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How Cloth Diapers turned me into a Virtual Genuis

When I decided to switch to cloth, I figured I would save money. But, let’s just say that if the lady behind Sloomb had not publicly dismissed the prospect of a shortie stocking today, I would not be here writing this post. I would be tabbing a facebook page and refreshing a retail website for … Continue reading

  • My 16 year old son has a prison tattoo. I am so proud. When I caught sight of this self-inflicted permanent ink stain, my first thought was: Thank God it doesn't say "I love Brenda". You see, the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree. When we were teenagers, D's father fashioned a tattoo gun out of a walkman motor and a guitar string. It was 1995. Nobody in our circle of friends had the funds or the sense to hop a PAT bus directly to the nearest tattoo parlor. A lot of material for cover-up work was bred that summer. No doubt, there is arm out there in the world--once a smitten 16 year old boy--which was once etched "I love Brenda". Or maybe it still does. After all, the boy wasn't a total idiot. He himself said: if it don't work out, no biggie--there's a lot 'a Brendas out there. My son's new tattoo is a celebration of his parentage. A conglomeration of a musical note and literary symbol marked the initials M.D. Allegedly for Mom & Dad. Nothing as hideously realized as the ill-placed monkey-face fairy I once had dangling from a daisy directly above my knee. Or the collage of evil cigarette smoking clowns his father used to sport. But still. Something better sketched on a slip of paper and handed off to a professional. And, then, preferably after the age of 18. We were at least on the of-age side of teenage when we went india-ink mad. Our parents put up with a lot of loud music, a little plaid flannel, and a nose ring here and there. When I showed off that monkey to my horrified mother, though, I was a legal adult. I have at least two more years of fielding teenage idiocy with a kid who's clearly no late bloomer. This is the "you'll get yours" I was promised as a rebellious teen. I was only a hop skip and a jump out of my teens when D. was born. All I can say, is since he is ahead of the game, I am just glad he does not have a Brenda in his life.
  • My little girl must be held, or looked directly at, sung to, and played with at all times. By me. She will not nap. She will not play independently, or sleep independently, or be coddled by others. Yes, she loves Daddy. Particularly she loves Daddy from the comfort of Mama's arms. And then there is the case of the big brother. His express desire is that Mama return to work and Daddy stay home all day instead. And in some alter universe where my shoddy qualifications magically turn into gainful employment and daddies produce breast milk, this may be an option that would work for our family. Ours is not that world. And at any rate, that world would only make one of our kids happy at a time. Now, I should be thrilled that my little guy is so fond of his daddy. After all, the preference stands as testimony to what a great guy my husband is. At home, he is one hundred percent available. He is watching all the National Geographic Dinosaur specials; cuddling, fetching snacks, playing Boggle and Candyland and all the fun things that I don't seem to get around to during the day. Shoot, I'd want Daddy home instead of me, too. Daddy is a barrel of fun. I am more like a jug of milk and a load of dishes. I should also be thrilled that my little girl is soooo fond of me. Clutching and clawing and wailing in desperation kind of fond. I should just eat it up. Because it is temporary. I know this for sure because I also have teenagers. And they aren't particularly fond of Mama or Daddy. They prefer friends, acquaintances, strangers, Doritos, and technological devices. And the three year old brother, the one who really only loves Daddy and Dinosaurs--he used to be pretty crazy about me too. My time will come again. And my clip on bear of a baby will become a Daddy's Girl. That's how it goes. For now, at least my husband and I get to bask in the glory of being a Favorite. Yup, for now. For these wee ones, we are all that and a bag of chips.
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