{Originally posted at Missives From Suburbia}

The Ambassador is a notoriously picky eater. More so than the average two-year-old from what I gather by comparing notes with my mom friends. I’m sure it’s a stage. Well, I hope it’s a stage, and he hasn’t inherited my father’s abysmal taste in food (everything dry, please, and burn if it you have the time, thanks). I suppose we’ll find out in about 20 years or so.

But really, it’s bad. The Ambassador won’t even touch the usual kid foods. No chicken fingers, no hot dogs, no pizza, no spaghetti, and let’s not discuss condiments of any kind. We’ve resorted to things like boxed mac & cheese, Hamburger Helper — which I’d never even tasted before a couple months ago — and our current fallback, Taco Bell’s Beef Combo Burritos.*

Truth be told, Hubby does end up taking the kid out to lunch more than I do, but that’s because I’m too lazy to leave the house most days, not because Hubby is any less concerned about The Ambassador’s nutritional well-being. Anyway, knowing how often they dine out together, it didn’t surprise me the other day when we swung by the Taco Bell in midtown Minneapolis (aka, the Taco Bell voted most likely to be held up at gunpoint), and Hubby said, “Hey! That’s the pimp and the hooker I told you about last time we were here!” Uhhh… refresh me on that one, honey?

{Originally published on T with Honey and titled A Moment Almost Missed}

The little curly haired girl crawled out of her mother’s lap and headed over to the box of toys. It was time to pick out a special friend to take to bed to be cuddled through the night. After careful consideration she picks up Baby Bop.

As per her usual habit she lays the toy on its tummy, finds a little blanket and begins to tuck Baby Bop into bed. The blanket doesn’t go down right the first time so she lifts it up to try again. As she does the little girl notices that Baby Bop has a friend. In the pocket on the front of Baby Bop’s outfit is a little stuffed piggy.
The little girl picks up her toy and asks “What this?” Her mommy repies, “It’s Baby Bop’s toy.”

“Oh, what this called?” she said pointing to the pink toy. “It’s a piggy”
The little girl is curious about the piggy. She wants to pull it out, look at it and ask more questions. Her mommy just wants her to crawl in bed and go to sleep. It’s getting late.

The toddler’s inquisitiveness takes a stronger hold. She points at the little animal and asks for the fourth time, “What this called?”
The mommy flatly states, “It’s a piggy.” Then with more than a little exasperation in her voice she says, “Princess, it is time for bed. You need to stop this. Lay down and go to sleep.”

The little girl’s arms sag and she glances at her mommy’s face. Her mother’s eyes meet hers for just a fraction of a second but the girl’s frustration and sadness comes across in that look and stab into her mommy’s soul.

(click title for more)

Originally posted on Okay, Fine, Dammit

The minute Emma was born, I knew something was wrong. I’d swallowed a horse, fought its hellish bucking to the death, turned myself inside out, until I won. Until she slid breathlessly — literally — into the world. I listened for her bourning cry but it did not come, because she was not breathing.

I lie there, split apart at the seams and bleeding out, and watched
the scene as if from above. I bore witness while the midwives pumped
oxygen into someone else’s baby for eleven minutes before they called
9-1-1, before two ambulances delivered both of us to a nearby hospital.
It was all for naught anyway — by the time we got there, she was
breathing on her own as if nothing had ever happened.

When we left the hospital for home, Emma was perfect in every way
but one: she would not nurse. She could not suck. I knew the
powers-that-be wanted to remedy the situation with a feeding tube, to
rapidly ameliorate the problem and neatly close out our file, but she
was our second child and so I had faith in my body, and in my baby.
Somehow I held patience as she lost weight.

(click title for more)

Originally posted on Nitro Vista

I got yer “bathroom language” RIGHT HERE….

I’m surprised it took this long. I almost made it to the end of the year.

Alas, I’m finally enraged at Isaac’s school, and in full, hit-the-mattresses belligerent dad mode.

Isaac is an intensely smart, hyper-sensitive 6-year old. While he has no qualms about speaking his mind, he is generally socially gracious and appropriate. Ours is an open and honest relationship. If he does something wrong, he comes clean. He has neither the inclination, nor really even the capacity, to tell lies at this point in his life.

His teacher loves him, and has had nothing but effusive praise for his intelligence and social skills.

Now I’m not so blinded with love for my firstborn that I cannot admit that he can be a wildass screaming hellion on wheels at times. But he is by no means a disciplinary problem. It is usually quite simple to correct his behaviour with a positive suggestion. He gets this.

So imagine my surprise yesterday when he came home with an unsigned
form letter in his backpack, informing us in the haughtiest possible
tone that he was being disciplined for using “bathroom language” in the
lunchroom; and would we please discuss this with him, provide a list of
5 “appropriate topics” for lunchroom conversation, and sign and return
the form.

(click title for more)