I'll Take Witches In The Woods Over Crowns Any Day.

I know all the words to The Crown On Your Head. I've been testing it out, looking only at the pictures while reading it to my son, and after a 10th consecutive perfect reading, I'm calling it.

I don't know what this newfound "skill" is worth, and skill is a stretch, although I do fantasize that someday I'll be trapped by evil people who will only set me free if I can accurately complete a line from the book. It's a pipe dream inspired by Goonies.

After saying the words over and over, I've deduced that this book has been around much longer than the few years the publisher claims because it's the precursor to Marx's Communist Manifesto.

Everyone has a crown and no one's is brighter, no one's is duller, it's only a crown of a different color?

My ass some crowns aren't brighter than others. I tried to explain to my son that crowns aren't really equal and if he wanted his to shine bright he was going to have to work his little behind off to make it so but my husband told me it was a nice thought. Sure, and in theory, communism is a nice system.


Why can't we have more stories like the terrifying version of Hansel & Gretel we endured growing up. Remember that? Let me refresh your memories.

The stepmother leads the kids into the woods and leaves them for dead, not once, but twice. The first time they find their way back because resourceful Hansel, with a crown as bright as a stadium light, left a trail of marbles behind. Not tipped off that his wife is trying to kill his children, the woodsman, whose crown resembles a firefly's light, heeds her suggestion to go back into the woods the next day. This time, the bluejays, with crowns brighter than Hansel's, eat their trail home and they are trapped.

They stop at a fairy tale cottage in the woods (fairy tale is redundant, I know) where they are put to work like house elves and fattened up so the elderly occupant can EAT THEM. Her crown is marginally brighter than the woodsman's because she's getting away with cannibalism.

Eventually, Hansel uses his kick-ass crown to get them out and shove the witch/cannibal woman in the oven. They find their dad, who with some intellectual aid from the bluejay, got suspicious when his wife suggested they go to Sandals St. Lucia to celebrate the children's disappearance and got rid of her. Bad guys lose, good guys win, no equal crowns.

Can't we go back to that?

Why Toddlers Haven't Yet Ended Civilization.

I've been giving a lot of thought lately to the amazing fact that as a species we are not yet extinct. I'm usually most astounded when picking up an entire canister of bread crumbs my little boy turned into an indoor sandbox or watching him bathe like a bird in the water table for the third time in the same day.

It seems toddlers were created to end civilization. If parents decide one morning at 6am when their 18 month old is screaming at the top of his little lungs for the swings at the park with no end insight, that just one child is more than enough, eventually the human race dies out. Something, however, went wrong, and I think I know what it is.

Whoever crafted toddlers to be more devastating to mankind than bubonic plague forgot that humans make irrational choices.

When your toddler has thrown rocks at the door from inside the house, dumped an entire box of Kix on the floor, mushed Jell-O into the dog's hair, pulled every book from his bookshelf, screamed, "More!" so many times that you finally just give him ice cream for lunch, and is now brandishing a toy golf club like he's one of the Three Musketeers you know what you think? I know you do, because I think it, too.

WE think, "wouldn't this be a little easier if he had someone to play with?"

And that, my friends, is why we remain.

A Little Too Lazy On Mother's Day.

My little boy, such a sweet little thing, gave me a unique and heartfelt gift for Mother's Day: his 24 hour bug. I spent the day in bed while my husband looked after our, now well, little guy.

In many ways it was perfect. I didn't lift a finger (because I couldn't), my husband had his payback for lying in bed all day Saturday (while he was knocked out by the virus), and every so often my little guy would run in my room for a quick snuggle and then run back out to dad.

Not so perfect was the bug itself. Aside from making me feel like I drank 12 beers too many the previous night and was then run over by a tractor, I couldn't eat all day and I'm pretty sure I dropped a few pounds. This is a BAD, BAD thing for me. You will hate me after I write this, but none of my work clothes fit because I've spent the past year chasing a baby and eating string cheese when I have 10 seconds to spare. You won't hate me when I admit that I don't look Kate Moss hot 'n sexy; I look like I got lost trying to find the treatment center. So, a waffle-filled brunch would have been much better for my health.

But forget about me, what the toddlers who get this thing, throw up eight times and rejoin the party like they're at a damn kegger? Are they made of iron and steel? Only this body composition would explain how they survive the 803 falls they take everyday and how 26 pounds of cracker-filled bones survived the plague that swept our house.

I have a new respect for toddlers. Those crazy bastards make me feel like an old, old lady.

Thanks For The Kennel Cough, Daycare.

I know all you moms who have been at this "working mom" thing for much longer than I are no longer phased by the crust permanently affixed to your little one's upper lip, but for a newbie, this shellac is a shock.

What the eff goes down in daycare? Do they lick the rug? Eat the diapers? Share regurgitated food?

No less than 24 hours after his first day, our little guy had a booger hose switched permanently on, where his nose once was. So now, my left shoulder is always crusty from his hugs and sneezes. It sounds bad, but it's kind of cute.

Today, I wore a black shirt, which you'd think was a bad idea given its uselessness at crusty hiding, but in a surprise twist it ended up being for the best.

On Wednesday night, our little guy threw up seven times. SEVEN. I went to bed around midnight and my husband, bless his heart (Correct use of that saying? I'm still not southern enough to know.), slept in the guest bed with him. Thursday was Freaky Friday for us; I went to work and my husband stayed home with our sickie, who was remarkably better after voiding every single crumb of food from his system the night before.

Throwing caution to the wind, today I ran some errands with him, thinking the little bug was gone. As we walked into Trader Joe's, the little guy started saying, "Poop, poop, poop." Three minutes later, while still in my arms, he let it out. Really out. Like out of his diaper. It was on his clothes and mine. The upside? I was wearing black and, dare I say it, potty training might be a snap!

Since TJ's offers only frozen potstickers and $2 wine in a situation like this, I ran next door to Carter's for the changing table. I hadn't seen poop like this in months, maybe over a year, and I certainly couldn't put his little shorts back on him. So I bought him a new pair and headed back into Trader Joe's for potstickers and a giant tub of cookies.

Thanks daycare. Your welcoming spirit has truly overwhelmed me.

END OF POST; ONTO SHAMELESS PLUG

My ebook is almost done! I've been focusing there instead here as I'm sure you've noticed my absence. My cover illustrator is designing my cover and then it's good to go. Eeeeeek!! Mark your calendars, you are just a few short weeks away from being able to buy:

The Cape Doesn't Work. How To Fly With Your Baby, Supermom.
By Ann Xxxxxx (that's me!)

It's so exciting to (self) publish!

I Miss My Friends!!

You know those first few months at a new job where no one knows you, no one understands your sense of humor, and no one has any reason to listen to you? Yep, I'm there and it makes me pine for my old work friends!

I want to walk in and say good morning to Grace, go to my office and see Mike already nervously waiting at the door, walk by Zac's desk and ask him what he's working on, go see Cynthia and get her snide commentary on the day's developments, find Steph and laugh hysterically at what Cynthia just told me, and be listened to when I say, "do this."

But alas, I cannot, and it makes me want to throw myself on the ground and pound my arms and legs on the ground until these people show up. It seems to work for my toddler, maybe it will work for me, too.

Happy Derby, to all!