C is for Crazy

Basil left this morning, heading off to do the bidding of clients around the Buckeye State for two nights. Petunia and I are leaving at the ass crack of dawn Friday morning to fly to northern Kentucky for a family graduation. Basil is meeting us down there on Friday. He flies home on Saturday evening; Petunia and I, Sunday evening. On Monday morning, I leave for beautiful Vancouver for 9 days. Basil will meet me out there late next week. (Don’t worry about Petunia; she can totally handle making her own waffles and turning on the TV for herself while we’re gone.)

So, I’m thick in throes of getting ready for these back-to-back trips. Of course, that means doing laundry and packing. That’s what normal people do in preparation for a sojourn.

But I’m not normal. I’m a Virgo. Organization is my motor. And I cannot leave for a trip without the house being in perfect order.

The idea of returning home to chaos sends me into a Mommie Dearest impersonation in the days leading up to my trip. I can’t stand the idea of walking in my house and seeing dishes in the sink, mail piled up on the dining room table or toys strewn across the floor. It makes me tense. Clutter can suck the life out of me faster than a stay in Orlando. So I try to get rid of it before going on a trip, with the hopes that I can return from my travels in peace and relatively sane.

However, this trip has new dimensions. While we will be gone, we have a volunteer dog sitter staying in our home. And while Basil and I are in Vancouver, my mom will be staying with Petunia. (Did you really think we’d trust her to make her own waffles?) And then, two days after our triumphant return from Canada, we’re hosting that big party for my church choir.

So the crazy voices in my head are telling me that the house has to be extra, super perfect.

If I weren’t actually having my period right now, I would swear that I was 38 weeks pregnant and nesting like a crazy fool. That’s how OCD I feel about getting my house in order. I could have a drink in the evenings to relax and not reorganize the pantry, but being a little tipsy actually increases my tendency to put pieces of paper at perfect right angles with each other.

Now that Basil is gone, I know the next two nights are going to be filled with obsessive cleaning and organizing. But I’m confident that I can get my home to look like a Real Simple magazine before getting on that plane Friday morning, thus freeing my mind to enjoy the next two weeks of travel without worrying what awaits me at home.

Invoking St. Martin de Porres

Oh, boy, am I in a pickle. The roots of my beautifully dyed hair (shhhhhhh! there are people who still believe this color is natural!) are nearing one inch long, and I am getting ready to embark upon 14 days of travel that will take me from DC to northern Kentucky to DC to Vancouver to DC. Upon my return, I am hosting 25 members of my church choir for an end-of-year party. Which means I will not have time to visit the basement of my fabulous Greek stylist, Costas, for some time.

I was planning to swing by his house tonight or tomorrow or the next night, but it turns out that Costas and his beloved wife decided to treat themselves to a little vacation because things were 'so slow.' So...they are lounging on Myrtle Beach right now, and I am trying to figure out how to keep my hair looking presentable for the next fortnight.

Anyone who has ever dyed their hair knows that six weeks is about the length of time you can reasonably go between appointments. Seven if you are really desperate. As of today, it's been five weeks and three days. Clearly, if I wait until Costas and I are both in town and available (June 16 at the earliest), my roots will look like Britney on the day she almost dropped the baby.

I was forced to take action. I had to Switchboard.com my way to a temporary hairdresser. What a terrifying experience. Not nearly as bad as poor Bite My Cookie, who is shopping for a new midwife after her last one seared her vagina with a hot speculum, but it still causes my breath to catch and my heart to race.

Other than my brief breakup with Costas, I haven't seen any other stylist in nearly nine years. And before that, when I was in college, I usually just went to my stepmother's/mom's stylist (isn't that weird? they go to the same one) for cuts. I dyed my hair out of a box. I found Costas not long after I landed my first job on Capitol Hill, and we've been together ever since, though he hasn't always been perfect.

In fact, two haircuts ago, he gave me a MOM haircut - without my permission! I wasn't quite sure what to make of it when I was sitting in the chair, but Basil was slightly horrified when I got home. When I finally realized that I might as well have high-waisted khaki capris and white Keds on, I got out the scissors and starting hacking away. Basil walked into the bathroom, saw the metal glinting as the hair piled up in the sink and said, 'What on earth are you doing?'

My response was simply, 'How could I end up with anything worse than a MOM haircut?'

Since then, Costas has improved, though I think he was a little flabbergasted that I cut my own hair in response to what he had done. And ever since then, he's been a tiny bit off his game. I've been thinking, Hmmmm...is it time to bid Costas adieu? Should I start getting my hair done in a salon like everyone else? When do I pull the plug on this relationship?

But I wasn't ready for this, to have him just taken away from me when I needed him. I wasn't ready to have to Google salons in Old Town, trying to get a sense of their abilities from their websites.

Also, I hadn't quite accepted the sticker shock of a real salon. Costas cuts me quite a sweet deal - $80 for a cut and color. I'm looking at all these salons and realizing that I'm going to pay almost as much for a color touch-up as I pay for a color AND haircut with Costas. Yikes.

But the idea of walking around with my roots hanging for two weeks of family visits, business travel and vacation made me cringe. So I finally worked up the courage to call Friseurs, as it is really close to my office and it seems like a solid place when I walk by and the prices don't make me want to have a heart attack. I am going to see Donna tomorrow - just for the color, not a cut (though I could certainly stand one).

I am nervous. So nervous. I know that Costas will be back soon, and I can go for a cut in a couple of weeks. And if the color is bad then Costas can fix it when I see him. But I'm still wary of what could happen with unfamiliar hands in my hair.

I'm also worried that I will love Donna and I will end up having a hair affair with her and that I will start drifting away from Costas, which makes me sad. Even though I've thought about it before. Even though I know my arrangement with him can't last forever.

Does every woman have a relationship this complicated with her stylist? Or am I the only psycho on the planet???

Ice Cream is the Graetest

It wasn't the warmest day today in Washington, but it had a hint of summer to it. A day full of bright sunshine, with enough warmth to put the windows down a little. It felt really summery when I was preparing dinner for me and Petunia (greetings to Basil in Minnesota!), as I grilled a zucchini.

But the icing on the pre-summer cake was having ice cream cones for dessert.

The idea came to me at the grocery store last night, not so much for the fun factor but for the portion control. Because even when I'm eating Edy's Slow-Churned, I find it tough to stick to a strict half-cup serving. However, it's hard to cram too much ice cream onto a precarious sugar cone, so I tossed a package of cones in the cart.

After dinner, I scooped up some Chocolate Fudge Chunk and sat down with Petunia to enjoy our cones. I think it was Petunia's first cone experience. She's had plenty of ice cream in her lifetime, but in watching her tonight, I realized that she didn't really know how to eat a cone.

She started off by trying to eat the crunchy cone from the seam on the side.

'No,' I explained. 'Honey, you've got to eat all the ice cream on top first, or your cone will fall apart and your ice cream will fall on the floor.'

So she proceeded to eat the mound of chocolately goodness. When she reached the point where the ice cream was level with the cone, she wanted more. Instead of biting off the rim of the cone to get at the ice cream inside, she protruded her lips like a kissing fish and started trying to work the ice cream out. When she went all out and put both lips inside the top of the cone and pressed her dessert flush against her face, forming a seal, I couldn't contain myself anymore.

'Sweets, if you want the ice cream inside, then just bite the edges of the cone off.'

I think I actually saw the light bulb go off over her head. Then she started to chow down on the cone. When she got down to the very nub, Petunia thought she was finished. But then I popped my cone butt in my mouth and she did the same, crunching away, looking pleasantly surprised at the conclusion of this experience.

By this time, she was absolutely covered in chocolate smears, sticky everywhere, and I felt like I had done my job as a mother.

I have a deep love affair with ice cream. No, SERIOUSLY. A deep love affair. I grew up in northern Kentucky, which is part of the greater Cincinnati metro area. Which is home to Graeter's.

If you have never had Graeter's, then you are missing out. There is no ice cream in the world that is as good as Graeter's. Not Ben & Jerry's, not Haagen Dazs, not Friendly's, not Cold Stone Creamery, not even (the very good local brand) Gifford's. NOTHING.

People in the Cinci area are fanatics about Graeter's, and they have every right to be. The ice cream is hand-made in small batches at each store. The ice cream is incredibly dense, smooth and luxurious. Chocolate chips are made when streams of milk or dark chocolate are poured into the churning pot, freezing and breaking into irregular chunks as they freeze. It is not uncommon to end up with a chocolate chip the size of a stick of gum or larger. In fact, my sixth grade teacher had a running 'chip contest' in which kids would save their giant chips and bring them into class in sandwich baggies. The kid with the biggest chip got, like, a quarter or extra credit points or something.

Part of the reason that I know so much about Graeter's is that working there was my first job.

When I was sixteen, I got a couple of pairs of regulation khakis, white button-down shirts and white Keds and starting earning a paycheck scooping ice cream, making waffle cones, creating sundaes, wiping down counters and mopping the parlor floor.

During my stint at Graeter's, I got the world's biggest right bicep (my scooping arm). See, I know firsthand how dense that ice cream is, and it is killer. Especially the chip flavors, which were in a separate case from the non-chip flavors and the sorbet. The chip flavors were kept a little extra cold, and I swear to God they were rocks of ice cream. Especially the double-chocolate chip. I would cry inside a little every time someone ordered it. When my friends came through the drive-thru one night, they asked for individual scoops of double chocolate chip and I just glared at them, threw a pint of said ice cream and a couple of spoons in the car and charged them for a cone. Anything not to scoop that bitch if I didn't have to.

One of the best things about Graeter's is their travel pack. They will take six or twelve pints of ice cream and pack them in a styrofoam cooler with dry ice. From there, you can take it with you on a flight or have it shipped to you via UPS. I have been known to bring a styrofoam cooler back to northern Virginia on occasion after visiting family in northern Kentucky.

I also brought a cooler of Graeter's up to Basil's parents the first time I ever visited their home. I had met them before but had never been to their house. At the time, Basil's grandmother and aunt were staying with the family for the holidays, and I really wanted to make a good impression. So I picked out six distinct Graeter's flavors (two or three interesting chip flavors like Black Raspberry Chip and Toffee Chip and then a couple unusual 'regular' flavors like Caramel, Black Walnut - which I think has sadly been discontinued - and Black Cherry) and showed up in suburban Cleveland bearing a white cooler full of gifts.

I was well received. Even by Grandma.

Petunia, Basil and I will be in northern Kentucky next weekend for a family graduation, and - as usual - we plan to swing by our local Graeter's shop for a fix. Now that Petunia has been trained in the art of the cone, it should be even more enjoyable than usual.

Beethoven Live

We Valentines had about as much fun as is legally allowed this weekend. On Wednesday I discovered that the people behind our favorite kids' music - Beethoven's Wig - were going to perform live with the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra on Saturday. And the tickets were only $12 each!

You can bet I snapped those up promptly.

Then, on Friday in the Weekend Section, the Washington Post featured the upcoming concert, and we smugly patted ourselves on the back for being so incredibly ahead of the hipness curve. Well, um, as parents of toddlers go.

Being devoted Beethoven's Wig geeks who had been anxiously awaiting the release of the third CD, we didn't want to get lost in the shuffle of the everyman, Post-reading parents who were sure to be there in droves. So we piled in the Freestyle and headed off to Baltimore early, arriving at the concert hall and nabbing seats a full 30 minutes before the performance.

We ended up in the eighth row, which became fodder for a lame joke on our part at the CD signing afterwards (in 'Tchaikovsky's Cannonball,' which is set to the tune of th 1812 Overture, the lyrics say, 'What a bang, it stopped the show/ It landed in the seventh row!'), center section of the orchestra - right behind the seats reserved for the press and other VIPs.

As the musicians came out to warm up, we took turns pointing out different instruments to Petunia. 'Look! There's a big, tall bass!' 'Do you see the white rings on the tops of the bassoons?' 'Look at how shiny the black piano is.'

When the vocalists came out (the creator/lead vocalist and four professional soloists), the music began. And Petunia was rapt. Well, okay, we were, too.

The self-proclaimed 'Big Wig' Richard Perlmutter had a great voice in person. Very animated, slightly goofy...perfect for the material. You could tell he wasn't used to performing for a crowd this size (I would guess there were probably 1000 kids and adults in attendance) and he admitted that he rarely performed with a full orchestra. His gestures and movements were a little stiff and rehearsed, but he warmed up quite a bit by the end of the performance.

Mr. Perlmutter (as Petunia referred to him) did some of the Valentine family favorites, like 'Franz Liszt, the Famous Pianist,' 'Haydn's Great Surprise,' 'It's the Same Every Verse,' and 'Please Do Not Tease the Viennese.' The professional soloists were amazing, especially the soprano, Elin Carlson. The orchestra members clearly enjoyed the hell out of this performance. There was one violinist who was could not contain her delight at the fun lyrics, and the bass player who was featured in 'A Manly Man' from the new CD had a spectacular time doing his duet with the bass vocal soloist.

But the best part of the performance by far was watching the folks two rows ahead of us. Prior to the start of the concert, I noticed them. Four adults - two senior citizens, one middle-aged woman and one old teenage boy. They had no child with them. And they were sitting in seats that had been reserved. And they kept turning around periodically to express wonder, amazement and excitement at the growing crowd.

'Honey,' I whispered, 'I think that's his family.'

And sure enough, it was. Once Mr. Perlmutter came out on stage, I thought these people were going to explode out of their seats with pride. They were singing along all the lyrics and applauding like mad after every song. And Mr. Perlmutter pointed them out when he introduced 'A Fan of Chopin,' which he dedicated to his mother. (The lyrics to this wonderful short piece are 'My mother was a fan/ Of music by Chopin/ She played the piano while/ We sat on the divan/ On Sunday afternoon/ I still recall the tune/ A prelude by Chopin/ It ended far too soon.')

At the end of the performance, Mr. Perlmutter got the audience to its feet and had the Meyerhoff staff turn up the house lights. Everyone was invited to spread out in the aisles and can-can to Jacques Offenbach. Mr. Perlmutter's sister and nephew practically popped their limbs out of joint dancing.

But who could blame them?

Imagine that one of your brothers or uncles is a middling advertising jingle writer in Los Angeles, with a wife and four kids. And one day he gets this goofy idea for lyrics to Beethoven's Fifth Symphony and decides to turn the whole concept into a CD. The CD takes off. It gets Grammy nominations and praise from educators and kids' music critics, and it's such a success that he's able to churn out a second CD. Then that one does well critically and commercially, and before you know it, your brother/uncle has a booming little franchise on his hands and all of a sudden this guy who isn't trained in vocalization AT ALL is standing up on stage with the full-on Baltimore Symphony Orchestra doing lead vocals for a one-hour performance for families.

All in all, I think they were pretty restrained.

Stuffed Animal Soap Opera

With Petunia's demon side rearing its head this week and me fretting over what I'm doing wrong, I've been trying to see the world through her little blue eyes. And, man, it must be kind of a weird place.

Specifically, I think about our house and about her toys and stuffed animals and about the twisted mythos that we have created about them.

Since Petunia was born, Basil and I have taken great delight in playing pretend with Petunia and trying to bring her playthings to life for her. But while we pat ourselves on the back for being clever, I don't know whether we're really doing damage to her little blank slate of a brain.

When I was home on maternity leave, I was getting pretty damn bored in the last few weeks (I was home with Petunia until she was sixteen weeks old). We had a routine, I didn't feel overwhelmed and stressed out, and I was totally over the repetitiousness of every day. So I started to create a little soap opera world with all the slightly creepy yet ultimately cuddly kittens, bears, dollies and other creatures that sat on the nursery bookshelf, staring out with their vacant beady or sewn eyes.

First, all the critters got names: Ms. Kitty, Captain Bear-a-Lots, Mr. Pinkerton, Polly and Dolly (twins), Hervé, Mr. Butterfly and Paolo the Polar Bear, to name a few. Then, they all got back stories:

Captain Bear-a-Lots was a grizzled (get it? get it?) old war veteran who, after his navy career, founded a detective agency with Ms. Kitty and Mr. Pinkerton called BPK Investigations. They would locate lost toys.

Polly and Dolly were the Hilton sisters of the nursery, who were always playing tricks on people because Polly's shirt said 'Baby Doll' so they would assume SHE was Dolly. Oh, those vixenous twins.

And then there was Hervé, the token gay stuffed animal in the room. He's a pink elephant. Maybe he's a log cabin Republican, too! I don't think he ever found anyone to hook up with, but since Paolo was also Latino, I think they at least shared something in common.

For Petunia's first birthday, I got her two Peepers whom Basil and I named Stanley (the sheep) and Imelda (the mouse). They have sort of a Jack and Meg White vibe, like you're not sure if they're half-siblings or a couple or what.

Then, sometime after Petunia got old enough to eat all table food at meals and really mess herself up in the process, we discovered that we needed a gimmick to get her buy-in for the clean-up process. Enter Monsieur Washcloth, the English-speaking dishtowel with a heavy French accent and a penchant for kissing toddler girls all over their dirty little cheeks and fingers.

Add in Spot the Leopard (a plush version of the protagonist in Put Me in the Zoo), all the Fisher Price Little People that Petunia received for her second birthday and the two Cabbage Patch Dolls, four Playhouse Disney plush friends and three My Little Pony's that she got for Christmas last year, and our house is full of anthropomorphic animals and objects.

When it was just Basil and I bringing them to life, it was funny. (Says Paolo: 'Oh, hello, Imelda! What are you doing on this side of the nursery...near Mr. Pinkterton's shelf? And why are your glasses all askew? Oohhhhhhh...well...then, enjoy your walk of shame, you JEZEBEL!')

But when Petunia started giving voice to her animals and critters, it was cute. For awhile, like poor Melissa Summers, she couldn't really get past, 'Hi. I'm Spot the Leopard. Hi.' But now, she's really taken off with the stuffed animal soap opera.

And - in a disturbing twist that we certainly never saw coming - Petunia has grown very attached to M. Washcloth. She asks for him. She hugs him. She talks to him like he's a real...washcloth...with thoughts and feelings and opinions and such. She gives him drinks of juice and water. When he's done kissing her face and hands clean after dinner, she says, 'Okay, see you later, Mister Washcloth!'

Dear God, what have we done to this poor child? Maybe we really have created a monster!

Petunia the Perp

We've been having a bit of a bad week here at Chez Valentine. Every afternoon for the past three days, Basil and I have gone to retrieve Petunia's 'daily report' from her preschool cubby and found an 'incident report' folded up and taped there.

Seems our dear, sweet, blue-eyed little girl has been puttin' the smack down on her classmates. So far, she has bitten a child (and broken the skin! no fucking around from our little angel), tried to bite another child, hit a kid on the head with a toy cash register and smacked another kid upside the head with a paper towel roll while yelling, 'Stop looking at me!' (The teachers report the other kid was not even looking in her direction.)

Now, in Petunia's defense, it has been almost three days since her last poop, and I find that when she forces herself to carry a giant, hard, three-day-old turd in her lower intestines, she is usually not in a very good mood. However, that would only explain her bad behavior in the past day. Or maybe two days. But when the fun started on Monday with her Jaws impersonation, there was no constipation to be blamed.

Each day that Petunia attacks, she is sent to the director's office for a time out and a talking-to. Then, that evening, we spend about 15 minutes discussing her behavior with her. And we reinforce our three rules: 'No biting. No hitting. No pushing.' And we tell her that it's okay to be mad at people, but she has to use her words. And Petunia proudly parrots back, 'No biting, no hitting, no pushing. I no do it ANYMORE.'

I'm starting to get a little worried. I mean, she's only been at this school for two and a half months. I'm paranoid that we're going to get a call from the director telling us that Petunia is a liability and we have to find somewhere new for her.

And, even worse, is that I've really been questioning myself as a mother. She's past the two-and-a-half mark, so she should be growing out of this, right? Am I doing something that she's modeling? Is there some sort of conflict or unhappiness that she's picking up at home?

I'm kind of at a loss here, and I'm trying not to take it too personally, but it would be easier if we were dealing with one isolated incident. Or even a couple of isolated incidents. But several days in a row of biting and hitting...well, I just don't get it.

The preschool where Petunia is now actually has fewer kids and more space (including outdoor play space) than her previous day care center. So it's not like she's been crammed into some overcrowded classroom and is acting out to her physical surroundings. And the teachers at her school are wonderful. So caring, so attentive. They don't seem to miss anything during the day, so it's not like she's being ignored or overlooked.

And I don't think it's a verbal frustration thing either. Petunia has an amazing vocabulary. She makes up songs and plays pretend with her stuffed animals and dolls (and sometimes with her macaroni noodles, truth be told). She speaks in complete sentences and has an amazing memory for details (like the other day when she totally blew me away by mentioning the crazy biter dog that we met over three months ago at the shelter). I don't think she's biting and hitting because she can't figure out how to communicate.

So I'm at a bit of a loss here. Maybe it's just more of the terrible two's. Or maybe my kid is just Damien. (But, Jesus, I hope not, because that movie had a sequel and it was TERRIBLE, if I remember.)

Overplayed

Upon reading a news story about a little girl who died after pulling her family's television set off its rickety stand and onto herself, Basil and I decided that it was time to retire the Target-brand, fiberboard, assemble-yourself entertainment center that had been with us for five years and two moves.

After a lot of driving and shopping around and measuring the inside of our car, we finally purchased one of these. While it did require some assembly, it is a rock solid piece of furniture that Petunia will be hard pressed to tip over. Until, of course, she's sixteen and full of hormones and teen angst.

However, in the process of looking for something to hold our TV, VCR, DVD player and stereo components, we scored a steeply discounted desk from the Storehouse outlet. Because our old desk was a hand-me-down from Basil's parents and was made in a time before computers, it was completely consumed by a wireless keyboard and mouse, flatscreen monitor and computer speakers. In order for Basil to do any work, he had to use a TV table and balance data books in his lap. Plus, the laminate was cracked and peeling on the top, and the desk looked as old as it was.

In order to get all the media components arranged in the new, larger entertainment center, we needed some new audio cables and a power strip. While at Best Buy, we were overcome by our lack of any new CDs in the past year or two and bought Jet - Get Born, Eminem - Curtain Call, The Flaming Lips - At War with the Mystics and Gorillaz - Demon Days.

I put the new CDs on the dining room table next to the three new magazines that had arrived in in the past two days.

And then at dinner, we were weighing whether or not we should just get over ourselves, cancel Netflix and get TiVo like Elizabeth suggested, as others have over the years.

My point here is (and God bless you if you're still hanging in there) I'm not even getting paid to plug in like dooce, yet I'm feeling like I'm on some sort of media plasma donation project. The media is being continually sucked out of me, processed and sent back in for me to reabsorb.

Here's the thing: I don't even own an iPod. Or (as mentioned) a digital video recorder. I only watch three TV shows with any dedication: Grey's Anatomy, Desperate Housewives and 24. In terms of the media available to me, I feel like I'm actually pretty moderate.

But it still feels like I'm drowning in media.

And I kind of like it.

I'm kind of digging sitting here at our new computer desk, blogging and listening to The Real Slim Shady, while Basil futzes with the new media setup in the entertainment center and watches Boston Public. And I plan on browsing my new issues of Health and Real Simple before I turn in for the night.

At what point will my brain explode? And what will Basil write on my tombstone when it does?

The New Phone Books Are Here!!!

Okay, I have admitted before that really bizarre, mundane things like baby names and paint chips give me great pleasure in life. Websites like the Baby Name Wizard NameVoyager make me practically vibrate with excitement. A coworker had her baby yesterday, and while everyone else in the office was like, 'Oh - was it a boy or a girl?', I was all frothing at the mouth to know 'What did they name the baby???'

So, the Friday before Mother's Day is a BIG day for freaks like me. It's the day that the Social Security Administration releases its most popular baby name data from the previous year.

I love to see what's in, as well as what's coming up and what's heading out. I find it fascinating, to see what trends are emerging in baby names. I love to see how celebrities and pop culture influence naming trends, and I love to see where my favorite names fall on the chart.

Before Petunia was born (and here's a disclaimer for all of you that don't know - Petunia is NOT her real name. It's a nickname for one of her three baby alter-egos - Petunia Fussbudget, Julie Droolerson and Farty McSmiles), I felt like the most giant opportunity of our young lives had been bestowed upon me and Basil: We got to choose the name of an actual baby, our baby, who would live with that name and its influence FOREVER. (Or at least until she gets old enough to figure out what family court is and change her name to Joaquin.)

I had a revolving, running short list in my head for years prior to actually getting pregnant. When we found out we were having a girl, my mind started racing with the possibilities. I would mentally weigh them all off and on throughout the day. What did they sound like with our last name? What middle names would go with them? What did the names mean? What nicknames did they have?

But one of the big influentials in choosing our dear Petunia's real name was the Social Security website. See, I have a thing against uber-popular names. It's not that I dislike them (for example, Emma and Abigail are quite lovely); it's that I don't want my kids to grow up with trendy, dime-a-dozen names.

Now, I don't want you to start speculating that Petunia's real name is Astrid or Karis or something I made up on my own, because it's really just a lovely little old lady name (my personal favorite for little girls) that has never made it past about the top 150, in terms of popularity.

As someone who grew up with a name that has barely crested the 150 mark itself, I liked not knowing many people with my name. There were a couple of other girls in my school who shared my name, but I knew very few in college. In my life now, I can think of about two or three other women my age who share my name.

It's the same basic story with Basil's real name (you had no idea we Valentines were such foolers, did you? Ha! Guess what? We're not really Valentines either! Bwwaaahahahahaha!), although his name was a regular in the top 100 in the pre-baby boom years. Only his real name has the added fun of being part of a family tradition, in which the first son is named after the paternal grandfather. The same two names have been alternating on his dad's side of the family for at least four generations, and if we ever have a little XY to call our own, he'll get Basil's dad's name.

Anyway, the point is, our names are both a little uncommon and they always felt a little special to the two of us growing up. We wanted our Petunia to have that experience.

So, we mined the data. We made Excel spreadsheets and graphed the rise or fall of names on our potentials list. If anything had a wild, upwardly-swinging curve or had broken the top 100 list in the past two or three years, it got tossed to the curb. Sadly, we lost a couple of nice names this way - Sophia and Ella.

The first thing I did this morning upon visiting the updated Social Security site was to check and see where Petunia's name fell. I was delighted to see that it slid 33 places this year, out of the top 300.

Woohoo! We picked a winner, Basil!

Who Am I? Why Am I Here?

I'll be the first to admit that being a parent has changed me. I don't think it has made me any less myself, but I'm definitely not living the same lifestyle that I was three, five or ten years ago. Which is not a bad thing.

Sure, I know the names of all the Wiggles. I started a blog with my husband so we could have an outlet for all the conversations and observations we have about Playhouse Disney. I absolutely DIG my seven-passenger Ford Freestyle. And thanks to my daughter's constipation problems, I know the fiber content of every food in the snack aisle.

But aside from a love-hate relationship with the size of my ass, I'm generally pretty comfortable in my own skin. I like my life.

However, sometimes I look around and feel very out of place as a parent. Like reading this New York Magazine article on 'grups.' Yknow, yuppie-hipsters with Peter Pan complexes who dress their kids in Ramones t-shirts.

Okay, I get the whole I-don't-want-to-turn-into-my-parents vibe. And I confess that the word 'mommy' strikes fear in my heart. But I look at those urbane parents with the expensive jeans and strollers, personal technology dripping off of them like charms on a belly dancer, and I think, 'Who are you trying to fool? Yourself?'

I just can't relate to those people. I can't imagine trying to coach my kid to 'develop an aesthetic.' (Someone in the article said that with a straight face about telling his young son that a TV show the kid like, in fact, 'sucked.') Um, how about trying to balance things that make your kid happy with things that make you happy? How about letting your kid develop his tastes and opinions on his own?

So, I'm not a grup. I know that much.

But I also often feel out of place because of my age. Perhaps it's just being in DC, but I feel very young compared to many other moms.

This is probably going to get me flamed for just saying it (but, hey, P.T. Barnum said all publicity is good publicity) but I have a hard time connecting with moms whose kids are the same age as Petunia but are 10, 12 or 15 years older than me. I know a lot of people are having children later and later in life for various reasons like getting married later, encountering fertility problems, establishing their careers first, etc. BUT it doesn't change the fact that a lot of women with toddlers or preschoolers in my church or my neighborhood are in their early 40s - which is closer to my mom's age (she's 54) than mine.

Yes, Internet, I am 29 years old - officially a baby. I got married when I was 24, and I had Petunia one month after my 27th birthday. I've been out of college just less than nine years. Some of the women on my local working moms listserv talk about working on Capitol Hill during the Reagan years, and I think, 'Hmmm...I was in elementary school then.'

I'm not making a judgement; I'm just saying it's hard to connect with someone who has decades of professional and personal life experience under her belt when I still feel very much like I'm just getting going in most aspects of my life.

So I'm not a grup, and I'm way younger than a lot of my counterparts.

I feel like there's some sort of thematic framework guiding the decisions I make about my life and about parenting my child. But I don't know that I could crystallize my thoughts into a philosophy, like Rod Dreher. I found myself amused by the Post's recent article on the 'crunchy con' phenomen, but I didn't really identify with the crunchy-conservative philosophy. Parts of it seem too crunchy for me, and parts of it too conservative.

I guess it's okay to not really identify with a group or be part of a movement. Who knows...maybe I'm part of a giant silent minority that hasn't been profiled by some trend-mining pop culture media outlet. It just seems like I have an easy time realizing what I'm NOT as a parent, but I'm having a hard time putting into words what I AM.

Does anybody else out there feel the same way?

The Couple That Blogs Together...

I've mentioned before that we're Playhouse Disney people. A lot of people get here by Googling something to do with the Higglytown Heroes. Or the Little Einsteins.

We don't have digital cable, so there's no Noggin in our cable subscription. Basic cable + two-and-a-half year old = Playhouse Disney in the morning.

Well, Basil and I have gotten a little more into the lineup of shows than we ever thought we would back in the day when we were like, 'What's the guy in the red shirt's name? Martin? Munson? Murray?'

I must confess that when on business travel, I sometimes flip on The Disney Channel to see what adventures Annie, Leo, June and Quincy are having. It is somehow comforting in the morning when I'm away from my family - knowing that we're watching the same thing, hundreds of miles apart.

And the other morning Basil turned on the TV while Petunia and I were still downstairs having breakfast. While he had intended to watch The Weather Channel, he ended up getting sucked into Bear in the Big Blue House. Of course, it might have been one of the new episodes (the first in nearly three years!), so who could blame him?

Anyway, in admitting our affection for the cartoon characters on local channel 44, Basil and I decided that we should combine our talents to fill a gaping void in the blogosphere. Besides, we thought it would be fun to tag-team a blog together. So...

You are cordially invited to the debut of Playhouse Disney Shuffle - all things Playhouse Disney, all the time.

It's okay; this is your space where you can admit you watch it, too.

Cinco de Musings

We got the contents of our liquor cabinet back just in time...Viva Cinco de Mayo, people!

In reality, I can still hear that bottle of Sauza Gold laughing at me from the box on the kitchen counter where it is waiting to be unpacked with the other, friendly liquors (like Tanqueray and Skyy Vodka), so I don't think I'll be having any margaritas tonight. Besides, Petunia and I had turkey soft tacos for dinner last night, and I don't want to go overboard.

Seriously, though, I think it's really interesting that the immigration debate is so intense right now, as tonight half the country will try to decide whether they want theirs frozen or on the rocks.

Moxie had a TERRIFIC post about explaining the immigration issue to her young son, and I plan on blatantly stealing her 'let's name everyone we know who's an immigrant' game when Petunia is just a little bit older and understands a bit more.

But for now, I am just really happy that we'll be able to play that game with ease. I'm happy that Petunia is growing up around people who ARE immigrants and, more importantly, people who are different from her.

I grew up in the whitest of white bread towns - a small, tony northern Kentucky suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio. While my school was public, it was only for the city where I lived, which was small and middle to upper-middle class. And white. I graduated with 61 people, and about 20 of us had been in the same school together since kindergarten. (Did I mention everyone was white?)

When I was a junior in high school, I went to Homecoming with 'the black guy' in the senior class. Literally, he was the only African-American student in his entire grade. My grade had no black students, and I don't think the two grades below me did either. When Jocardo graduated that year, the local newspaper ran a story about the fact that Jo would be the first African-American student to graduate from my school in its 100+ year history.

I graduated with no Latinos. We had one Arab-American in our class (whom I went to another big dance with...what was it with me and the minorities???) and one or two Asian-Americans. One student in my 61-person class was Jewish.

When I headed off to Ohio University, things got a little more diverse. All of a sudden, I had friends who were involved in the Asian-Pacific American Student Association. There were whole organizations for African-American students. While the campus was majority white, it wasn't as lily white as northern Kentucky.

Moving to DC, though, really threw me into the melting pot. I can't think of a part of the world that is not represented here, at least in some small way. Around the metro region, there are pockets of concentrated immigrant communities like Koreatown in Annandale and Arlandria-Chirilagua in northern Alexandria. And there are really eclectic diverse neighborhoods like Adams Morgan in DC.

It's a far cry from northern Kentucky, for sure.

But even here in the DC suburbs, it would be easy to stay white. In fact, one of the few complaints I have about the house we moved into last year is that the neighborhood is not very diverse. Which is why diversity was something we valued highly when searching for a new preschool for Petunia.

At the daycare center where Petunia had been since she was an infant, almost 100 percent of the staff was Latina, which was nice because Petunia was exposed to a different language and culture. We wanted to build on that experience, not steer away from it. We looked at a couple of different schools in Alexandria and in the end settled on Children's International School. It's NAEYC-accredited, and both the students and the teachers/administrators represent a wide swath of races, ethnicities and religions. It's also really socio-economically diverse.

If my mother had tried to play Moxie's game with me when I was little...well, I'm not sure who would have been on the list. But when the day comes to play the game with Petunia, we will be able to name plenty of folks. That thought makes me happy to be raising my child here in DC.

And I watch the immigration debate boil, I think about all the people that would disappear from our lives if they were suddenly forced to leave or had never been allowed to come at all. Our lives would be radically different with no immigrants.

But my friends and family back in northern Kentucky? Would their lives be so different? Probably not. And I guess that's part of why there are two very fervent sides to this debate.

My Hackles Are Up

I've already written about how I'm terrified of having to deal with mommy politics when Petunia gets old enough to attend elementary school and participate in organized activities. (I'm halfway through Rosalind Wiseman's book 'Queen Bee Moms & Kingpin Dads,' and it's interesting reading. Review to come soon.)

However, I never thought that adopting a dog would catapault me into another world of catty, petty snarkiness: Dog Owner Politics.

Anyone who casually reads the news probably is aware that there are certain breeds with bad reputations: Pit Bulls, Dobermans, German Shepherds and Rottweilers, to name a few. (My sister and brother-in-law have a Rottie, who is the SWEETEST dog you will ever meet. He's mellow and gentle, and he makes me wonder what all the hooplah about Rotties is.)

But in the world of dog owners, things are more complex than a few breeds getting a bad rap from the media.

First, there is definitely a big dog-small dog divide out there. When I'm out walking Lilah and we run into someone with a Pomeranian, Dandie Dinmont or Cocker Spaniel, the other dog's owner is almost immediately wary of Lilah. (I think it's partly because she's 50 pounds and partly because she's jet black. Something about a big black dog scares people.) When his little pooch sniffs my big dog, it's fine and cute, but when Lilah leans over to sniff the little dog's butt (which, if you don't know, is how dogs greet each other and check each other out), the dog owner often makes a noise like 'Ah, ah, ah!' or says 'Hey there!' as though my dog is doing something wrong.

She's just sniffing, you jerk! That's what dogs do. All of them, whether they weigh 10 pounds or 100 pounds. They sniff butts. Get over it that my dog's muzzle is the size of your dog's butt.

After the initial butt-sniff, which dog usually starts growling and snapping (if it happens)? The little one. Pretty much every time. And then when Lilah gets defensive or scared and barks back or snaps, the other owner yanks his dog away and shoots me a dirty look like I'm walking a rabid wolf.

Ummmm....hello???? Just because your dog is a little ankle biter doesn't give her the right to be aggressive. And if another dog snaps at my dog, Lilah has every right to bark or snap back or otherwise try to defend herself. I'm not saying I'm going to stand there and let a dog fight break out, but you can't expect my dog NOT to react when another dog is being aggressive towards her!

Second, beyond the big dog-small dog divide are the people who get mad at dog owners when their dogs simply behave like dogs. It's one thing if we're at the dog park and there's a dog that's being really aggressive and/or dominant toward all the other dogs and his owner has his face buried in the Washington Post and is ignoring his dog's behavior.

But it's another thing if Lilah is walking on leash and she meets another dog walking on leash and something goes awry. It happens. As much as some owners like to treat their dogs like people, they're fucking dogs! They have a different way of communicating, socializing and interacting. We can train them and domesticate them as much as we want, but every once in a while, when a dog meets another dog on the sidewalk, they're not going to be perfectly behaved.

This has happened twice to us in the past couple of weeks with two different dogs. Lilah was on leash as we walked past another dog sitting on the sidewalk on leash while his owner was talking or was walking towards us on leash with his owner. Both times, Lilah walked up to the other dog, and within seconds, the other dog lunged and snapped and tried to bite Lilah. Both times, the other dog's owner immediately pulled their dog away, apologized and asked if Lilah was alright. I smiled and said, 'Yes - she's fine,' and just kept going. I mean, it just happens.

But two of our dog-owning neighbors have decided that they don't like Lilah. The lady next door has a little hyper, yippy Jack Russell Terrier, who barks at Lilah as much as Lilah barks at him. However, whenever Lilah barks, the bitch next door always says with the most fake, saccharine-y smile you can imagine, 'She has SUCH a big bark.' Which is clearly (borrowing from Rosalind Wiseman here) codespeak for 'She is such a loud, aggressive dog. I wish you would control her.'

Our other neighbor, two doors down, whom I actually like and - oddly - work with professionally sometimes, has a Beagle-German Shepherd mix. Again, Lilah barks at him sometimes when they walk by.

However, with both dogs, Lilah has NEVER snapped or snarled or gotten down into an aggressive stance. Sometimes she has good interactions with both dogs, and sometimes she barks at both dogs. That's it.

Last night, Basil was walking Lilah with her Gentle Leader, which is more effective and humane than the chain choke collar we were using, and he ran into both neighbors out with their dogs. The bitchy neighbor asked if Lilah was wearing a muzzle because she gotten out of control. The non-bitchy neighbor said that it looked like the hair on her neck, a.k.a. the hackles, was standing up, which is a sign of fear and/or aggression.

Basil told the bitch that it wasn't a muzzle, it was a Gentle Leader, recommended by our vet and our dog trainer to help with leash pulling, and he pointed out to the non-bitch that the hair on Lilah's next was sticking up because her collar was forcing it that way. Basil reports that Lilah went on to have good interactions with both the Jack Russell and the Beagle/Shepherd, but it's very clear that those neighbors think we're keeping Cujo in our house.

Which. Just. Pisses. Me. Off.

Lilah is a sweet dog, who loves attention and affection and puts up with Petunia being overly rambuctious with her way too often. She generally does well with other dogs and has a couple of 'dog friends' in the neighborhood, with whom she ALWAYS gets along well. Lilah rarely barks when she's in the house, so it's not like she's making a bunch of noise that's getting under anyone's skin. So I really, really resent the cold shoulder and the snide comments and the rude looks.

I guess being a dog parent out on the social circuit is good preparation for being a parent out on the social circuit. There are going to be self-righteous assholes out there who are going to get under my skin, I'm sure, and it's going to be really hard not to get caught up in playing their reindeer games or caring what they think.

With Lilah, we want to make sure that she is adequately socialized with other dogs, so we'll continue to walk her and let her interact with other dogs she meets on leash. And despite having had some mixed experiences with dog parks, we will try to go back there periodically to let her interact in a less constrained environment.

But I haven't figured out yet how to deal with the dog owners.

Except, of course, to blog about them. 8-)

Operation Sober Grandpa

The thing about having your bipolar (sorry - did I forget that part?) alcoholic father stay with you for three and a half days is that it REALLY makes you want to drink. But there's no alcohol in the house because your dad is an alcoholic! But because he's a bipolar alcoholic, you REALLY want a drink! But there's no alcohol in the house because...

You get it. It's been a long weekend.

However, Operation Sober Grandpa was a success! At least, I think it was. For the part that mattered anyway (when he was watching Petunia while we were at the wedding).

A big thanks to Mozo and his roommate Mr. Durden for taking care of Lilah while we went to the wedding on Saturday. And an ESPECIALLY big thanks to Prurient's husband (whom I don't believe has an online handle) for stepping in at the last moment to 'bump into' my dad and Petunia at the restaurant where they were having dinner. We plan on having a success party for all our accomplices very soon.

Despite a shaky beginning to the visit (see my comment on the last post), everything seemed to be relatively okay during Dad's stay. He didn't order any alcohol in front of us, and he didn't drink more of that Nyquil than he should have.

I think he managed to get sloshed on Saturday night, though - AFTER we were home from the wedding and in bed.

See, after obstinately taking Petunia to a local pizza parlor for dinner in the stroller (so much for our plan to keep him at home by cutting off access to the cars), they 'stopped at the 7Eleven for an ice cream.' Well, we have ice cream at home; why would they need to stop for more ice cream? It's not like 7Eleven has a scoop shop in the back. They've got a teeny case of Haagen Dazs bars. Hmmm...oh, right - 7Eleven sells alcohol!

When we came home from the wedding, Dad was definitely sober. However, when we went to bed that night, he stayed up late (as he did every night) and came to bed long after Basil and I were asleep. When Petunia was crying frantically at 4 am with a nightmare or something, I raced into her room. On the way in, I noticed that the baby gate at the top of the stairs was not closed, which is odd because we always close it and Dad knows that and he made a point of closing it all the other nights that he came to bed later than us. Also, the guest room door was wide open. Dad appeared to be asleep on the guest bed, but he was not moving at all - despite the fact that Petunia was crying wildly and loudly in the room next door. The next morning, he was up for a walk before any of us, and - I'm guessing - disposing of any evidence.

After calming Petunia down at 4 am, I was tempted to go down into the basement and scope around for empty bottles or cans, but in the end, I thought, Who cares? I mean, we know he has a drinking problem, and there's a very good chance that he bought some hooch at 7Eleven when we weren't supervising him. However, he didn't drink it while he was watching Petunia, and he didn't drink it in front of us. He didn't do or say anything to hurt anyone, and he didn't break or screw up anything in our home.

To quote one of my favorite advice columnists, Carolyn Hax, in yesterday's paper: '[W]hen you're already right, you're not going to improve the situation by being extra super mega right.'

So I went back to bed.

Dad left this morning, a flurry of manic energy. Basil and I breathed the world's most audible sigh of relief when he headed into the Metro station. Petunia gave her Grandpa a big hug and kiss goodbye when we all dropped her off at preschool this morning, as I think she truly had a good time this weekend.

And that's what we were hoping for. A weekend of good solid, clean memories with my dad that will leave a positive impression on her. There may come a day in 15, 20 or 25 years when Petunia hears some of the sordid details of her grandfather's existence. But as a child, she shouldn't have to deal with my dad at his worst. This weekend, Grandpa was sober, and he and Petunia had fun.

And tonight Basil and I plan on having a nice Claret to celebrate.