found out when I got her up from her nap and noticed her crib had turned into a protected wetland. The egret flying down the hall should of been a clue as to what awaited me. So I went to Babies R Us. There was no way I was using the diapers I've pretty much used for the past year anymore. I won't say their name, but let's just say it rhymes with Schmuggies. So I'm walking toward the diaper aisle when I hear what sounds like a choir of angels. Suddenly from above I see the most beautiful golden light streaming down to a stack of purple boxes. There, in front of me, is 204 Luvs diapers for less than what I paid for 140 of Schmuggies. Hallelujah! When I left the store I must have looked like Lindsay Lohan stealing a necklace because I seriously thought I was getting away with something.

When I got home and schlapped one of these bad boys on Scooter, I started grabbing two of everything and loading the ark. There was no way these paper thin diapers were going to hold up to what Scooter had in store. Well, three hours later (because someone got side tracked with dinner, I know, bad mom) and a lot of moving and shaking on Scooter's end, her clothes were still dry. Plus she told me she likes the way they make her butt look. Not really, she's only one, has a vocabulary of three words, and doesn't even know she has a butt. So this household is officially converted, even though I still hate their creepy commercials.

Holy crap it's spring!

So somehow the change of seasons has snuck up on me once again. This might be due to the fact that I just got around to taking down my outside Christmas lights last weekend... oops. While I love to say goodbye to winter, I'm a bit unprepared for spring. I had big plans for this winter, and somehow none of them were accomplished because, and let's be honest here, my plans were the equivalent of ten pounds of poo, and my time was only a five pound bag. So spring, I'm officially pissed at you right now, and here's why.

1. You are officially the Charlie Sheen of all the seasons. One day you're seventy degrees and sunny and the next day you forget to drink your tiger blood and are twenty five below and icy. I refuse to bring my flip flops out until April because, seriously, if I did it before then you'd drop the mother of all snow bombs on me. Plus, I haven't painted my toes since mid-October and it's gonna take me until April to shape up those talons.


2. Spring signals the return of pollen. Now, I was blessed with the ultimate of all non-allergy genes. And while the hubs likes to think of himself as the perfect male specimen, he really got shafted when it comes to allergies. I mean, this guy can just think of a tree and start sneezing. So spring also signals the return of the "man allergies" which is kind of like the man cold, only it's accompanied by me constantly nagging him with the "Why don't you just go to the damn allergist?!"


3. I can no longer blame my super lame landscaping on the deadness of winter. Now I love to garden as much as the next guy, maybe more, but I have what's known as that-woman-can't-estimate-the-area-of-her-flower-bed disorder. Very very tragic and unfortunate, no cure either. It's not until I actually get outside and start to garden that I remember, "Crap, these things go all the way around the house and then some!" This is about the time that I blame Scooter for being fussy for why I couldn't get everything planted and mulched.


4. Finally, daylight savings time. I mean, who the hell thought up this little gem? And why the hell does it happen on the weekend? Everyone wouldn't be so pissed with it if it happened on a Friday at 4pm. And seriously, I didn't realize how many damn clocks were in my house until I had to turn them all forward. Ok, that's not true, most of them were never changed back in October.

So spring, there it is. I know you aren't all that bad, you're not as bad as that frigid bitch winter, I'll give you that. And you do bring some pretty great things along with you, like Cadbury Eggs. So for that, you'll get a pass.

My little shoplifter

Last week I decided to take Scooter to Macy's for a little shopping. She needed a first birthday and Easter dress, and really, I just needed to get out of the house. So away we went, I even took her big comfy stroller since this wasn't just going to be a one store shopping trip. Well, her big stroller can sometimes obstruct my view of her, especially when I'm distracted by all the cute spring outfits and trying to decide if $50.00 is too much to spend on one dress (it isn't by the way, not when it's the cutest Easter dress known to man). So, about fifteen minutes and seven new outfits later, I go to checkout. The lady rings me up and tells me my total. I turn to retrieve my wallet from one of the eighty seven bags required when taking a baby out only to see my sweet little Scooter with a stuffed duck in one hand and the price tag, ripped from the duck's ass, in the other, about to be inserted into her mouth. I grab the tag out of her hand, hand it to the sales lady, and say "Well, I guess we've bought this too."

Sigh, my sweet girl has turned into a little shoplifter. I must admit though, before we left I did take her through the purse department with a little glimmer of hope.