Douche Dad of the Year

I would never claim the rights to a Mom of the Year award, farm or otherwise, but I have to write an open letter to the dad who left his 3 year old daughter with us for 30 minutes while he taught a tennis lesson 300 yards away. 

Dear Douche Dad,

Your daughter Kyla is an adorable gem of a girl. She came right up to our family as we were picnicking at the park. She was articulate enough to tell us her name and that she was 3. At first we thought she was with you, her dad, but when we asked the man walking the dog if Kyla was his daughter, he said "No, she just started walking around with me because of the dog. I think her dad is over there teaching a tennis lesson. Her brothers are around here somewhere. At least that's what she told me."

Lucky for you that man wasn't a creep or psychopath. At least not that day. He continued walking his dog, and Kyla stayed with us. At first it was really cute. She was so friendly and curious. She asked what we were eating and happily accepted a chewy Chips Ahoy cookie. And then 2 more after that. We asked her if she had any allergies. She said no. Then we asked her if she knew what allergies were and she also said no. She wanted some cherries, so we pitted them and gave her some. And some strawberries too. Then we asked her where you were. She confirmed you were on the tennis courts. Behind closed gates. Way far away. And her older brothers who were supposedly at the playground semi-nearby? They were way over at the tennis courts too. Far enough away that I could have easily scooped your little Kyla up and put her in my car and you wouldn't have had a fighting chance of catching up with me.

Or I could've been feeding her poison. Or molesting her. Or any number of deranged, disgusting things that happen all the time every day everywhere. Maybe I sound super paranoid and over the top, but your actions sent me there.

Kyla just hung out with us. She was perfectly at home. So much so I would bet it wasn't her first time wandering up to strangers at a picnic and blending right in. That's a great quality for an adult. It's a freaky one for a 3 year old. 

The topper was when she finally left. Her older brothers yelled, "Come on Kyla! It's time to GO!" and when we looked up, you were paying ZERO attention, strolling to the car chatting with your tennis buddy, counting on your other kids to collect your youngest. 

You didn't even have the basic courtesy to come over and see who we were or to acknowledge the half hour your daughter spent in our company.

You are a total jerk and an unfit father. Am I overreacting? I don't know. I'm pretty pissed, actually. With a daughter as cute and sweet and trusting as Kyla, you are rolling the dice when you leave her to fend for herself. Maybe I should have said something to you, because even though I'm pretty new to this whole parenting thing, I think what you did was beyond stupid. It was dangerous. 

The news reporter in me, the paranoid Asian mom who worries about kidnappers around every corner, the basic common sense I have as a person--all of that leads to me think you're an idiot and I should've told you that in no uncertain terms. Even if you thought I was a crazy overprotective mom, maybe it would've spurred you to think twice the next time you let Kyla wander around.

Thanks for being such a jackass. I really needed that spike in blood pressure. I only wish I had thought to run after you and tell you this in person.

NoseFrida

Picked this up at Whole Foods after a neighbor and preschool mom told me it is a must when you have a second child and the first child enters school. Because that first child becomes Patient Zero and is suddenly the vector for every horrible germy disease possible.

Sure enough, Emmy started preschool and by 7 weeks, Dessy started sounding like a snuffleupagas. Stuffy and snotty. A newborn should not have to work that hard to breathe, my poor little sleepurrito. (Combo word: sleep + burrito.)

So the trick is to put saline drops in her nostrils, tilt her back for 3 minutes, then suck the bejesus out of her nose. Apparently there are battery operated snot suckers, but nothing compares to the sweet sweet power of a determined mother's mouth. Keep your dirty jokes to yourself.

There are few things in life as satisfying as manually removing mucus from your child's nose so that she can breathe better. Again, stop it.

Bonus: somehow this thing is engineered so that the snot never gets anywhere near your mouth. It doesn't even get close to the blue sponge filter thing. So even the orally squeamish parent The Good Doctor has given it a go. Trust me, there's nothing like seeing a green blob of boogery goodness in the tip of this device, and the knowledge that you vacuumed it out yourself.

Getting it in Emmy's nose is a whole 'nother challenge. If you have suggestions on how to convince a 3 year old that the NoseFrida is her friend, please share. Bribes, logic, reasoning, begging, guilting, surprising, coaxing, commanding, and all my forms of strategery have been ineffective so far. 

Proud: Part 2

Apparently the second you mock another parent for being proud of their toddler, the universe puts a pride smack down on you and shames you publicly.

When I told The Good Doctor how ridiculous it was that some mom wrote to Sprout to spout her pride for her 3 year old birthday boy, I expected him to back me up. Instead, he was all, "Of COURSE you can be proud of a toddler. Wouldn't YOU be proud of Emmy if she went to the dentist and was really brave? What about when she pooped on the potty by herself? Or last week at the Moon Festival when she went up on stage and waved at the crowd and danced and wasn't scared at all?"

OK, OK Universe. You and my husband are right. Clearly, you can be proud of your toddler. Still, I wouldn't announce it on TV. Tiger Moms gotta draw the line somewhere.

And then sure enough, Emmy went and sealed the deal with another pride-inducing action. She transitioned to her big girl bed this weekend. We took her shopping for a full size mattress set a couple weeks ago and repeatedly expressed to her just how "FUN" and "COOL" and "BIG GIRL" it would be to sleep in a bed because "CRIBS are for BABIES!" and she drank the Kool Aid right down.

Even though she love love loved her crib, so much she would actually ask to play in it sometimes, she didn't have any problems watching it get dismantled and put away. First obstacle: over.

Then the Big Girl Bed rolled in. Furniture was rearranged. New pillows and blankets. A bed rail. The transformation was complete by Saturday night.

First night in the crib: she slept like a charm. And by charm I mean she woke up crying twice, discombobulated and yelling "DADDDDYYYYYYYY!!!! DAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDDDDYYYY!" But that has actually been par for the course lately. We suspect it's her bladder waking her up. She pees in her diaper and goes back to sleep, but it's the ONE part of early potty training that's tough. She's so used to peeing in the toilet with our help that when she has to go at night, she doesn't do it automatically into her diaper. She has to think about it and authorize her body to do it, and that sometimes causes a little sleep disruption.

But nights 2 and 3 were super smooth. She slept all the way through, under the Big Girl Covers, with her head on the Big Girl Pillow. She even napped in her BGB. Yes Universe, I admit it, I am proud of my 2.5 year old. Is it too much too soon? Only time will tell.

Hey, I was raised in a family with parents who didn't tell me they were proud of me until I was like, 27. And it was AFTER I told them they never told me they were proud of me. Tiger blood runs deep, as Charlie Sheen would say.

Bonus: She only wiped a few boogers on the white mesh side rail. Hey, if that's her coping mechanism, I'm fine with it. The Good Doctor had an entire booger WALL growing up. And look what a charmer he turned out to be!

Proud: Part 1

Our weekday morning routine includes Emmy watching some Sprout TV while I put on my makeup and Asian Grandma walks Romeo and Coco while Tofu lazes about in her igloo bed, putting on extra chihuahua pounds she doesn't need.

I overhear the lady on Sprout reading the birthday shout outs to all the toddler boys and girls who have parents who love them enough to send scrapbooked birthday cards with personal messages to a TV station in the hopes of having them read over the air.

She goes, "Happy 3rd Birthday to my little boy Taylor! I am so proud of you! Love, Mommy."

And luckily I have a steady hand or I would've smeared eyeliner all over my face. I mean who says they're "proud" of a 3 year old? Did your 3 year old paint the Sistine Chapel? Did he save a kitten from a burning trailer? Did the little tot resuscitate a senior citizen who nearly drowned?

I mean, we love you, happy birthday, you're a cute little bugger. All of that, I get. But what can you possibly have done anything as a three year old to warrant anyone being proud of you?

I went to work thinking little Taylor is going to grow up to be a loser. If his mom is going to blow her pride wad on him at age 3, he's going to have all sorts of hyped up esteem issues.

I said as much to my co-workers when I got to work, saying I couldn't believe someone told her 3 year old son she was proud of him. For what? Turning 3? They were like, "Watch out for Prego, she going cray cray again."

Well fast forward to the weekend. Egg. On. My. Face.

To Be Continued.

Pregnant and Not Barefoot

Don't let that half smile fool you. I am no happy camper. The Good Doctor will testify to that in a court of law. Hand on a Bible, "Yes, Your Honor, she is a turdball right now. But I said I would love her for richer or poorer, in good times and bad, turdballs notwithstanding." OK fine, he wouldn't use the word "notwithstanding." 

Pregnancy is for the birds. And they're smart enough to lay eggs. Translation: being prego blows. BPB.

Before the Internet jumps down my throat about the miracle of life and how lucky I am and do I know there are people spending thousands of dollars on fertility treatments and how dare I say pregnancy blows, let me say YES to all of the above. I am very grateful and fortunate and appreciative that the powers of life have granted my hostile womb another chance to grow a human. We've been through a shitload of sucky times lot, and we know how blessed we are to be on the path toward a second babychild.

That does not mean I was built to endure or enjoy pregnancy in any way shape or form. Just a glimpse at my maternity photos from the last pregnancy will tell you, a belly of this size on my person is all kinds of crazy. 

But if you want someone to make you feel like a supermodel 3 weeks before you send your husband to the store to buy hemorrhoid cream and Tuck's pads because 7 pounds of person just tore her way out of your vajazzle, then my friend Sarah Williams is the one to call.

I still can't believe I'm headed for round 2 of this. See that ring I'm wearing? It's a fashion ring I normally wear on my right middle finger. It was the only one that would fit on my wedding finger. I gained 42 pounds. That's 42% of my body weight. Do the math and add 42% of your body weight to your belly, sprinkle in 3 months of extreme nausea, a pinch of severe night time heartburn, months of tossing and turning in your sleep, and cap it off with a cantaloupe sliding out of your nether parts. Don't even get me started on breastfeeding.

I am so excited. #not

P.S. Dear friends and family who are reading this news, thank you in advance for your kind wishes and positive thoughts and still being your loving selves as I transform into Crazy Pregnant Biznatch over the next several months. Things will get better once the alien invasion is complete on or about February 9th.