let's make a couple of things clear

In the last week, we have welcomed a new babysitter, Jenny, into our lives. Jenny is English and went to the same nanny training school as the Supernanny. Therefore, Jenny is fabulous.


Some might say, well, that's it, Amy. You'll have more time to blog now, but nothing to blog about, since your children will be not only perfectly behaved at all times, but also dressed in your master bedroom curtains. But if you are saying that, you do not know my children.

I now present to you: Lessons for Jenny, Scenes One and Two.

Scene One: Jenny was helping me put the boys to bed on her first night at our house. Cooper had just finished using the toilet.

JENNY: Don't forget to wash your hands, darling.

Cooper does a double take.

COOPER: I didn't make poops.

JENNY: (confused) Oh?

COOPER: So I don't have to wash my hands.

JENNY: Yes you do, silly.

COOPER: No I don't. (helpfully) In our house, we don't wash hands after we just make PEEPS. Right, Mommy?

Jenny looks to Mommy, quizzically.

ME: Well. It's something we can work toward.


Scene Two: Jenny was in the playroom with Fergus, who was talking to himself while holding himself (his favorite state of being).

FERGUS: ... and he's a bad guy! And he saying I don't wike you bad guy!

JENNY: Do you have to go to the bathroom, Fergus?

FERGUS: No.

JENNY: No thank you, Jenny.

FERGUS: and the bad guy is going to fight the-- wait. Not no fank you!

JENNY: What?

FERGUS: When you don't have to go to the bathroom, it's not no fank you.

JENNY: It isn't?

FERGUS: No. Iss just NO.


I don't know what Jo Frost would say to that, but when it comes to our entrenched bathroom preferences, Jenny clearly has her work cut out for her.

and now, a plug

In June, Medela invited me to do some comedy at a luncheon they were hosting in Chicago. For those of you who aren't moms, Medela makes breast pumps. So they asked me to do ten minutes of material on breastfeeding and pumping.

It went really well, despite the presence of about 25 babies in the audience. And now, the link is up on YouTube, and slowly making its viral way around the internet. Here is one of several places you can find it.

I posted the motherwear.com link because I wanted to draw attention to their title: "More Breastfeeding Humor."

I suppose there really is nothing new under the sun. But "more" breastfeeding humor?? I was quite unaware that I was taking part in any sort of long-standing tradition. Has anyone seen any classic Abbott and Costello breastfeeding routines that they might send my way?

overheard in the playroom

Overheard in our playroom this morning:

"My superpowers are every power but the one you have."

Way to cover your bases.


(photo from zoeweil.com)

mocking stuff is bad karma

I really need to be more careful of what I openly deride as preposterous.

First, I made fun of the Hair Fairies, "Manhattan's Head Lice Helpers," whom you can hire to pick the lice out of your children's hair for you.

But then my children got lice.

And so did I.

And I quickly reconsidered my position that such a company was a ridiculous idea. I mean it IS a ridiculous idea. But a wonderful one as well. (Raoul, I'm talking about you and your magic comb. Call me.)

Then, I thought it might be humorous if I shared with you all the grossness that is Nosefrida. For those of you who haven't seen it in action, here it is:


Now, even the Nosefrida people have a sense of humor, since I cribbed this photo directly from their website, and they dubbed this photo "bad hair mom.jpeg." Now that I look at her hair, I guess I wouldn't call it "good." But it is definitely not in the top ten things I would call "bad" about this photo, as I made clear about two months ago.


I believe it was Arnold Horshack who first said "Up Your Nose with a Rubber Hose," but I do not think he meant it to be taken literally. Am I right about that, Arnold? You meant it as an insult of the most cutting sort, did you not? And here we have a baby, an INNOCENT CHILD, of indeterminate gender, being subjected to this procedure by HIS OR HER OWN MOTHER.

I have certainly not been incorrect in pointing out, in the past, that this thing is derisible in the extreme.

But Maddie has been fighting a cold. And great green ropes of mucus have been cascading from her nose.

And two days ago, her pediatrician, after examining her ears and declaring her "75% of the way to an ear infection," turned to me and said: "Have you heard of the Nosefrida?"

I said I had.

"How have you heard of it?" he asked, a little bit disappointed. "It's very new in the States."

"I, ah, read about it online," I said, omitting the details that 1) I had in fact read words that I had written myself; and that 2) those words were "utterly and completely nasty."

He wrote down the number of his preferred pharmacy. "They're the only ones who stock it out here," he said. "Make sure to tell them I sent you."

I sent Maddie's grandfather to fetch the Nosefrida, since going myself would have meant putting Maddie down, and she would have none of that. Plus, I needed time to steel my reserve that I was actually going to use this thing.

And then the Nosefrida arrived. I took Maddie upstairs to use it before I could change my mind. "Can I watch?" Cooper said. Needing moral support, I agreed to that. Which was a good thing, because in the end, I needed Cooper to lay his full weight across Maddie's chest just to keep her from rolling away.

In the photo above, if you notice, the yellow-tunic'ed baby is not exactly happy with what is happening, but seems cooperative enough. I do not know how they managed to take that photo, because when I stuck the big plastic pen in Maddie's nose and then sucked on the other end, she completely lost her mind. I mean I have *never* seen her this upset. And NOTHING CAME OUT.

I carefully read the instructions, while Maddie screamed, to make sure I wasn't missing anything:

How to Use
Place the Nosefrida close to the nostril and apply suction. Apply again if not satisfied.

Well, I definitely "wasn't satisfied," but it is hard to put into words just how dissatisfied Maddie was with the whole operation.

How gross was it? In the end, not that gross, since it completely and totally does not work. After a few more tries, I got a few little boogs out yesterday, but the emotional costs for Maddie were definitely not worth it. So now that I've gotten to know the Nosefrida personally, I can say with authority: it's not that gross, but that's because it sucks. I think its new ad campaign should be

"The Original Nosefrida: When the Regular Old Nasal Bulb Aspirator Is Not Useless or Terrifying Enough."

If Maddie needs further intervention, I'm going to hold some black pepper under her nose and let her sneeze a few times. Now THAT will do the trick.

on your next rainy afternoon

The next time it's raining or too hot out or too cold out or your kids are fighting, take yourself over to the wonder that is www.simpsonizeme.com. I think it was a website originally created to market the movie two summers ago. So I'm only two years late to the party, but it is never too late to make yourself into a Simpsons character. You upload a photo of yourself, your kid, whoever, to the website, and it makes a lot of fun noises and then, kabam:

Cooper Simpson









Fergus Simpson

I must tell you, these are remarkable likenesses. Especially Fergus.

weekly updates

I have two significant updates for everyone this week. First of all, Project Sleep Thru for Maggie is kind of on hold for now. After almost 3 weeks of letting her cry at 4:00 or so, then getting up with her for the day at 5:15 am, I threw in the towel. Now, I feed her for five minutes at 4 or 5 am, and she goes back to sleep until 6 am or so. This is still a MAJOR improvement, both over the crying, and over the months that preceded the crying; and I will face the 5 am problem wakeup at some point in the near future, perhaps when my husband takes his August vacation in a week or two. Or else I'll just let her do it until... she doesn't do it anymore. Being a veteran mom does have its advantages. I know Cooper got up at 5 am when he was her age, and I don't remember what we did about it, but I do know he makes it until after 6:00 am now, so I will choose to accept, in the words of William Shakespeare, that All May Yet Be Well.

(By the way, isn't the difference between 5 and 6 am extraordinary? After five and a half years with my oldest early riser, 6 am is just a normal day. But 5 am is completely and utterly inhumane. 7 am is something I dream not of.)

But I am burying the lead here, readers, because I went to pick up Cooper from his Manatees II room at camp last week, and I caught a glimpse of a blonde haired little girl with very wide-spaced eyes. It couldn't be, I thought. But it was. Against all odds, Apple Martin, daughter of La Gwyneth, WAS at my son's camp, and here she was, sipping her organic juice box like any other Manatee.

Now, you know that I had just last week been nursing my extreme disappointment that I was never going to see Apple, and therefore her mother, in real life. But by the time I gathered Cooper's lunchbox and artwork, and pried Fergus away from the block corner, I looked up, and THERE SHE WAS. Gwyneth had come to get Apple. She looked all beachy and cute, and skinny of course but not too skinny, and I stood there trying not to look completely star-struck.

We started for the door, and so did they. We walked out the door toward the parking lot, and SO DID THEY. There we all were, walking towards our cars... well I won't say "together," but definitely adjacent. I couldn't even breathe. I was trying to decide who to text first when I got to the car when Cooper piped up and said,

"Goodbye, Apple!"

Apple didn't say anything.

"Your friend is saying goodbye to you, honey," Gwyneth prompted.

"Bye," Apple said.

We continued our walk toward the parking lot in silence. Now, that would have been more than enough for me: my child had a conversation with Gwyneth's child, and I was there. Still, Cooper must have sensed the awkward silence in our group, and decided to take matters into his own hands.

COOPER: Knock knock.

Pause.

GWYNETH: Apple, your friend said knock knock.

APPLE: Oh. Who's there?

COOPER: Boo.

APPLE: Boo who?

COOPER: Why are you crying, it's only a joke.

Pause.

GWYNETH: Wow, that's a good one. So lon-

COOPER: Knock knock.

Pause.

GWYNETH: ...who's there?

COOPER: Cows.

GWYNETH: ...Cows who?

COOPER: No cows moo owls hoo.

GWYNETH: Well. You're right about th-

COOPER: Knock knock.

This went on for several more minutes, while I died one thousand deaths. I did at one point say something like "he's full of those jokes, you'd better watch out" but I completely mumbled it because I kind of couldn't believe this was happening. In the end, Cooper stalked Gwyneth and Apple all the way to their car, and he didn't even know who they were. He was just laying it on thick for some cute girl and her mom with all his best knock knock material.

When we were finally in the safety of our own minivan, I said to Cooper, "So you DO know the girl named Apple I asked you about?"

He thought for a moment.

"Oh," he said. "I didn't know you meant *that* girl named Apple."

an Apple among Manatees

Viewers of my nascent Facebook page already know this, but I have been slightly obsessed this week ever since Cooper came home from camp with this year’s Family Directory. We are lucky enough to spend our summers in an idyllic setting where many jetsetters also park their jet-sets. Our family does very little hobnobbing with said set, because we basically never leave our house. I have much guilt about having gone to the beach, which is two miles away, exactly twice so far this summer. (Fergus has managed to get there three times.) “It won’t always be like this,” I tell myself. “I won’t always have frantic days that run from 5am-7:30pm without a break.” Am I fooling myself? Veteran moms might be laughing at my naivete, who knows.


But I digress. The Jet Set. We can count on seeing Kelly Ripa and dreamy Mark Consuelos with their three kids at 10:00 Mass every Sunday. In fact, that may be the main motivation for getting there. But that’s as close to the really exciting celebrity world as we really get. Until now.

I perused Cooper’s Family Directory, looking at the names of the other “Manatees” (read: 5 year olds) for anyone familiar, or who might be an interesting neighbor for playdates. No one caught my eye in the Manatees I category. Then I glanced at the Manatees II page, and there, right at the bottom, it said:

CHILD: Apple Martin
PARENT: Gwyneth Martin

No address or contact phone, I mean of course not.
My God it couldn’t be! But it was. Apple, THE Apple, was in the OTHER group of 5 year olds at Cooper’s camp.



My first thought was: My God, is Apple five already? Like she was my niece or something. Thanks to Us Weekly, I probably have seen more pictures of Apple than I have of my actual nieces, and I love how famous moms always carry their kids around who are way too big to be carried, by the way. Exhibit B:






Kate and Ryder

He's almost as tall as she is. Are celebrity children's limbs atrophied? Should we, as a nation, be addressing this?

Back to Apple. It was a little devastating that she was Manatees II and Cooper was Manatees I. But maybe they had met, nonetheless! Maybe they were mingling at the Tuesday morning puppet show! I investigated, trying to act casual:


MOMMY: Hey, Cooper. Do you know a girl named Apple at camp?
COOPER: No.
Pause.
COOPER: That’s a REALLY weird name.
MOMMY: Oh, I don’t think so at all! I really like it!

I do think it’s a weird name, of course, who doesn’t, but I felt the need to defend it so that when Gwyneth and I became best mommy friends Cooper wouldn’t blurt out “My mommy thinks your name is weird” while he and Apple skipped across our backyard.

At dropoff for the rest of the week, I was walking SLOOOWWWLY past Manatees II, lingering casually in front of their doorway, trying to catch a glimpse of Gwyneth and Apple. If only either of them could see how cool I was I knew we would be friends forever. No luck. Finally, another camp mom who saw my Facebook page had to let me down easy. “Actually, Apple’s not here,” she said, “because well, I kind of know Gwyneth, and she signed her up for like three camps and then sent her to none of them.”

Oh, how casually that rolled off her tongue! “I kind of know Gwyneth.” How I wish I could say that! Although I’m not sure why. OK, I’ll say it, I’m kind of obsessed with Gwyneth Paltrow, because she is a mom of two who actually seems to enjoy being with her children, AND an Oscar-winning actress who has people begging her to be in their movies, and she gets free clothes messengered to her every day, and her long blonde hair appears never to frizz.

But then I read magazine interviews with her, all of which take the tack of “Gwyneth Paltrow so does not care about being famous and stuff, and here she is in an $11,000 couture gown, and here is a picture of her with Madonna.” And she’ll always say something that really makes you kind of hate her. I just read one at the hair salon where she said “Do you think it’s easy to have a body like mine? It is very hard to have a body like mine, when you’re a mother, and I have to work very hard at it.” And I think she’s trying to be all honest and woman of the people, saying that, but it definitely comes off as… ewww. Also she did an interview right after 9/11 when she talked about how hard it was for her personally to be in New York City, and how her parents convinced her right away to charter a private plane and get to Jamaica, which she did. While all the average schmucks were hitchhiking from Dallas to Minneapolis because no planes were flying.

Even so, I love her, I can’t deny it. I’m better off not “kind of knowing her,” not even seeing her in real life. I love the idea of her living in the pages of magazines, with nary a hair out of place, signing her children up for three camps and then doing something much more glamorous instead. I love her, because despite her statements to the contrary, she is totally, utterly, NOTHING like me.