So I may have freaked out for nothing...what else is new?

I don't know why I was so scared of Green Elmo's Thumb. Look how friggen cheery and festive it was. The best part? The music was so loud it drowned out the screamers.

Junior was so well behaved that Chuck wouldn’t give him up! I wanted to hold Junior and let him bob up and down on my lap (he "dances" now). I wanted to squeeze his chunky hands. So, yah, I’ll confess to a moment of complete immaturity: When Chuck pretended he couldn’t hear me asking for Junior because of the music—he was, ahem, sitting next to me—I took a really bad picture of him.



I’ll confess to another moment, this time of complete sappiness. The message of the show—caring about the earth—really got to me. I have always tried to live Green so in some ways I feel like the now en vogue Green Movement isn’t all that much to gyrate about. I’m happy it’s gone mainstream but come on, it’s how we should have been living all along. Too bad companies like Dixie—who tell busy moms they deserve a break and should therefore use paper plates for dining—are still clueless.

I can’t believe I’m quoting Big Bird (my, oh my, how things have changed), but he had the best line of the whole show when he told the kids “it’s not always about you.” I love that. It’s about time someone just came out and said it.

One sunny days gripe: $10 for an Elmo balloon and $7 for a draft beer in a plastic cup? If the show were really about being stewards of the environment, beers would have been served keg-stand style (no waste) and balloons would have been made of a biodegradable material, like hops.

Yah, I know, that’s silly—but so is an unidentifiable red thing with a high, squeaky voice. I mean come on, despite my moments of eco-friendly blubbering I did take a minute to remind myself that human beings do some curious things in the name of entertainment.

And now that we have Junior I fear this is just the beginning.

Green is also for nausea

In exactly two hours we will be at Elmo's Green Thumb. This is the first kids' show we've ever taken Junior to.

And I'm scared. So very scared.

I've come to some profound conclusions while churning butter

When you have a significant other, you sometimes think he or she is nuts. Maybe you don't understand his predilection for aliens or the color saffron or his annoying habit of dousing everything—even tuna casserole—with hot sauce (I'm speaking hypothetically here).

It’s just the way it is. Sometimes you are able to hide that thought as it crosses your face. Other times? Mmmm, not so much.

Take Chuck last night. We were putting all the comforters I’ve purchased over the years into bags for Goodwill. There were eight bags. At two per bag that’s 16 comforters. He looked at me and asked, "What's with you and blankets?" The missing word? "Wacko."



I decided that in a former life I must have been very, very cold.

I also decided, after cleaning out the kitchen pantry an hour later, that in a former life Chuck must have been Jack from Jack and the Beanstalk. It’s the only explanation for his affinity for gadgets that feature the words “As seen on TV!”

After I finished vacuuming, Junior preened the living room carpet for me. When he found cat fluff balls and pieces of lint I missed, he handed them to me and told me “irty.” In Junior’s former life he must have been a quality control manager or an orangutan.

I was almost done; all I had to do was get Junior ready for bed. (Chuck was doing the dishes—in the words of Billy Jean, “Fair is fair!”) I took Junior's shoes off and saw:



In a former life my mother, Linda, must have suffered from ankle asphyxiation. Otherwise, why would she have done that to Junior’s socks?

I encourage you to try the In a Former Life game. You can try it right here if you'd like. I swear I won't give you the funny freak look.

If you saw the Great Pumpkin dragging its butt towards your fat kitties you'd bust a gut too

I had the day off yesterday so my friend Amy and I took Junior to Pier One (NPR, if you’re reading this, me and the boy were just pressing our bony noses against the pretty glass).

Ahem. Pier One is a lovely store, but it’s also the least child-friendly store on the planet. The aisles are ridiculously narrow. Fragile ornaments rest on wobbly stands. Long drapes billow underfoot. It’s a nightmare, but I can’t help myself. The store smells and feels like all the things I wish my house could be.

We’d only been in the store a few minutes when an employee dropped a glass vase near the registers. My first thought, which I kept to myself, was, “Serves you right, you precarious placers!” Junior’s first thought, which he shared with the entire store, was a loud “Uh oh.”

There was a cheery round of laughter. Someone said, “How cute.”

Junior, being the attention whore he is, said it again—louder. This time the laughter was a lot less cheery.

“Ok, sweetie,” I said, “everyone heard you.”

“Uh oh.”

“That’s enough.”

“Uh oh.”

“Junior, shut it.”

“Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh.”

Because I’m a new mom and I’m terrified that someone will make a snarky comment about my child, which will mean I will have to punch said person’s light out, I made a beeline for the door. Junior, meanwhile, kept yammering on.

“Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh.”

“I swear I’m gonna—”

When we passed the employee who had dropped the vase, she stopped sweeping and looked at Junior.

“Now you’re just making me feel bad,” she told him. He did that weird eye squint he does when he’s not sure which of the seven words he’s learned is appropriate, then decided not to say anything.

On the car ride home he flailed and grunted in the back like a bronco with hot sauce in its ass, even though Amy and I so very graciously sang him 20 rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star—and we have great voices! Album-worthy voices!

As Junior nears his 15 month milestone, I’ve come to the conclusion that mothering—thus far anyway—means:

1) never feeling like you know what’s going on

2) not being sure if you’re going to like the fact that your kid is a smart ass chatterbox

3) laughing wickedly as your kid drags himself across the living room floor in the puffy orange blob of a pumpkin costume you got him for Halloween and thinking Oh my God, how did I ever live without him?



P.S. I got the Halloween costume at Marshall's for half the price of the other store. They're not paying me to say this but they're having a shoe giveaway. Maybe they thought I needed some new shoes.

It's the cutest thing: Our goat loves Car Talk!

Dear NPR,

When you sent me your first fundraising letter asking me to continue my generous support, I really, really wanted to but the $3.75 left over from my paycheck fell through the hole in my pocket. Sorry.

The second letter from you came at a great time—right on payday. I was all set to continue my generous support but low and behold, our ’91 Geo needed new tires, struts, an engine, and a timing belt. Oh yah, and the cardboard in my kid’s shoes was wearing thin so we had to get him new ones. I’m sure you understand why we couldn’t send you any money that time either.

Your third letter was pretty urgent, I’m guessing, what with all the italicized words and the use of CAPITALS and BOLD lettering. I was really struck when you USED ALL THREE. But the thing is, that month was bad too. We couldn’t afford groceries anymore so we went and got ourselves a goat and some llamas. I was thinking I could milk ’em, shave ’em and weave ’em but I couldn’t find shears or a loom at the Goodwill.

I got your fourth letter today—the one saying that our generous annual support has lapsed and that we’re no longer on your active contributor list. Ouch. If I could afford a belt to hold up my pants your letter would hurt just below that. I’m touched that the loss of our support pains you. It’s funny, actually, that you ask in the letter if there’s a problem you can easily resolve for us...because you can.

It’s called “I’d like last year’s donation back.” Your $100 reimbursement of my donation is vital to all aspects of my household. You can make my livelihood possible. I urge you to send our money back so that I may include your name on our active Christmas card list. Thank you in advance for your support of my efforts to feed and clothe my family.

Sincerely,
The Mullets

P.S. For your convenience, I’ve enclosed a self-addressed envelope. Sorry there’s no stamp. The goat ate it.

Now that's he's awake he can recycle all those beer cans thank you very much

Chuck’s brother, Matt, was supposed to come pumpkin picking with us yesterday. When he didn’t show, I understood. What 21-year-old guy wants to watch two yokels chase a fat toddler around a hick pumpkin patch? Turns out he didn’t make it because his alarm, which was set for 11 a.m., never went off and he slept until four.

He finally did make it up—at 11 p.m. Chuck and I were passed out on the couch. Matt wanted us to have some beers with him. He teased us for being old farts. Chuck, like any good brother, took the bait; I went to bed.

Is it wrong that when I brought Junior downstairs at 7 a.m. and we passed Matt, who was sound asleep on the couch, I experienced immense pleasure when Junior started yelling, “hi-ey, hi-ey” and Matt let out an exhausted moan?

Is it wrong that when Junior started shrieking because I didn’t give him his Cheerios fast enough I, um, waited a little longer so Matt could experience a toddler’s greedy wrath in all its nails-on-a-chalkboard entirety?

And finally, is it wrong that I felt giddy and vindicated when Matt stumbled into the kitchen minutes later, eyes bloodshot, and begged for coffee?

Really, is that one of the unspoken delights of parenthood—that we enjoy watching childless people who still live carefree lives suffer a little too sometimes?

People who drive SUVs should not have "Thoreau" bumper stickers and other global warming musings

I'm so confused. The birds are chirping. Junior's wearing a short-sleeved shirt. People are walking the streets in shorts. I have a bizarre craving to do some spring cleaning. I'm not complaining, I swear, but if weren't for the red, yellows, and oranges outside the window you'd think spring was just around the corner. Instead, this is:



Snow and ice! Naked trees! St. Bernards rescuing skiers. (That's not my dog but I wish it were. As soon as Junior can say the word "dog" we are getting one.) For now, I'll have to settle for pumpkins. I can't wait to let Junior play in all the pumpkin goo. In his bathing suit.