Yesterday's post that included a reference to Sesame Street made me think of this:

Was anyone else traumatized by poor Snuffleupagus's existence?  I remember being distraught by no one believing Big Bird about his buddy.  And, no, I am not claiming that this did psychological damage to me I just recall being very sad.  I also recall being sad when Buggs Bunny destroyed an entire tree to make a toothpick...  perhaps, I was an eco-friendly fighter-for-the-underdog even then?

Television Is Your Full-Time Job?

So what are your favorite websites?  I often feel like I am not getting "enough" from the web (or, as my mom calls it "the www").  Now don't get me wrong, I can waste countless hours on Facebook, I obsessively check my email and I get my news on-line (and from The Economist) but I simply don't have a litany of sites and blogs that I feel compelled to check daily.  A little NPR.org, a little Amazon and I am done.  Off to the bathtub with a copy of Vanity Fair or Bon Appetit (is anyone else still mourning the loss of Gourmet magazine?  The sadness).

Not that you should not constantly check back here to see what brilliance is popping up on ole Scotch and Cupcakes but still... to me it is like television, I end up constantly wondering "How the hell do people watch tv 151 hours a month?"  Yes, that is what the average American adult watches in a month.  Seriously.  If only I were making this up.  That is 35 hours a week - practically a full-time job. Truthfully, I do watch some tv.  I am not a total hermit/social outcast.  I enjoy The Big Bang Theory and am loathe to miss a Cowboys football game. But 151 hours a month?  I don't see that much television in a year.

This makes me wonder:
1) who has an extra five hours A DAY?
2) do these folks not read?
3) did they not have a mother with a strict "no television in the morning" policy.  {I swear to this day if someone turns on the tv in the morning, I am CONVINCED that someone in the house is about to get grounded.  Yes, I know they are adults but it seems so naughty to me}.

I think what makes me most nervous about it is spending so much time being passive and being fed information, images, advertisements and the like.  Even as a kiddo, I was not into television.  I would watch a half hour of Sesame Street and turn it off.  Perhaps I have simply always been a weirdo...

And I know this is totally stream of consciousness but has anyone else heard that Sesame Street is ditching Cookie Monster for Veggie Monster?  If so, c'est tragique!  Yes, edamame is better for you than cookies but, really, CM also ate Volkswagons and very few kids tried that digestive whammy.  We still don't have bebe boy watching television (other than Cowboys games) so I can't confirm or deny this rumor.

And please don't email me screaming about educational television shows that I am depriving my poor child of.  He is fine.  Brilliant even (my pediatrician's words, not mine) and I want to avoid the boob tube for as long as possible.  Please don't get me started on children watching 4 hours of television a day.  Humm, Johnny is obese and illiterate because...

So, that being said, though I normally mock her...  Huge shout out to my mom for raising me to read over watch and for making us "go play outside so the stink could blow off" of us.

Here He Comes to Save the Day!

So today bebe and I head to Kindermusik which gets all these rave reviews from parents.  I don't get it, it seems crazy-lame to me.  I am dancing in a circle with maniacal mommies singing and mooing around me while bebe stares at all of us like the men with the big nets are about to show up and take us all away for a "rest."

Should it not improve, we will be asking for a refund and directions to the nearest swing set.

But, of course, me being me.  There had to be an incident.  Before the class even started.  Bebe and I are sitting on the floor with a couple of other babies and their moms.  Every baby grabs some shaker/noisemaker thing and is rattling it.  Sweet bebe brings one over to the youngest person in the class, a six month old girl named Katie.  Katie coos.  All is well.

Bully kid (one in every group), Jerry, saunters over and grabs the shaker from Katie.  Bebe will have none of that; he crawls over, grabs it back, shakes his finger at the bully and delivers the toy back to Katie.  Katie is such a girl -- she coos her appreciation.

Bully Jerry grabs it back and runs across the room with his plunder.  Bebe boy, once again, goes over grabs it, shakes his finger at him and this time gives him a little baby lecture along with the pointing.  Bebe delivers it back to Katie who coos and bats her eyes.

Undeterred, Jerry (who I swear will one day end up running the country of Iran or, possibly, Venezuela), grabs it back from the unsuspecting Katie (sweetie, did you not see this was a-coming?  Get a clue, cutie).  My sweet child has had it with the bully stealing from someone smaller and weaker.  Clearly, he has a Robin Hood gene in him somewhere.  He goes over, grabs the toy back and CLOBBERS Jerry with it.  I mean knocks the stuffing right out of him.  While Jerry holds his head, bebe boy proceeds to give him the lecture again.

While crawling back to deliver the toy to Katie, bebe boy looked over his shoulder several times to give Jerry the stink eye.

I always swear that my husband is Captain America, always fighting for the little guy.  Clearly, that gene has been passed on to our son.

Who Knew My Baby Was Elvis Reincarnated?

Are you ever weirded out by having someone talk about you or someone close to you, knowing that they have no idea who you are?  This happens to me a lot.  For example, I was at the NEX in Italy and chatting with the lady behind me who was talking about her son's professor (and how much he hated her.  Alas).  She went on and on not realizing that it was me.  Yes, I knew it was me because I was the only female math prof teaching at that time.  Plus, "Texan," "thinks she is funny" and "talks non-stop" further pointed in my direction.

So it happened again on Friday.  I am chatting with this woman who, as it turns out, is describing my sweet bebe's behavior during MOPS.  He might look like I washed his daddy in hot water and shrunk him but parts of his personality are all me.  Alarmingly me.

At MOPS:  He insists on meeting and greeting everyone in the room.  When someone else starts crying, he goes over to the crier, pats them and motions for someone to do something.  If no one moves fast enough he does his car alarm sound to hustle them along (yes, I have been known to do the same thing.  So embarrassing when I am called on it publicly though).  Then, the piece de resistance, while everyone else is slowly gnawing on their snack (bebe wolfs his down.  Why risk that it might get dropped?  Plus, there is always the chance that someone might think they overlooked him and he will get a second round.  BoNANza), he crawls on stage.  For his performance.  Seriously.

Yes, my sweet child crawls on the stage (weekly) to do a floor show while everyone else is eating.  He starts his dance without music.  Eventually, someone will turn on some tunes and they get the head bob and a finger pointed at them in recognition and gratitude.  He then continues his dance which involves lifting his legs up and down in some kind of hoe-down move, the John Travolta "Staying Alive" stance and, my personal favorite, the 360 degrees of booty-shaking.   He can also "raise the roof" if the climate is right.

The lady is going on and on about how hilarious "her favorite baby ever is" (and she has been doing this for, egads, 25 years).  Finally, she asks "Are you okay?"  I responded that I was pretty sure that she was talking about my son.  Once confirmed, she gushed "Oh God!  Do you ever have a bad day?  How would it be possible to not be over the moon happy every day with him.  He is such a hoot.  Seriously, I will take him home with me any time you want."  etc etc

Of course she can coo and gush, she is not the one who gave birth to Tom Jones!  Hubby and I have decided that for Halloween next year, bebe boy should be a lounge lizard.  Complete with diamante outfit, fringe, fake chest hair and gold medallions.  Stay tuned for photos.

He MUST Have Mercury Poisoning...

which would explain why he is like the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland (albeit without the charm).  

Pat Robertson (hereafter referred to as Idiot Boy) has decided that Haiti's earthquake happened because the Haitians made a deal with the devil.  Swear to God, I am NOT making this up.  

http://www.cnn.com/2010/US/01/13/haiti.pat.robertson/index.html?iref=allsearch

Several years ago, we had one of hubby's colleagues and his wife over for dinner.  Having never met them, I assumed (WRONGLY) that they would be normal.  

She introduces herself and then says "Katrina happened because New Orleans is full of sinners."

Yes, literally,  her opening statement to me was "Hi, I am Nut Job.  Did you know that Katrina happened because of sinning?"

No doubt, she did NOT go to charm school.  What kind of an intro is that?  Nothing about "Something sure smells yummy" or "You have a lovely home."  Nope, let's lead in with crazy-ass religious views.

Since this was Ken's boss I decided to try and be diplomatic instead of ripping into her like I normally do.  "Umm, aren't we all sinners?"

"Well, yes, but my pastor says that New Orleans has more sinners than other places."

"Not to be a math and logic geek.  But... if we are all sinners, then all locales are at 100% sinning population.  Hence, we are all at risk for an ass-whopping from God."

"Oh, well, maybe they have bigger sins there."  

"Detroit has a higher murder rate and, hence, more murderers.  How come no hurricane there?  Well, other than the little detail about no coast line."   {And for the record she did not credit the hurricane AT ALL to well, proximity to water.  Just sinners.}

"Well, they have Mardi Gras too."

"As does every po-dunk town in the Western world.  And bigger celebrations in Venice and Brazil.  Yet, no Katrina."

"I don't know.   You should talk to my pastor.  I just listen to what he says."

"Have some Kool-Aid."  {She did not get my reference.  Shocking, I know, given her worldliness and sophistication}

But still she won't let it end.  Honestly, for a lemming who blindly follows a pseudo-pastor with no official doctrine, theological education or history (they meet in his basement) she was persistent. 

After an entire bottle of champagne (she is not allowed to drink), I lost it.  My diatribe ended with "And, I hate to be logical in addition to free-thinking but ponder this.  If God is smiting down sinners and their cities how PRECISELY did World War II Germany survive without a tsunami, hurricane, earthquake or locusts?"

Surprisingly, we never dined together again.  

The Great Zerbert Incident

Babies have no fear, no sense of propriety and, certainly, no sense of decorum.  Thankfully, they are also not racist, judgmental or homophobic.  Normally, I am thrilled that sweet bebe boy is an extravert.  Those shy kids who wrap themselves around their parents' legs drive me nuts.  If I had one, I am certain that I would find it endearing but since I don't I find it annoying.  Judge me if you will.

However, there are times when I wish that my sweet boy were not quite so enthralled with every single person he meets.  Case in point...

We are flying from Chicago to DFW.  It is 11pm and we have been flying for far too long (from England to the US), dealt with customs, hauled bags all over the place, etc. etc.

I just want to get us both on the plane and for both of us to pass out.  Bebe has other ideas.  He can't calm down when there are new people around.  I swear, he is going to be a politician.

I am chatting away with the guy next to me (can't imagine where bebe gets his extraversion, hummm) and I see this giant boarding the plane.  Seriously, the guy has got to be over 7 and a half feet tall.  He can't stand up straight in the plane (he later told me he was a retired Harlem Globetrotter).  He plunks down in the seat in front of us and I go back to chatting.

Apparently, his shiny bald head proves too irresistible for the baby who promptly zerberts his head and then falls down on my lap laughing.  Now, as his mom, I am amused by being awoken every morning with a zerbert on my belly and the ensuing laughter but the kid and I have a bit of history.  I am not certain that a total stranger wants to have my baby blow spit on his head over the holidays.  Nothing quite says "Fa la la la la" like spit!

When he turns around to see who zerberted his head, I say "You know Hallmark simply does not have a card that says 'Sorry my baby finds your head immensely attractive and is compelled to blow spit bubbles on it.' "  I am calling in favors with God, "Please, please, please don't let this guy be an asshole about it.  That is all we need is an irate giant having a fit.  And you know I will have to do some kind of paperwork to explain to the air marshalls our side of it.  Please, please, please."

The guy could not have been more gracious (thankfully, he assumed it was the baby not me).  He turns around and booms "Did you just make my head fart?" in this fabulous Caribbean accent.

Bebe about wets himself laughing at the giant's antics.  As soon as he turns his head, bebe does it again.

This goes on several times before Giant Guy lifts the baby up and starts zooming him around the plane over the heads of the other passengers.  This is beyond fun for the baby since 1) he has never been that high (Daddy is only 6')   2) he is getting to fly over people's heads (Mommy lacks the strength and wing span for that kind of antic) and 3) everyone is tickling his belly while he zooms overhead.

So, in case any of you from UA flight 481 are reading this, thanks for being so gracious and fun.  And, Giant Guy, sorry my baby made your head toot.

Things You Learn When Traveling Internationally With a Baby

1) There is no such thing as traveling light with a baby.  I am a world class packer (5 years of being a consultant would do that) and went to Africa for three weeks with only one bag.  And, yet, for three weeks with baby (granted, in two totally different climates), I required two suitcases, a carry-on, a purse and a stroller.  Yes, I know they have diapers in England...

2) Everyone is an expert on all things related to your child, though they don't know his name.  "That baby should be wearing socks."  "Babies should not eat that."  "Why is he so happy?"  "You should give him Benadryl."

For the record, bebe uttered not a peep during any of the flights but upon seeing us board the plane, total strangers were tossing Benadryl at us.  Furthermore, I practically begged my pediatrician for permission to drug sweet bebe (yes, I know Mom-of-the-Year Award is mine, mine, mine!) but the phrase "respiratory failure" changed my mind.  Immediately.

3) Most flight attendants are amazing and crazy-kind (they brought us, well they brought bebe, homemade snickerdoodles and zoomed him around the plane) but there are some who are past cranky.  Like the moron who did not think I should be allowed to board early because "why do you possibly need extra time?"  I have NO ISSUES with homosexuals but, please, please don't cop an attitude with me about needing a little extra time when I have to hoof down the jetway with bebe and two bags all while dismantling a stroller while you tap your polished shoes at me declaring "TSA says I can't hold the baby for you."  Seriously, dude, what is your alternative?

4) Babies are the best ice-breakers around.  No one is a stranger when they want to pet your kid.

5)  If you have a baby, you don't have to stand in line at The Louvre.  Suh-weet!  {Yes, I realize that it is probably not a great trade-off: the hour in line in exchange for the millions of dollars you spend on them but, if you have already made the commitment...).

6) Now I know why people hire (and fire) Brazilian nannies.  I sat next to a gorgeous Brazilian woman from Heathrow to Chicago who was madly in love with bebe.  And he with her.  I was more than happy to have her play with him and entertain him but NO FLIPPIN' WAY could she move in with us.  Yes, you may love my child but the last thing in the world I want is some hot Brazilian in my house when I have dirty hair and have not had time to shave in a week.  Sorry, sweetie, sucks to be you.

British Customs

Most of you know that I decided at the last minute to fly to Europe with the baby.  Big news, even an infant needs a passport now.  Expediting a passport is a hassle and ridiculously expensive.  Trust me on this one:  if you are pondering fleeing the country any time soon, get bebe's passport now.  Also plan on it taking over an hour just to get the photos taken.  Really?  Exactly four inches of shoulder must show?  Both ears?  And I can't even have a thumb in the photo?  Baby also can't have his eyes even partially closed nor can he be smiling or laughing.  Seriously.  And, furthermore, they do this on a glaring white background which is a further disaster if your child has white blonde hair and is pale.  My beautiful child looks like an x-ray in his photo.  The tragedy.

So, anyway, back to the point.  Bebe boy and I fly into Heathrow.  He was a ROCK STAR on the plane.  Not a peep, whimper or cry out of him.  Brilliant.  Slept like a champ.  The only sound he made was a case of the giggles somewhere over Iceland.  Yes, he laughs in his sleep -- gets that from me.  What can I say?  We have the gift of joy.  The man behind me on the plane recorded the sound on his phone and is now using that as his ring tone.  My baby's belly laughs are that adorable.  Not to brag...

So Rock Star and I land.  All is well.  We are zipping through Heathrow with the stroller, a carry on and my purse.  I have NEVER carried this much stuff on a flight.  Well, not since 1997 when I became a consultant.  In case you don't know, the word "consultant" means "travels all the time, eats and drinks too much and NEVER carries more than a small suitcase and a laptop case.  Never.  Not even to a wedding.  Their own wedding."  Seriously, I went to Africa for three weeks with one medium sized bag and that included me packing food (just in case).

But now that I am a mom (even a low-maintenance, low-drama mama), I required two suitcases, two carry-ons and a stroller for three weeks in Europe and Texas.  Oh egads.  I am THAT woman now.  Ughhh.

Back to the point, baby is in his stroller, carry on is tucked into the very trendy stroller, I am toting my purse and we are zooming through Heathrow.  Feeling very trendy and continental.  Until we get to British customs.  The bane of my existence.

In case you don't know, I am American.  I have no intention of giving up my citizenship.  I loved living overseas and would like to move back to Europe in the future but I am not immigrating nor am I ever going to qualify for government hand-outs.  Anywhere.  Not even Sweden.

However, the British customs people are somehow convinced that I am running away and planning on mooching off their government.  I swear, "mooch" or "dreg of society" is somewhere on my permanent record in the UK.  It must be, why else would they hate funny, charming me so much?  I spend a lot of money in their country and totally build up the coffers.

The customs line is divided into "UK and EU" people over here and "Filthy Foreigner Who Want Handouts" over there.  Into the FFWWH line I go.  This line is always crazy long and full of people who all seem to cough a lot and wear muted colors.  I swear, it reminds me the "huddled masses" from the 1800s.

Now far be it from me but I always thought of myself as a bright spot in this line.  Friendly.  American.  Wearing pastels. I speak English (not their English but not Russian either).  I know all the answers, have all the papers.  Have return tickets.  I am practically a professional.

I get to the front of the line and angry lady says "Where is his landing card?" pointing towards bebe boy.    "They said that it was one landing card per family so he does not have one."  "HE NEEDS HIS OWN.  Get to the back of the line."  I mean, really, it is 10 quick questions and I can't stay here and fill it out?  Come on now, lady.  I can have it done before you are through scowling at me.

No luck.  Cranky sends me to the back of the line where I go without too much protest for fear of a strip search.

Lucky me, a flight from Russia has just landed.  Dear gawd.  I swear most of them were drunk or refugees.  How did a nice girl like me end up in this line?  Can't I get grandfathered in since I have no intention of declaring asylum or something?  But nooooo.  There I stand in line with bebe.  Even he (at the age of one year and one day) covered his mouth with his coat since the coughers were surrounding us.  I was looking for a shirt that said "Got TB?" on it.

So to the back of the line we go.  I am no longer feeling trendy or continental.  Alas.

Luck of luck, I get the same bitch again.  I hand her both of our landing cards and our passports.  Cranky looks at the baby and declares him pale.  No-flippin-duh, lady.  How many tan platinum blondes do you know?  However, I can't be too sarcastic for fear of getting sent to the sick line with the hacking Russians.  Just what this holiday needs is a session in quarantine.  "Yep, we are a pale family.  But healthy.  Eat lots of spinach and yogurt.  Like Greek Popeyes."  I know I am babbling but I can't stop.  Please, please don't send us to the sickie line.  At this moment I understand why Michael Jackson traveled with a mask on.

She looks our documents over and says, completely straight-faced, "You did not fill out his occupation.  What is his job?"  "Umm, seriously?  He is a baby he does not have a job."  "What does he do?"  {Clearly, the problem must be that I don't understand the words "occupation" or "job."  When in doubt assume illiteracy}  "He does not do anything.  He is a baby.  He eats, poos and plays."  "Har-rumph."

Then she asks me "Did he fill this out himself?"  "Are you joking?  Look at him.  He is one.  He can't write or read yet.  The line was long but not THAT long, lady."  "Har-rumph."

And with that I took my pale, illiterate, unemployed baby to England.

Catching Up

So it has been a while... sorry about that but, well, life got a little out of control for a while there.  I was supposed to go to India.  As in I packed (96 tabs of Immodium, anyone?), made it all the way to the airport, did the teary good-bye to the baby... and found out that I was supposed to have a visa before I left the ground.  Ummm, I can't buy one upon arrival like everywhere else on the planet?  No.

Not to be too American but really shouldn't I be entitled to separate rules?  Visas are simply about income generation (they don't do a background check or anything) and I was more than willing to pay.  Plus, do Americans defect to India?  Honestly?

And, of course, this happens when Hubby cell is dead so I can't call him to come back and get me.  So, I call the Verizon store (where I know he is going to see if his new phone has arrived) and have the following conversation.  Sadly, this really did happen, I am not exaggerating.

me:  This is going to sound odd but have you seen a tall blonde guy in the store recently carrying the most beautiful baby ever?  (Okay, I might have some mommy-goggles going on here but, really, he is a beauty).
unsuspecting phone answerer at store:  What?

me:  I assure you that I am not a stalker but my husband should be in there any minute to pick up his new phone and I am stuck at the airport.
upaas: He is not here now.  Let me see if his phone has arrived and if he has picked it up.
me:  Thanks!

(time passes, time passes)

upaas: His phone is not here and I can't tell if he has already been by.  Sorry.
me:  Can you leave a message in the order system or something?

upaas: Oh wait!  They might be here now.  What is the little guy wearing?
me:  Khaki Janie and Jack pants with teddy bears embroidered on them, a cream colored turtleneck from Baby Gap and a vest with a teddy bear that matches the trousers.  This morning he had on socks but he always takes them off in the car...

upaas: Way too many details and like I need to know the store name.  We are not identifying a crime scene, you know.  You are either his mom or the world's most detail-oriented stalker.
me:  I promise, I am his mom.  Wanna hear about my labor dramas?
upaas:  God no.  But, you are right, he is the cutest little guy I have ever seen.
me:  Told you so!

So, by the time Hubby made it back to Denver to get me, I had made reservations for bebe and I to go to Europe to celebrate his first birthday.  Yes, I know he is only one (of all people on the planet, I know precisely how old he is) but why not have him experience Europe even if he does not remember every detail later?  Besides, we were going to see friends and I KNOW he will remember all the love he was showered with.  Plus, United would not refund my money so I had a voucher... and why not use it?

I have to admit that I was nervous about flying internationally with the kiddo.  He has flown a couple of times from Colorado to Texas but those are short flights.  What if he had a meltdown on the plane and I was THAT MOM on the plane?

Bebe was a ROCK STAR on all the flights.   Seriously, not a peep out of him (other than getting the giggles in his sleep somewhere over Iceland).  Yes, I find it beyond endearing that my sweet baby boy laughs in his sleep.  How great it is that your waking hours are simply too short to fit in all your happiness?

We started off in London visiting his godfathers, Tom and Ody.  They are beyond in love with him which makes my heart melt.  Then we went to Paris to see Antoine and his brood and, well, see Paris.  Sadly, we got caught in the Eurostar meltdown (that will be a totally different blog entry).

From Europe, we went to Texas to meet up with Daddy-O, spend Christmas with the family and see Luc's godmom Aunt Bella and her hubby Nitro (who willingly hummed a lullaby to bebe for half an hour.  I will always have a soft spot in my heart for him due to that alone).  Then back to Colorado.

That is the (ridiculously) long version of why I have not been posting recently.