Color My Kitchen

For the past couple of weeks, I have been napping on my kitchen counters, resting my cheek on the cool new stone that was recently installed (Baltic Brown, if you're curious). Basil and I debated granite samples for a few days before settling on our choice, but we couldn't imagine what the room would look like with the stone. I was totally smitten from the minute the workers told me that the plumber would be by soon to connect the sink and don't touch the seams for at least 24 hours. I loved my kitchen even when it had white laminate countertops, but now I'm head over heels.

Call me a size queen. The kitchen in our old house was an 8' x 10' galley, with a teeny refrigerator and hardly any work space. Our current kitchen is 10' x 19' and includes a breakfast area. It's basically divided in half, with one end being a U-shaped configuration of cabinets, appliances and a sink and the other end a space for a table and chairs. There may not be a fancy island or peninsula, but there is a classic kitchen triangle. This means that prepping and cooking is easy, and guests can hang out in the breakfast area while Basil and I work.

When we moved in almost two years ago, we were ecstatic at the space. We came from a house where almost half our kitchen stuff was stored in the basement laundry room. The insides of the kitchen cabinets at the old place were configured like a Tetris puzzle, stacks of bowls practically interlocked with pilsner glasses and measuring cups. You couldn't get anything out without getting out two or three other things, too.

So the idea of a pantry practically made us wet our pants. We just about died at the thought of being able to stack salad bowls separate from cereal bowls and having every kitchen tool we own within arms reach.

And the space has been wonderful. But we've mostly been living with the 'builder basics' that were put in the house when it was built sixteen years ago: white laminate countertops, oak cabinets without hardware, crappy stove and even crappier microwave. The previous owners did add a terrific bottom-freezer refrigerator and a very quiet dishwasher, but the sink and faucet they added were terrible. I hated that white ceramic sink with every fiber of my being. It never looked clean, even when it was.

But now? Now my sink and counter never look dirty, even when they are.

We went with a Silgranit sink in anthracite, with a nine-inch basin on one side and 20-inch basin on the other. Because it's an undermount sink that's already almost ten inches deep, we've got about eleven or twelve inches of clearance from top of counter to bottom of sink. You can stack a whole meal's worth of dishes in there and not see it from the doorway of the kitchen.

And the Blanco faucet? It has a spray that is powerful enough to pressure wash our back deck. Too bad the hose isn't longer. We were nervous about going with the black faucet, but it just blends into the counters and you don't even notice it.

We were nervous about how the changes would look with our cabinets, which are raised panel oak. Nothing fancy and certainly not trendy, but in very good shape and not worth $10,000 to replace just for looks. So we tried to decorate around them. The granite ties in the black appliances to the oak cabinets. And the new light fixture I installed in the fall (in old brass finish) matches the hinges that are exposed on the cabinets.

Continuing to ride the momentum that has built up, we finally found some hardware to install on the cabinets that will match the hinges and light fixture and not look like they're whatever the builder could find cheapest at Home Depot.

And now I am jonzing to paint. People who know me well or have read this blog for awhile know that I love to tape up paint chips. We want to replace the red and ashy white (there's one accent wall that's red, but the soffits above the cabinets are red, too. Everything is this yucky white that doesn't match the warm tones in the room at all.

I'd like to do the kitchen in cozy, food-related shades, and I'm thinking brown. I'm thinking a nice, almond for the space between the cabinets and counters and the inside of the entrance to the kichen, and I'm seriously considering a nice, medium brown everywhere else. Something caramel-y, that looks like coffee with a few splashes of cream in it. The color of pecans. Soothing, comforting foods.

I have the almond picked out and we settled on a brown (Maryville Brown, from Benjamin Moore), but now I'm getting cold feet. Is this the craziest idea ever? Our kitchen gets pretty good light from a sliding glass door in the breakfast area and a double window above the sink, and the ceilings are nine feet.

Will we have to repaint in a few years if I turn my kitchen into the inside of a teacup? Tell me if I'm wacky here!

Parenting Bites

One of the things that I have been learning through therapy is that I don't trust myself very much. I may come off with a bit of swagger and bravado, but deep down, I don't have a lot of confidence in myself.

In the past 24 hours, I have really been questioning my ability to parent well.

Yesterday, around 4:15, I got a Phone Call. As a parent, my heart just sinks when I hear the crisp German accent of Petunia's preschool director. I've either got a sick kid or a kid who's in big trouble. Yesterday, it was big trouble.

'Merseydotes, I'm afraid I'm going to need you to come to school and pick Petunia up right away. She has bitten another child, this time hard enough to break the skin. When I told her that what she did hurt the other child very much, Petunia responded that it would be okay if she said she was sorry and made the child a card. So, she needs to see the severity of this situation.'

I had been praying not to receive this phone call for two months. In January, just after my trip to Ft. Lauderdale for business and a little bit of pleasure, Petunia went through a rough spell at school, which the school social worker thinks was caused by the shakeup in routine. (Awesome. My business travel causes Petunia to act out at school. Mommy of the Year right here, folks!) Her teachers told us that she was very aggressive and agitated all week, and the bad karma culminated in Petunia biting one of her little friends on the thigh. She did not break the skin but she left a teeth mark-shaped bruise. We tried to do the 'pay attention to the victim' thing by forcing Petunia to make an I'm Sorry card, which she gave to the little victim/friend the next morning.

But apparently that message got convoluted into Petunia thinking that biting someone is no big whoop as long as you make a card afterward.

So yesterday when the 3s/4s class was out at the playground and this little quiet girl - who has these enormous sad puppy dog eyes - was standing on the ladder where Petunia wanted to be and wouldn't give her spot up when Petunia said she wanted it, Petunia attacked. She bit little MK right through her jacket. I saw the mark.

When Basil and I arrived at the school to pick Petunia up, MK was waiting in the office too. And she looked so scared and hurt. She's only been at this school a month or so, and here she is being attacked. By my child. Last night when I was driving home from teaching class, MK's big sad eyes kept flashing in front of my face, and I nearly cried.

All night and all morning, I have been wondering, Are we too hard on her? Are we too easy? Do I inadvertently model bad behavior? Is a big preschool bad for her? If I stayed home, would we be having this problem?

And then Gus throws me some highlights from a New York Times story about how being in day care makes kids misbehave up until sixth grade. (Sidebar: I am sick of the New York Times. Yellow journalism at its finest, especially when it comes to women and mothers. They are the most pot-of-shit stirring media outlet out there, even more so than Meredith Viera.)

So I am feeling pretty crummy lately, wondering if I'm raising a monster or if I'm just a bad parent. Or maybe I have a normal kid and I'm a good mom and we're just going through a bad spell.

I talked to our pediatrician on the phone this morning (if you live in northern VA and don't have a pediatrician who will get on the phone with you for ten or fifteen minutes when you have pressing questions, then I highly recommend Children's Medical Associates), and she was not especially bothered by the whole thing. She thinks we ought to be on the offensive, telling the school that they had better watch our daughter carefully to help catch her before she bites anyone. She thinks that our daughter is just having a tough time handling big emotions, and that's perfectly normal for a 3 1/2 year old. And that is somewhat comforting.

But it is so hard being the parent of a biter. Everyone wants to beat your ass, and you feel alternately like fighting back and putting your tail between your legs in shame. I was half-expecting that the director would tell us this morning that MK's parents had insisted Petunia leave the school. If Petunia had never been a perpetrator and only a victim, I might have felt that way. I didn't see MK when we came into school, and I wonder if she will be there today. The poor thing looked so traumatized. By our daughter.

The pediatrician did not think that Petunia needed to see the child development specialist on staff, which is comforting because my mind has been swimming with the thought of child psychiatrists, play therapy and the hassle of getting Petunia into another full time preschool. Maybe I just need to learn to trust that I'm doing a good job and - as Cesar Milan would say - send calm assertive parenting vibes.

Scold Petunia Once, Shame on You...Scold Petunia Twice, You're a...

What is it with me? What kind of vibe do I send out that says, Come discipline my kid for me! Apparently, we should never go to parties because parties are where the trouble is. In college, it was always good, fun trouble, but as the mother of a preschooler, it's apparently all bad trouble all the time.

This morning started off so well. Petunia had her first ever ballet class. It went so well. The teacher was very good, and Petunia was absolutely rapt. She paid attention to every move the teacher made, and she mostly followed the instructions. See how cute she is? (Ahem, Xiobhan.)



After ballet class, Petunia TOOK. A. NAP. Seriously, I don't think I can remember the last time Petunia napped on the weekend. She has been a spotty napper since her second birthday, and on Saturdays and Sundays we usually just have 'quiet time,' in which Petunia lays in bed and sings to herself for an hour and a half while I clean the house and drink in peace.

So the karma was incredible today. Everything was going swimmingly. The birthday party Petunia was invited to was a tea party, and the honoree's mother explicitly asked the guests to come in dresses, jewelry, hats, gloves and tiaras. She might as well have asked the Huns to rape and pillage, so palpable was the glee. (That sentence was my dooce impression for the day.)

Petunia got dolled up in a very fancy, ruffled, flowered dress, and I put on a dress, too. When we arrived at the party, Petunia joined the other girls at the table to have tea sandwiches, cookies and tea. Then the sugar high kicked in and the kids shot through the house like Mentos mixed with Diet Coke.

There was one little boy at the party, apparently the brother of one of the guests, probably about six or seven years old. He was wearing black pants, a white button-down and a black vest, and the hostess had him play waiter at the beginning of the party, passing out treats to the girls in their 'gowns.' As he was serving the girls, he also was making funny faces and comments. Petunia, always one to fawn over the big kids, totally latched onto him and lit up with laughter every time he came into the room.

'Here's that funny guy! Look, he's so funny!'

Pretty much, that's Petunia's highest compliment. If preschoolers could flirt, that's how Petunia would do it. Except that the boy and his mother didn't see it that way.

After about the third time of Petunia laughing and smiling at the faux-waiter, the kids broke up to go do other things and the mother turned to me.

'I told her to stop laughing at him, just so you know. He really was getting offended and so when she was laughing just now, I did this [wags finger back and forth and empahtically whispers the word 'NO!']. Just wanted to let you know.'

I just kind of mumbled, 'Oh, okay. Ummm....huh. Okay. Sorry, I don't think she meant to offend him.'

But for the rest of the party, I deliberately avoided this woman and made sure Petunia steered clear of the thin-skinned elementary school boy. As the afternoon passed, my temper rose. I really think that the mother overreacted. I mean, she agreed to let her son serve as a waiter for a bunch of preschool and young-elementary-aged girls at a birthday party.

Also, what kind of mother doesn't recognize that a three and a half year old doesn't have the mastery of nuance and verbal communication that a six year old has? Couldn't she have tried to broker some peace, telling her son that this little girl thought he was really funny? Or said in a nice voice to Petunia, 'Honey, he thinks that you're being mean to him. Could you not call him "funny guy" anymore?'

But instead, I got the know-it-all bitchiness that comes with the finger wag directed at my kid.

I really don't get it. In the past few months, I have had the opportunity to correct other people's kids, and I've done it. At preschool one day, I heard a little friend of Petunia saying, 'Let's go play, Petunia. We don't way to play with HER.' And I got down on the little girl's level and said, 'That's not a very nice thing to say, Susie. If you and Petunia want to play by yourselves right now, that's okay, but you shouldn't make other people feel bad.'

That wouldn't have given me heartburn, if this mother had gotten down on Petunia's level and tried to gently correct her. But standing over her, wagging her finger...it just makes my skin crawl the more I think about it.

Of course, I am writing this after about three Baileys (wait, wasn't St. Patty's Day last weekend?), so maybe I've blown it all out of proportion in my mind. But I can't keep from replaying in my mind what I would have done differently.

Happy Daze, Part II

The life has been sucked out of me for the past few days because of a work conference here in town. I might as well have been traveling, though, for all the time spent away from home. Last weekend was busy, too, and I can't believe it's been more than a week since I've posted something. In the vein of my last attempt at being positive, here are the things that have been keeping me going lately:

Organic almond butter - I've only ever seen this mentioned in health magazines and weight loss websites, as in 'Have a small apple with 2 tablespoons of almond butter smeared on the slices.' And I always thought almond butter must be some sort of grody, paste-tasting crap to get the endorsement of both the weight loss and fitness communities. But I bought a jar during one of my I'm Totally Going to Get Healthy moments a few weeks ago. And WOW! My thighs quiver when I eat this stuff! It is definitely better than peanut butter, and because it's natural it stays just a little goopy. It's excellent on gala apples and on bananas. I lick my fingers afterward like an addict.

Therapy - I've been seeing a therapist once a week for the past six weeks, and it feels like a giant heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I think that talking through all my issues has been helpful because I found a good therapist from the get-go. She keeps me on my toes, and her office is painted a very comforting golden khaki. It also has very flattering lighting and smells pleasant. I feel like she's starting to remember me and my issues really well, and I don't have to remind her of everything I've already said. Spending so much time during the first session just spelling out all my family issues was cathartic. She was scribbling furiously and I periodically interjected, 'Really, I've got DAYS of material here,' and I realized that I'd never laid it all out for anyone before. I definitely feel better going to see her each week and will keep doing it for awhile.

Tanqueray - The temperatures have been a little warmer here, and work conferences mean receptions with open bars. Gin and tonic time! I never really liked gin and tonics before I started dating Basil. I was more of a bourbon and vodka girl. But then Basil showed me that there is nothing quite so refreshing on a hot day as a cool gin and tonic. At our wedding, we served G&Ts with kumquats instead of limes and named our signature drink The Fortunella, which is actually just the genus name for the kumquat plant. So I love it when gin and tonic season rolls around each year. Also, I've been listening to Amy Winehouse lately, and every time she mentions Tanqueray, it's like I'm some sort of stupid Pavlovian dog and I start looking around for the nearest bar.

People who compliment my hair - I've gone a little darker and a little shorter, and I think that my stylist really did a great job. I got gobs of compliments at the Saint Patty's Day party we went to over the weekend, and a lot of people gave me big smiles and compliments at my work conference. One woman felt the need to tell me in her thick Israeli accent, 'Change it back. It's too harsh. It's two shades too dark.' And I did not appreciate that. But everyone else's eyes seemed to light up at the way that I looked, which is a very good feeling.

New bras - If you've ever met me in person, you know that I am well endowed. When I left Capitol Hill, the Senate office where I was working feted me with a little party, at which someone read a fake letter of reference from the Senator praising my 'two tremendous assets.' It is not easy to find something that keeps the girls where they are supposed to be, and I'm probably not helped by the fact that I've never gotten fitted for a good bra. I remember reading about Oprah's bra intervention a couple of years ago, and in the past several months, it has been painfully obvious that I needed a lift. I couldn't bear the idea of spending $50 or $60 per over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, so I scoured the racks at TJ Maxx one afternoon. I'm still not sure whether I have the size right, but my girls are pert and supported like they haven't been in years. When I tried on one of the new bras with a shirt, Basil said, 'Oh my God, is that what they're supposed to look like?' And the best part? It feels better. My back hasn't been bothering me in the past week, and I walk around thinking that I look better. The next time you see me, be sure to compliment my rack.

It's kind of nice to enumerate all the things that have been making me happy lately. It reminds me that my mood is not totally tied to the level of clutter on my dresser or whether or not I've gone for a run in the past week. Maybe I should do this more often.

Junk in My Trunk

This winter, I was exposed a part of society that I knew existed but had never seen up close and in person. It sort of freaked me out. Was it pony play? (Not safe for work if you scroll very far.) Was it a Dr. Who convention? (It's a joke, Basil's friends!) Was it vaginal rejuvenation surgery?

No, it was the trunk show.

The concept of the trunk show is that a woman hosts a sales consultant (or is the sales consultant) in her home for an afternoon or two and displays samples of a line of clothing or beauty products. Or Tupperware. People come to the host's home, peruse the samples and order. Products arrive in a few weeks or months, and the host gets perks for bringing people in to buy, usually free items or discounts.

A couple of years ago, I got an invitation to a trunk show for women's clothes, to be held at the home of a friend of mine from church. I couldn't go, and I remember feeling relieved. Did I want to have to custom order clothes in front of a bunch of women that I hardly knew? How much would I have to spend to fit in? What if I didn't like anything? What if nothing came in my size?

Then in late January, I got an invitation for a trunk show for kids clothing, Just Ducky, to be held by another friend from church. Even though the prices in the catalog made my eyes bug out, I decided that it would be a friendly, keep-the-peace type of thing to go and order a couple things for Petunia.

The fabrics were really nice, and the company allows you to choose any fabric for any style of clothing. So you can say, 'I like the floral print that's shown on this shirt but I want it on that ruffled dress.' And - POOF! - with the flick of a pen, your clothing item is ordered exactly the way you want it.

The 'show' itself was pretty low-stress. There was no one else there when I went to browse and order, and the woman who hosted it also acted as the sales rep and was pretty low-key. She figured out quickly that I wasn't into the uber-preppy stripes, plaids or gingham. When I told her I was mostly interested in church dresses, she didn't try to push me into shirts or capris. (I will choke down spending $50 or $60 on one or two quality church dresses each season, but I won't pay $45 for a shirt or a pair of capri pants that will get ruined the first time Petunia decides to dig for worms on the playground at school.)

Not long after I had given my credit card information to the people at Just Ducky, I got an invitation for another trunk show, hosted by yet another woman from my church with a sales consultant who also goes to my church. (Apparently, I go to St. Trunk Show.) This show was for Pasty Aiken kids clothes. I didn't love the options as much this time around, as you couldn't mix fabrics with clothing styles, and I just didn't think the fabrics were as cute. But again, being polite and friendly, I decided to go.

I felt a little more pressure to buy big this time. The show host and the sales consultant sort of played off each other and would end up sticking two or three things in my face whenever I casually picked something up and said, 'I sort of like this.' There was another woman there while I was shopping, and it got to be a little much, everyone oohing and aahing over the clothes and holding up coordinating pieces. After choosing a swimsuit and a skirt outfit, I ordered her this slightly ridiculous hair bow in the end just because I just thought it would end the parade of accessories.

Having attended two trunk shows so close to one another, I realized there were some interesting similarities.

There is some sort of unspoken conventional wisdom among the trunk show hosts about what types of clothing and fabrics are appropriate for certain ages. When I said I was thinking about a two-piece bathing suit, the Patsy Aiken sales consultant widened her eyes and said, 'I kept my daughter in a one-piece as long as I could. Look how darling these swim dresses are!' I almost ordered a two-piece just to spite her, but then I really did like the smocking on the swimsuit I picked out. The Just Ducky host/consultant thought this fabric was 'too old' for Petunia. I wouldn't put a three-year-old in a bubble jumper, and I wouldn't put a baby in an A-line skirt, but I'm a little stumped as to why a modern circle print is 'too old' for a three-year-old. I think there was a little concern that I went with this outfit, modeled on a six-year-old girl, instead of this more 'age-appropriate' one, modeled by a four-year-old girl, but when the clothes finally arrive, I'll post pictures (Xiobhan!) and you can decide for yourselves.

Both of the women who hosted the trunk shows had oil portraits of themselves as children hanging in their homes. I'm sure the paintings used to hang in the homes of their parents, but who has oil portraits of their kids made? Other than Edward Darley Boit? Apparently, there is a level of old-money Virginia out there that I didn't know about.

The host of the Patsy Aiken party at one point said, 'I hate for Anne to ever wear blue jeans, but I did find these adorable ones with ruffles of grosgrain ribbon that I can stomach!' And I didn't know that there were mothers in the world who abhorred the idea of their daughters wearing denim. I mean, I'm guessing that if Laura Bennett had a little girl, she might ban dungarees from the house, but in the real world, who hates jeans? And who calls them 'blue jeans' like some eighty-year-old plantation heiress?

I can't believe that there are parents out there who outfit their children with these trunk-show brands year-round, though the money dripping from oil portraits may prove me wrong. Heck, even if I had the money to spend on clothes like that for Petunia, I don't think I'd do it. Aside from the fact that many of them are too fussy for my taste, I wouldn't want to send the message that I'm the kind of woman who thinks that preschoolers should never wear two-pieces swimsuits and that I hate for my daughter to wear blue jeans.

The Saddest Friday Night

Basil and I have always talked about the idea of adopting a child or becoming foster parents. We're a little overwhelmed by the options, especially those associated with adoption. International or domestic? Toddler or older child? White kids only or children of another race or culture? And I don't think we're in a position to adopt or foster anytime soon for lots of reasons, many of them financial.

But, boy, were we tempted on Friday night.

We were in Baltimore for the night, enjoying Basil's Christmas present from The Most Awesome Wife in the World: tickets to Spamalot. Because I could only get tickets for a Friday evening show, we decided to stay over in Baltimore. Petunia went to JP's house for the night; Lilah to Mozo's.

The traffic was horrendous getting up to Bal'more, and we made it to the theatre just fifteen minutes before the show was scheduled to start. With no time for dinner, I made do with a gin and tonic and a cookie, Basil with a Jack and Coke. When the performance was over, we checked into our hotel and decided to walk down to the Inner Harbor for something to eat and maybe a few more drinks.

Turns out there are not a lot of places serving dinner at 11:25 pm on Friday nights. We ended up at the Pizzeria Uno in Harborplace, which was pretty empty but was still serving a limited menu at the bar. We ordered drinks and bar food and sat and chatted while we waited for our extremely late dinner.

Sometime around 11:45, we noticed a little girl running around the restaurant. She couldn't have been more than two or two and a half. We winced inside a little at people who would have a preschooler out that late, but we just assumed that her family must be finishing up a very late dinner or maybe her mom was a waitress.

But then her dad came over and sat down right next to me at the bar. He didn't need to sit right next to me. The place was pretty much empty, and the bartenders were starting to close things down for the night. He staggered over with a snifter of something (is it a bad stereotype to assume it was Hennessy?) and plopped down next to me and started watching basketball before he lit a cigarette.

When the little girl, who did not show signs of being tired or cranky - though I have to believe she was running on a second wind and could have crashed at any moment - came over and started calling him Daddy, we knew that this was no exception of a night. The little girl's mother was walking around the restaurant with a drink, too. I'd say both parents were no more than twenty-two or twenty-three.

Basil and I nearly carted her off when her dad picked her up and put her on the barstool next to him, blowing smoke from his cigarette all around her. As he started talking to her, she started yelling, 'Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!' And Daddy just sort of smiled and yelled back, 'No, you shut up!' And it was more than obvious that this is the way that this family talked to each other.

The bartender made him get the little girl off the barstool, telling him that the police 'would write me up in a second for having someone under 18 sitting at the bar.' So the little girl went back to running around, Dad back to his snifter and cigarette, Mom doing God-knows-what.

Basil and I couldn't even speak. We couldn't even continue our conversation because our hearts were breaking for that little girl. We ate and paid our bill quickly and started back to our hotel.

'I just wanted to say to her, "Come with us, just come with us" ' Basil said on the way back to our room. 'I just wanted to scoop her up and take her home with us and move her into our guest room and give her a chance.'

Because, really, that little girl has no chance. It's not going to be her fault when she ends up pregnant as a teenager, racking up a criminal record, dropping out of school, falling in with a guy who abuses her, doing drugs or smoking at age twelve. Who will motivate this girl to learn to read? Who will teach her to have self-esteem? Who will help this little girl find healthy ways to deal with anger, stress or sadness?

I don't know why some parents treat their children the way that this little girl was being treated. Maybe she wasn't being abused, but I would argue she was definitely being neglected. It's not a race thing, it's not a class thing, it's not an age thing. What makes a parent absolve themselves from the responsibility of raising a child? What makes them think it's okay to keep her out until after midnight at a smoky restaurant bar? What makes parents think it's okay to teach their two-year-old to yell 'Shut up!' at anyone?

Maybe this girl does have some sort of a support network...an extended family or neighbors or the social services system looking out for her. Maybe Friday night was a really, really bad night for her parents.

But maybe it wasn't. Maybe this is a little girl who will end up in foster care someday. Could I be a parent, or a foster parent, to her?

Paige had a great post last November about what it takes to be a foster parent. And I know that many of the kids in foster care are sort-of worst case scenarios...those who have suffered the worst kinds of abuse or neglect. Would I have the patience to reverse years of someone else's bad parenting, to teach a child to respect adults and herself and go to bed at a reasonable hour?

There was really nothing to be done on Friday, except eat in silence and say a lot of prayers for that little girl in the blue jeans and the red turtleneck. I hope that she gets a chance someday.

Pulling Back the Curtain

Last weekend, I got to spend some time with two incredible bloggers over brunch. While the kids wreaked havoc and tried to keep the dog from eating their Goldfish, we chatted, drank mimosas and ate sausage casserole and pumpkin bread. We talked about kids and food and rugs and, of course, blogging.

In talking about a lot of different bloggers that we've ever met, known or read, we touched on a few sites that get quite a bit of traffic. Like Sarah and Xiobhan, most of the writers we talked about post pictures of their kids. And I said, 'I just can't imagine what it's like to have some weird people that you don't even know fawning all over your kid, saying things like "My daughter sees the pictures of little Gizmo and just loves them so if you're ever coming down to Anywheresville, just let us know because I'm sure the kids would play so great together!!!" '

And I didn't even think of it at the time, that maybe it sounded like I was looking down my nose at bloggers who DO post pictures of their kids. Literally, it just dawned on me this week that what I said might have been interpreted as a little holier-than-thou. Because that's not at all what I meant.

Really, I think it's weird the way some people sort of get all fanboy about bloggers' kids. Don't get me wrong, there are a LOT of very adorable children on the Internet. And I love to see pictures of them. I like to browse through Flickr pages and smile. I post comments about pictures every now and then (what the kid is wearing at the time or something funny in the background), but I mostly comment about what people write on their blogs.

Basically, I realize there is a line. People who write blogs are not movie stars. They don't have bodyguards, publicists or managers. Even people who write sites that get a LOT of traffic still live in normal houses in regular neighborhoods and go out to dinner as a family. And though their kids may be as cute and you may see their picture as much (or more!) as Suri and Shiloh, bloggers' kids are not celebrities. Not even Trixie MacNeill, not even Leta Armstrong.

Sometimes when I read other people's sites or look through their Flickr pages, it feels like commenters are crowding a velvet rope trying to get noticed and singled out for a smile, an autograph, an acknowledgement, a handshake. They're trying to be the most loyal reader, the happiest person commenting, the one who feels most strongly about how cute the blogger's child is. I think it's creepy.

What I don't think is weird is putting pictures of your kid on your blog. It's a great way to share your family with friends who live far away, and it can be a great way to illustrate what you're writing about. It's also a good chance to show off your awesome photography skills. I haven't posted Petunia photos to date (though I have been considering it) because Basil and I hadn't decided how we feel about strangers seeing our daughter and - the bigger issue - how we feel about the ability of people that we know in the real world to confirm who we are online. More than the photos, we decided that what we write could potentially be problematic, given that neither one of us wants to get dooced anytime soon.

But we talked about it at length and decided that we don't have a problem with showing Petunia's shining visage to the world. I'm not sure we'll set up a Flickr account just yet, because we plan to keep our own stunning mugs to ourselves.

Without further ado, here she is. Prepare to be blinded by beauty.

Oh, that was a horrible tease, wasn't it? We got all dressed up the other night for a 'fancy party' in Petunia's room. That is three-year-old codespeak for putting on every item of dress up clothes that you own and adding some of Mama's old scarves to boot.

Okay, just kidding. Here is a real picture of Petunia, taken on an uncharacteristically warm winter day.

She IS cute, isn't she? Even with the Ugg boots on?

I can't promise lots of photos, but I will make an effort to take more so I at least have some options to choose from.

Now, nobody get all psycho on me.

The Naked Truth About Art for Kids

Following through on my Epiphany resolution to 'do more fun things with Petunia,' the whole Valentine family went to the American Art Museum and Portrait Gallery yesterday. Two museums occupying one building in Gallery Place/Penn Quarter, they were closed to the public for six years while the space underwent a massive renovation.

The new space is phenomenal. It opened to the public last summer to rave reviews. The two galleries are joined on every level, and visitors can wander back and forth between black and white photos of famous figures in American pop culture and history and the riveting Electronic Superhighway: Continental U.S., Alaska, Hawaii.

Petunia really loved the permanent exhibit America's Presidents and delighted passersby with her loud shouting of 'It's our first President, George Washington!' or 'Look, Mama, it's Theodore Roosevelt!' Of course, we shrugged our shoulders at her genius like, What can we do?

Throughout the building there were pictures and paintings involving various levels of nudity. Naked cherubs, The Falling Gladiator, paintings with breasts hanging out, etc. I think it's hard to take a kid to an art museum and not see a nipple. No big whoop.

But when we came upon the Josephine Baker exhibit, Basil quietly steered us away. I was a little puzzled at first - 'Honey, she's seen nipples and penises all afternoon' - but then Basil articulated his concerns more clearly. It's not that he was concerned about nudity, he said, but about the likelihood of lewd, suggestive nudity associated with 1920s Paris.

I guess Josephine Baker made her living being sexy and provocative, though certainly not pornographic. And I doubt any of the pictures would have been mimicking any sort of sex act. But there is something eye-catching - as well as entertaining and enchanting - about a woman wearing nothing more than a banana skirt and a lot of jewelry.

Honestly, Petunia was more struck by what was happening in Helen Brought to Paris, which is arguably more fraught with adult themes, than by the overtly exposed breast of the poet Sappho, so I'm not sure that the Josephine Baker exhibit would have made a big impression. But we skipped it nonetheless.

I'm not sure where I draw the line. When we were walking through the Lincoln Gallery (modern and contemporary art), I prayed that there wouldn't be anything disturbing to a young child. I mean, if they had something like Piss Christ hanging around, they'd have to let people know, right? I really hoped that I wouldn't have to explain anything unsettling that would stick with Petunia in a bad way. There was one video exhibit that had a sign warning that some of the images may be disturbing to young children. Those images will remain a mystery to me because we didn't venture in to see what was on the screen.

Would I take my kid to a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit? No, for the same reasons I wouldn't let her thumb through a Dolce & Gabbana ad campaign. There is just no way to explain what those people are doing in a way that would make sense to Petunia. We haven't had the birds and the bees talk yet because she hasn't asked where babies come from. She doesn't have any compunction about nakedness. How could I explain sex to her, much less eroticism or S&M?

I'm not sure we made the right call yesterday. I think she probably could have handled it. Although, as Melissa Summers will be the first to tell you, if you take your kids to a museum that ends up being a little overwhelming for them, there's just no way of taking it back.

Maybe we made the right call after all.