Airing Out the Winter-Musty Children

In which your humble narrator decamps from the old homestead.

It hit 40 degrees and the sun came out so the children and I left the house on booted feet to inspect the melt in the neighborhood.

Here they are pictured pontificating on some mud. A good time was had by all.

On our way past the local parochial school I overheard one small boy indignantly retort to another, "I'm not a little kid! I'm six and a half, and I play violent video games!"

Babies Watching Babies

In which your humble narrator watches a baby watching babies and loses any sense of perspective.

Child #2 is a far more social animal than Child #1. She smiles at strangers. She's learned all the names of the other little children in her two-day-per-week daycare room. She talks to cashiers. She's simply way, way more into people than Child #1 was as an 18-month-old.

Her most recent favorite pastime involves watching Babies (2010) the Thomas Balmès film about, well, babies. Wife-a-roo found the film on the online streaming section of Netflix and it's been a regular staple for about a week. Particularly in the evening after a hard day of annoying her brother, changing clothes twelve times and spreading filth as far as the eye can see, she toddles up, says "Watcha Baby!" and demands to be placed in lap in front of the computer. She'll usually watch intently for 10-20 minutes as the four babies from far-flung reaches of the globe go through their little baby lives. She's quite approving of the amount of dirt that the African and Mongolian babies get to experience on a regular basis. Another favorite scene is when the little Mongolian chap is taking a bath in a washtub and a friendly goat drops by to drink some of the bath water.

It's clearly animated viewing on Child #2's part. She imitates the babies facial expressions and even describes their emotional states, "Baby sad," or "Baby laugh." In short she's enthralled.

I'm less enamored. I've done a lot of baby-watching in the past three years and frankly I'd rather spend my screen time watching British people being devastatingly cruel to each other or possibly exploding.

Help, help, I'm being oppressed!

In which your humble narrator cogitates on the cruel vicissitudes of life.

I had to help my Mom move at the beginning of the month. My back is ruined. Our house was pummeled by quarter-sized hail and 50 mile per hour winds necessitating a massive insurance claim. We're getting another new roof, new siding and a new garage roof, all before the snow flies (fingers crossed). Child #2 was exposed to Whooping Cough at daycare, probably from some little un-vaccinated kid with jack-ass, hippie parents.

Also this month, I expect to buy a minivan. Life as I have known in is over.

Phoney Quality Time

In which your humble narrator reflects on the plugged-in parents at the playground.

The New York Times ran a story this week about parent using smart phones and ignoring their children. The descriptions of typical interactions largely mirrored the sort of thing I've observed on the playground. Harried parents bring their offspring to the park for some quality time, and spend the entire time on their phones. On a recent morning outing, we arrived at the park to find a mother and a little girl. The mother was on her phone when we arrived, and on her phone when we left 45 minutes later. The little girl was apparently only allowed to play within a 15 foot radius of the mother. One begins to wonder: what is the point? Surely she could ignore her child at home.

Regular readers might expect a full-throttle vitriolic screed at this point. But with an uncharacteristic spirit of charity I have to admit that I understand the impulse. I don't have a fancy phone, but I do stay home with the kids most days while simultaneously trying to "work." Sometimes all I want to do is to have the kids leave me alone for five minutes so I can keep my email inbox down to a manageable size. When classes are in session I make it a point to respond to student emails within 24 hours. This can obviously take up some time during regular childcare hours.

I think part of the issue is that, as parents, we're supposed to be in a state of filial bliss at all times. Certainly the child-centric culture of the past twenty years blares its expectations of personal fulfillment through "parenting."* If your precious little wunderkinds aren't making you happy, well then there must be something wrong with you.

Or not.

Happy Birthday, Baby! And now for some violent purges...

In which your humble narrator celebrates his daughter's existence and spills his guts.

As of last Friday, Child #2 has made the complete circuit around the sun. Feeling ever pressured by society's expectations that we celebrate these sort of milestones by "doing" "something" (other than our regular routine of keeping the children alive and then collapsing into the forgiving, oaky arms of a mid-priced Kentucky Bourbon once they're finally in bed), we organized an extremely modest festival in honor of Child #2's first year.

We invited two sets of friends with children near the same ages as ours (our only local friends with similarly aged children), plus my mother and sister. The children (all falling between 1 and 4 years) played as a group, mostly independently. Food was eaten. Cake was mashed into faces. Fun was had by all until everyone had to go home to take a nap. Child #1, currently suffering from bad pollen allergies, was watery-eyed and full of snot at the end of the party. I trotted out to the local chain apothecary to purchase some antihistamines for his sad looking little self.

Walking back to the car, I thought to myself, "Hrmmm, I feel a little bit queasy. Must have been the cake" (not usually partaking in rich, butter-creamed sugar-bombs). And I went back home.

The next 6 hours are a bit foggy. I know that I completely purged my entire digestive track with a violence best described as "Stalinist." I remember sitting on the potty thinking, "I am going to have a terrible funeral. The Rabbi is going to have to tell everyone that I died from pooping out all of my internal organs. Everyone will be embarrassed."

Child #1 got it and puked all over my house... but I was sick so I didn't have to clean it up. He was so ill that rather than running around as a maniac as per usual, he actually spent most of Sunday in my bed watching Curious George cartoons, at least while we weren't sleeping or he wasn't leaning over to vomit on my pillow.

Needless to say, we survived. It was yet another vile virus brought home courtesy of Wife-a-roo who apparently works in an open sewer staffed by lepers militantly opposed to hand-washing. We're thinking about putting up a decontamination tent in the yard.

In better news, it's the last week of term. By this time next week, I should be free and unencumbered by undergraduate papers for at least 4 weeks. Now about writing that dissertation...

Spring Sprang Sprung

In which your humble narrator remarks on the seasonal madness of Minnesotans.

This is the first March in the Twin Cities in 675 years of record-keeping (since the reign of King Thorbjorn the Unresponsive) that there has been no snow. As I sit tapping out this this sentence at 8:52 a.m. it's already a balmy 54 degrees.

I am wearing a short-sleeved shirt.

To say that this has made the locals "happy" would be an overstatement. "Suspicious" is more like it. When the dumb college dudes started wearing those shiny shorts three weeks ago, (when it got into the 40s) the fleece-clad locals scoffed.

But today it's going to be 75. And the locals have all emerged from hibernation, blinking in the sun and looking vaguely sour, as if nice weather in March must surely be some sort of portent of doom.

The climate induced schizophrenia is especially noticeable on the playground where over-bundled children are tended by Mommies and Nannies in shorts. Children in parkas play with children in tee shirts. Child #1 still insists that we take his jacket with us whenever we leave the house, but he never wears it.

Scrapbooking for Jesus with my seven children while losing weight by climbing rocks and making sweet love to my bicycle

In which your humble narrator surveys the interwebs and finds them wanting.

The fine folks at Google, in their zeal to index everything, changed the functionality of the "Next Blog" button featured on the navigation bar of most Blogger blogs. Rather than taking you to a completely random Blogger blog (possibly in another exciting language) it now takes you to a blog that Google thinks you will find interesting based on what you've written on your blog. What follows is an unscientific survey of the blogs available to me via the Next Blog button (all within 3 clicks).

• 15,000 "family" blogs focused on frequently photographed children named Camryn, Tamryn, Payton, Braden, Jayden, Caden, Aiden, Ain't Misbehavin', Desmond, Connor, Tanner, Planner, Delilah, Rylie, Kylie and Wingnut.
• 12,000 blogs with the word "ramblings" heavily featured in the title or description.
• 9,000 blogs where people talk about Jesus... a lot.
• 6,000 blogs about scrap-booking (many overlap with the above categories.)
• 4,000 blogs about losing weight.
• 2,000 blogs describing climbing up big rocks in exhaustive detail.
• 750 blogs about people and their unnatural relationships with their bicycles.
• 500 blogs with "embracing winter," somewhere in the first few posts, because really, seasons need hugs.
• 50 blogs about making life more simple by blogging about simplicity.
• 1 blog about an international organization of philatelists.*

I understand (even if I also reject) the preponderance of sallow-skinned, dead-eyed suburban family blogs showing up. I write about children. They write about children.  I, however, am at a loss regarding the climbing of big rocks, the techno-sexual bicycle relationships, simplicity, and philately blogs.


Actually the philatelist's blog was the only interesting one.

*I have spent at least an hour trying to imagine what their parties must be like. My only conclusion: off the hook.

Insufficiently Absorbent

In which your humble narrator recounts some lunacy from his childhood.

So my parents, being good hippies harbored an illegal alien when I was a kid. Maria was a Salvadoran migrant worker. We lived in northern Indiana at the time and she had come up with a crew to pick produce. But she was pregnant and they wouldn't take her back to the winter camp in Florida. So Maria and her two-year-old son Jose moved in with us. Soon there after she had another little boy, Victor (pronounced Beek-tor).

One time we ran out of Pampers and she diapered the baby with a tortilla. True story.

Faith-based Refrigeration

In which a dark shade from your humble narrator's past emerges on Facebook and causes reflection.

When I was a callow and sallow youth I attended a preparatory high school in southwest Ohio run by the Jesuits. Like about a quarter of my fellow students, I was not a Catholic. There were a fair number of Protestants, and a goodly smattering of Jews, Buddhists and Hindus at this school. We still had to attend the long, lugubrious all-school Masses, but there wasn't any formal Inquisition-like establishment aimed at converting us. Did I mention that this was a boys' school yet? It was. I received a decent education and despite having no nostalgia for my alma mater whatsoever, I don't harbor any particular hard feelings... well, except for the broken nose thing, and the two concussions.

We only had one nun at this school. She was a native Kentuckian of thick, German stock, a member of an order I have never heard of aside from her membership, and a habitual teller of tall tales. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the current students of my high school have a Facebook page devoted to quotations from my former  history teacher, the most erratic, Germanic instructor I have ever had, bar-nun.* Let's call Her "Sister Helga." While I was in school we often referred to her as "Attila."

What was surprising to me was the consistency of her craziness, even after 14 years. One of the quotes was, "Indians have to pay $7 a gallon for gas, just because they're Indians." This teacher was way into the Indians. We spent the first quarter of junior year American History talking about the Indians, wherein we learned that the "Iroquois" were composed of five tribes, hence the name, since "quois" means "five" in French.** When we were in school she used the same line, but she's obviously been adjusting for inflationary injustice since it was only $3 per gallon back then.

Sister Helga told us she was 80 years old.*** She told us that she was one of fourteen children.**** She told us that she went to Pine Ridge in South Dakota every summer to visit her sister (also a nun) and minister to the Indians.*****

There was one particularly memorable story about a time when she was teaching Bible School to the little Indian children on the Pine Ridge reservation. According to Sister Helga, one day, while telling the children about Jesus, a Schwan's Freezer truck pulled up outside the church. The Schwan's man told her that his refrigerator unit had broken down and could the children please eat some ice cream before it melted? According to the story it was 130 degrees in the shade that day, and there was only one air conditioner in the entire state of South Dakota and that was at the Governor's mansion and they never let the Indians near it. So Sister Helga and the children gorged themselves on ice cream. One little girl asked Sister Helga to drive her home after Bible School so that she could take an ice cream bar to her aged grandmother. "But little Indian girl," said Sister Helga, "you live 2 hours away and it's 130 degrees and I don't have air conditioning in my pickup truck."

"Please, Sister Helga! I know it will be fine!" said the little girl, and Sister's heart melted and she and the little girl got in the truck and drove for two hours on a dirt road in the 130 degree heat with the ice cream bar sitting on the dashboard of the truck. When they reached Granny's house the little girl kissed Sister Helga on the cheek, grabbed the ice cream bar and ran into the house.

The next day, Sister Helga asked the little girl about her Grandmother and the (presumptively) melted ice cream. The little girl told Sister Helga that her Grandmother (who hadn't had any ice cream since 1931) loved it. "But wasn't it melted?" asked Sister Helga. "No it was still frozen," replied the little girl.

Sister Helga realized that the little girl's faith had kept it cold.

And that's how refrigerators work, boys and girls.


*Oooh! A delicious pun!
**No it doesn't.
***Nope.
****Who knows? Who cares?
*****Hadn't they suffered enough?

Mailbag Monday is Late

In which your humble narrator answers the mail.

Dear Rotten Baby,
How do I convince my mother-in-law that she is totally capable of taking care of our wonderful children (ages 1 1/2 and 3 1/2) for just 48 hours so that my estranged husband and I can go to the Florida Keys for an all expense paid trip?
                                     Needing some alone time together

Dear NSATT,
First of all: where did you get an all-expense paid trip to the Keys? I want an all expense-paid trip. I would settle for an all-expense-paid trip to Dubuque, Iowa and be very, very happy with it. Actually, you know what? I'd settle for being able to go to the bathroom without an accompanying two-year-old and the inevitable discussion of whether I'm peeing or pooping in the potty.

But I digress. When I was just a wee little boy, before I became an internet sensation known to, literally, tens of people, my Grandma said to me the following: "If you want somebody to do something for you, it works best to let them think that it's their decision. If you can't make them decide to do what you want, then you put the screws to 'em and nail their ass to the wall."

As you may have guessed, my grandma was Lyndon Baines Johnson.

For Attempt #1, "Vanity + Guilt," you try to get her to decide to do it herself. This is best accomplished by making a dual appeal to both her vanity and her guilt. Like this: "Oh mother-in-law (MIL) you're the only one I trust to care for my precious children* and... and (fake cry here) I'm just not sure that your child (your spouse, NSATT) is willing to tell you HOW MUCH S/HE NEEDS THIS." See? Vanity + Guilt

If this fails, then you move on to Attempt #2, "Ass to Wall."

"Look, MIL. Do this for me... or the next time we're at your house for dinner I'm telling the kids that you're serving Muppet."

*Feel free to sell your own Mom down the river here if you think it'll help... after all we're talking about a vacation away from the children, any reasonable court would sanction anything up to involuntary manslaughter under these circumstances.

Overheard on Craigslist

In which your humble narrator offers up a risque Craigslist post for your perusal.

Courtesy of Wife-a-roo, who trawls Craigslist every night because we don't have any money to buy anything and she needs to get her shopping fix somehow:

"This gently used Fisher-Price baby rocker swings both ways."

Kinky. I'm glad my kids didn't need their baby-swing to also be some sort of pan-sexual freak-fest.

The Fat Capitalist Pig Fascist Controller - Sir Topham Hatt

In which your humble narrator delves deeply in to the political machinations of Imperialist Oppressor, Sir Topham Hatt and his hegemonic stranglehold on the Island of Sodor.

Apparently we need to take a careful look at the conservative indoctrination of our toddlers. Sister-of-Me sent me a couple of links regarding a political analysis of Thomas the Tank Engine. The next day it was picked up as a story on CBC's As it Happens,* the Canadian radio news magazine show.

Exhibit A (from Canada.com: a bitchin' Canadian News Aggregater):

"Shauna Wilton, an associate professor of political studies at the University of Alberta's Augustana campus in Camrose, Alta., analyzed two dozen episodes [of Thomas and Friends] and found a strong conservative political flavour to the show.

Thomas inhabits a world where efforts to gain individual power or to upset the social hierarchy are punished, good citizenship is the ultimate virtue and episodes revolve around the morals of everyone having a role to play and the importance of teamwork and doing a good job, she says.
"One thing that's really clear when you watch Thomas is that there's a really strong social hierarchy and Sir Topham Hatt, the controller of the railway, is at the top and the different types of trains and characters fall below him," Wilton says."

Oh horrors! A children's program extolling the virtues of good citizenship and emphasizing the importance of having a role to play? But how will the little darlings learn to express themselves?

"It's a recurring theme on the show that Topham Hatt has a duty for the trains to fulfil and they try to make him happy and do a good job, she says -- a helpful theme for raising co-operative preschoolers, but not so good for teaching them to think for themselves or to question things as they grow.
On the show, any attempt by the trains to act on their own or go against orders has "fairly disastrous results,"she says, citing the story in which Thomas is temporarily replaced by another engine after he whistles impatiently at a police officer."

For pity's sake. It's a show for pre-schoolers. We don't really need to to teach them to think about things or to question authority BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT THEY DO. The idea that, as parents, we should be encouraging rugged individualism in 2-5 year-olds is unmitigated idiocy. There used to be a word used to describe a young child who insisted on always doing things his or her own way, never following the rules and not bothering to learn basic rules of manners and morals. That word was "brat."

Predictably the response I've read and heard to this analysis generally falls into the hyper-moronic, tabloid style that one sees in the U.K.'s Guardian. And that's too bad, because the issue isn't some stupid liberal trying to ruin the teevee for our kids. This issue is that this analysis entirely misses the point that the developmental differences  between children and adults demand that children's programs contain different messages. Toddlers need to understand the social power relationships in their family. And if that family is going to function in any reasonable way, the toddler better not be the one in charge.**

When people ask me about my political philosophy I tell them that I'm a liberal because I believe in progressive taxation and active government regulation of the markets. But I'm not into all that other hippie bullshit.

*Which you should listen to. 
** Because small children are insane.

Mailbag Monday (on Tuesday)

In which your humble narrator answers the missives of his adoring public.

Dear Rotten Baby,
Does a diet lacking animal products make one stupid?
                                          -Raging Ronda in Ridgecrest

Dear Ronda,
First of all, I think someone who can't spell "Rhonda" with the traditional "h" has little room to criticize other people's dietary choices. Are you ashamed of your Welsh heritage, Ronda? But seriously, a diet lacking animal products doesn't correlate with stupidity. My diet is completely free of animal products. Other people may be willing to eat cookies made by gophers, but I'm not.

Teacher,
i am an (imaginary) sad-sack undergraduate with innumerable vague personal problems including, but not limited, to the deaths of my seven grandmothers this semester. i haven't turned in my final  project that was du last week. Also i have skipped, like a lot, almost a third of my classes.  My question 2 u is: shouldn't i be able to postpone taking the final? i'm, like, not prepared. 
                   -Student terribly upset, probably in denial

Dear STUPID,
You have got to be freaking kidding me. I do not have either the time or the inclination to deal with your self-centered bullshit during the last week of classes. The time to be discussing how you can pass my class was last month. Where were you while I sat in my windowless office whilst tumbleweeds rolled past my door during my many office hours this semester? Also, perhaps if you're going to write an email trying to solicit pity you should 1. suck up a little, 2. capitalize the word "I." As for delaying your final: I'm, like, not prepared to do that.


Dear Rotten Baby,
Did you know that there were 1,808 baby girls born in the United States last year named "Brooklyn?" What's up with that?
                                                       -Slightly culpable bystander

SCB,
What's up indeed. My guess is that it's a lot of obnoxious hipster parents living in the mid-west and the west coast were trying be cool when they named their babies. It shouldn't surprise you that "Matilda"* is increasing exponentially in popularity as well. What's happening is this: having a child has become yet another way for people to "express" themselves and broadcast their social (and often economic) value to the rest of the world. Let's hope that many of those darling little Brooklyns grow up to be right-wing talk radio hosts, NASCAR enthusiasts or Joe Lieberman.

That wraps up this edition of 'Mailbag Monday," boys and girls. To have your queries, imaginary or otherwise answered, send an email to:
rotten.baby.blog (at) gmail (dot) com. 

*Really?

Mailbag Monday

In which your humble narrator responds to life's most pressing conundrums, even if they are invented.

Here at Rotten Baby Omnicorp Media-Mania, Inc., LLC, Ph.D., DDS, we view our service to all three of our readers as a sacred trust, and as such we have set aside today to answer some of the pressing questions that have been flooding our (imaginary) inbox. Today, gentle readers, we will answer the mail.

Dear Rotten Baby,
I am new parent and I am sick to death of all of the advice that complete strangers give me regarding my infant (human) child. I have read all of the popular child rearing books and have become convinced that I had better just muddle through as best I can and figure things out on my own. Yet, old ladies constantly stop me in the grocery store and give me conflicting, weird advice about childcare while admonishing me for everything that I am supposedly doing wrong. My question is, may I hit them with a brick?
                                          -Peeved Parent in Peoria

Dear Triple P,
No you may not hit them with bricks. That is an easily adjudicated case of assault. Since this happens in the grocery store, I suggest a 3-5 lb. bag of citrus fruit. It'll hurt like hell and leave no incriminating marks or bruises. I prefer Valencia Oranges, but you may wish to try several varieties of citrus fruits and make your own decision.

Dear Rotten Baby,
Long time reader, first time (imaginary) email writer. I am hosting Thanksgiving for my family on Thursday. This is the first year that my mother has not been hostess and I am nervous about living up to her standards. Any tips?
                                          -Nervous Hostess in Vancouver
Dear Nervess,
I hope to hell that you're in Vancouver in Washington State and not in British Columbia. Otherwise you are up embarrassment creek without a paddle of everlasting shame. You see, Nervess, The Canadians get their thank on in October. So if you're a Canadian, that ship has already sailed. If you're not Canadian and you want to keep your overbearing mother in her place, prepare nothing but side dishes and then ask her where the hell the turkey is when she arrives. Persevere in this little fib all evening, heaping subtle guilt on her at every turn. She'll be too flabbergasted to judge you.

Dear Rotten Baby,
I get the distinct impression that you're writing these letters to yourself because you can't think of anything else to write about today.

                                          -Suspicious Salvatore in San Antonio
Dear Sal,
You are so dumb it makes my teeth hurt. If there was a Church of Stupid, you would be the Pope. We're writing these letters because people love advice columns and we are convinced that this will send our site traffic soaring to add the demographically crucial Filipinio, trangendered, chicken-farming, Buddhist, fourth reader.

That wraps up this edition of 'Mailbag Monday," boys and girls. To have your queries, imaginary or otherwise answered, send an email to:
rotten.baby.blog (at) gmail (dot) com.

Yes you can! (But you shouldn't!)

In which your humble narrator discusses ideas that are not-so-good.

Exhibit A: d'Armond Speers - A linguist (good! We love linguists because your humble narrator is one... sort of.) who decided it would be a super-fun experiment to only speak Klingon (!) to his infant son until he was 3. Because, really, who doesn't want to use their children as free experimental subjects?

It think this falls into the category of "Things you can do, but shouldn't." Things like:

• Speak only Klingon to your infant child
• Decide to never cut your fingernails again
• Buy a house that you cannot afford
• Accept free drinks from a guy with an eye-patch named "Slash"
  
• Vote Republican
• Eat at Arby's
• Ask Amy Winehouse to baby-sit your children
  

Good old Teddy Roosevelt said, "Order without liberty and liberty without order are equally destructive." I don't know the translation into Klingon.

"At the Car Wash"

In which your humble narrator observes an extravaganza of antiseptic compulsion at the grocery store.

Wife's sister is in town this weekend for a visit so I used the opportunity to go to the nice grocery store all by myself this morning at about 8:30. I like grocery shopping, especially at the fancy-people's grocery a few blocks from our house. It's a far cry from the grime-encrusted Krogers of my youth. The cashiers are competent. Everything is clean and shiny. The deli salads are all garnished and they must front all the shelves every night. Since I aspire to, one day, be a fancy-person myself, I like to go and pretend that I have unlimited time and don't have to look at the price of everything.

So I walk to the store with my environmentally-conscious, boutique liberal, green (literally!) reusable shopping bags and I get to the door. It automatically whooshes open (I will never tire of automatic doors) and I proceed to go get a cart. At the fancy-people's grocery they have those awful, teeny child-size "shopper in training" carts for the little children whose parents allow that sort of thing. More than one child has slammed into my shins over the years that I've shopped at this store. The Evil Mommy usually, shrugs, smirks and maybe mumbles an apology. I hate those little carts.

I also hate the "fun" carts that have a sort of plastic race car under the basket so your little hellion can pretend to be driving around the grocery while you shop. This brings us back to our story. There's a Evil Daddy and a little boy who have gotten one of the race car carts and dragged it into the middle of the aisle. They are both kneeling on the floor next to the car, rubbing it down with a stack of antiseptic wipes and a bottle of hand sanitizer.

And the Evil Daddy says, "this is just like going to the car wash!"

All the Avas in Target, Let's hear some noise!

In which your humble narrator describes a trip to Target, ponders that all little girls in Minnesota have the same name and rejoices in the fact that his penury has been, at least temporarily, alleviated.

This morning Child #1, Child #2 and I drove Wife to work. She usually takes our sub-par public transit system as we only have one car and drive as little as possible. Most people seem to view this as an act of environmental extremism and look at us like we're eco-terrorists when we comment that we share a vehicle. Mostly it's because the Wife hates to drive. Also the University where we both work charges for parking at an equivalent rate to many studio apartments.

After depositing the breadwinner at her place of business we zipped over to the super-fancy, giant "T1" Uber-Target to grab some diapers and a few odds and sods. I only brave shopping trips with both children early in the morning if I'm alone. I prefer not to inflict their unhappiness on the general public.  However, at 9:00 a.m. the Evil Mommies are out in full force with their comparatively lesser (in terms of quality, not mass) progeny.  Screaming, red-faced children and exasperated Mommies were having pitched battles all over Target. (Full moon?) Today's three observed fits were all little girls. All named "Ava."

"Ava," a perfectly lovely name was #5 on the social security administration's list of most popular baby names for 2008. It was also the #1 most popular name for baby girls in Minnesota. There are 443 little Minnesota Avas that were born last year. I don't know what the other 440 were doing but 3 of them were having melt-downs of nuclear proportions this morning. Which brings me to two instructional points. First, it's a lovely name, but it's not nearly as original as you think. Second, if you yourself are an obnoxious, whiny person, don't name your kid something heavy on vowel sounds because if you do, people will mock you in their blogs.


Ava: Wahhhhhh! (unintelligible) Wahhhh! (garbled) cookie (?) Mommy! Wahhh (garbled).


Evil Mommy: Aaaaaaaaaaaaa-vuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Sto-o-o-o-o-p Whi-i-i-i-i-i-ning!

And in other news, I picked up another teaching assistant gig for this term. I'm looking forward to being able to eat more than rice and beans this semester.