via Candy’s Crapcam

You return home from a morning of running errands around town and dropping off your child at daycare, only to realize you have been wearing ONE EARRING the entire time because your child nearly ripped your earlobe off trying to grab the earring earlier in the morning, so you stuffed said earring in your pocket and forgot about it.

This has been your important Mommy Brain Update and Seemingly Endless Run-On Sentence of The Day!

Which is to say my afternoon was, well, somewhat ugly on Sunday.

Mr. Candy had already left on yet another one of his “business trips.”  I use quotation marks not because I suspect he is doing something seedy, but because I am convinced he is just holed up in a hotel down the street somewhere and sighing contentedly, “Finally, I’ve escaped the madness!”  I couldn’t blame him.  It is a bit of a madhouse around here lately, what with a moody toddler who’s laughing one minute, angrily pounding on the floor the next — and a wife who is prone to doing the same.  If I ever find out that Mr. Candy’s business trips are actually mental health breaks, I will have no choice but to grab him by the shoulders and scream, “IT’S MY TURN NEXT TIME!”

With my husband on the road — allegedly — and no family within a two-thousand-mile radius, I was unable to live-blog the Emmys because I had to watch Skye and make sure she didn’t do something unwise, like pull a TV on her head.  It was a beautiful day here in Los Angeles, so naturally I took my one-year-old out to get some fresh air at, um, Bloomingdale’s.  (Hey, sometimes Mommy needs to go to her playground, too.)  Skye and I had a lovely time together.  I got my much-needed Bloomie’s fix.   She got to partake of her favorite pastime:  people-watching.  And she has no qualms about openly staring at folks for minutes on end, to the point that I feel the need to interject:  “Ha, ha!  She hasn’t learned her manners yet!”

Of course, what she really needs to learn is that is why sunglasses were invented.

When Skye started wrinkling her nose (loose translation:  Nap.  Now.  Woman!), we headed out to the car, weighed down with brown Bloomingdale’s bags.  Glorious, brown Bloomingdale’s bags.  I rarely get to the mall these days, so I was feeling quite giddy UNTIL… I tried to collapse the stroller.  It is a fairly new Maclaren umbrella stroller that Mr. Candy, our Official Baby-Thingy Expert, had always handled before.  You see, I am not one of those super-moms who can install a car seat with one hand, while juggling a baby and conducting a philharmonic with the other.  Heck, I was prouder than Dina Lohan on prison talent show night when I figured out how to open the stroller — after only fifteen minutes of jiggling and pulling every part of it.  Unfortunately, that same approach did not work with closing Skye’s “simple” umbrella stroller.  I kicked it.  Punched it.  Gave it a time-out.  Nothing worked.  So I did what any mother with a tired, screaming toddler sitting in the backseat and ornery stroller would do:  I tried shoving it, as-is, in the passenger seat.  And when it did not fit there, I scanned the parking lot for my savior.  To my great relief, it did not take long.

PAN OVER TO:  A family of five, with a FATHER PUSHING A MACLAREN STROLLER!

ME:  (SENDING UP SMOKE SIGNALS) Excuse me?  Help!  Help!

THE FATHER:  (SPOTS THE STROLLER TAKING A TIME-OUT IN THE CORNER)  Just a sec.  Let me get my wife.

This woman, I kid you not, had that stroller collapsed in two seconds flat.  And it probably wasn’t even her best time.  Her hands and feet did things to that stroller that cannot be legal in most states.  Thankfully, however, this is California where those things are not only legal, but encouraged.  I wanted to hug that woman with the mad mommy skillz and dexterous limbs.  But I did not want to frighten her so I simply cried, “THANK YOU!  OH MY GOD, YOU SAVED MY LIFE, THANK YOU, THANK YOOOUUUU!”

Oh yeah. Much more normal.

Just look at the heartbreaking effect this bias has had on my daughter.  Why, over the past month, I have discovered her relegated to sitting in shoeboxes…

Her devastation is evident.

And suitcases…

Skye bravely disguises her pain

And, perhaps most embarrassingly of all, plastic containers.

"My dinner...?"

We knew we had to take action before we found the child forced to sit in, say, the cats’ litter box.  Because that would just be a hilarious photo op terrible.  So we finally ordered a chair custom-made for somebody of her diminutive stature:

Needless to say, Skye now thinks she’s the hottest thing since Suri Cruise in high heels.  The perfect place to kick up her soft-soled sandals… after a morning of playing in the cats’ litter box.  (You know it’s only a matter of time.)

SO stressful.  Hypothetically speaking, of course.

I know, I know… I’m thinking the same thing.  This TOTALLY calls for a Venn Diagram:

The main take-away here being, obviously, that garden gnomes are oddly arousing.  (It must be the beard.)

The sparkly battle lines have been drawn

You know those neighbors who still have Christmas lights hanging from the edge of their roof, and every time you drive by, you cluck to your spouse, “It’s August, for heaven’s sake.  WHEN ARE THEY GOING TO TAKE DOWN THOSE FREAKING LIGHTS?”

Well, I happen to know the answer: When the responsible party — likely a married couple — decides to actually communicate about the lights.  Also known as: never.

You see, Mr. Candy and I have our own version of the inappropriate Christmas lights, a perfectly lovely holiday snow globe that should have been packed away seven months ago.  Being the eagle-eyed observer that I am, I realized around Easter that it was still lingering in our living room — presumably having escaped from the box also containing my wild-eyed, violin-playing Santa doll.  Because no decoration could have been thrilled about sharing such tight quarters with THAT creepy guy for eleven straight months.

WHAT I SAID TO MR. CANDY:  “Why is this snow globe still in here?”

WHAT I WANTED HIM TO HEAR: “You were supposed to take this down to storage months ago.  Please do so now.”

WHAT MR. CANDY SAID IN RESPONSE:  “Dunno.”

WHAT MR. CANDY WANTED ME TO HEAR:  “I have no idea what you just said.  Can’t you see I’m trying to watch the Sixers game here, woman?”

Both of us emerged from this exchange, satisfied that we were on the same page.  After all, we had made our feelings crystal clear!  Only, strangely, something got lost in translation.  Because the snow globe remained in our house.  And I “innocently” changed the channel from the basketball game to E! News Daily that day.

Weird, right?

And it only gets weirder.  No matter how many times I ask, Why is this snow globe still in here?, and regardless of how many accusatory glances I shoot his way while standing next to the snow globe, MR. CANDY DOES NOT TAKE THE SNOW GLOBE TO OUR STORAGE SHED.

It’s like I need to ask him to take it to storage or something.  I just don’t get it.

I’ve even tried putting the offending decoration on top of my box of maternity clothes, in hopes that bundling them would inspire Mr. Candy to finally give in, and carry the box AND the snow globe down to the garage.  He kindly put away the box of clothes — and left the snow globe on our coffee table.

Oh, this was war.  And, believe you me, I let him know so:

“Why is this snow globe on the coffee table?” I asked, eyebrow arched menacingly.

“Dunno,” Mr. Candy shrugged, thinking to himself, “What is it with her and the snow globe? And that eyebrow thing — does that mean she wants sex now?  WOO-HOO!”

Sure, I could have taken the thing down to storage myself.  But that would be admitting defeat!  So I exercised the only other rational option — and placed the snow globe in various prominent spots around the house, going as far as to rearrange our console table to showcase the damn thing, believing that the very SIGHT of the Christmas decoration in July would be enough to push Mr. Candy over the edge.

WHAT I THINK WHEN I SEE THE DAMN THING:  “Gah!  Eyesore!”

WHAT MR. CANDY THINKS:  “You know, if we got rid of that table, we’d have room for a bigger TV.”

Needless to say, the snow globe still resides in our house and will no doubt remain here until Christmas.  Once the New Year rolls around, I’m going to settle this “battle” once and for all… and dump it in the plastic Jack-o-Lantern outside our door.

No!  Don’t drink the cats’ water.

No!  Pound on daddy‘s laptop instead.

Lately we’ve been saying “no” ’round here even more frequently than we sigh, “The Kardashians are on TV again?!”  Oh yes, we say it THAT MUCH.

Miss Skye is no dummy; the one-year-old knows exactly what “no” means: that she should immediately disengage from the cats’ water bowl, smile sweetly to let us know she is an angel who would never intentionally seek out trouble, then wait for us to get distracted so she can finally return to lapping up the cats’ fur-filled water.

Can’t blame her.  The kid needs to drink something to wash down the fleshy chunks of my shoulder.

But wait…!  According to something I overheard at a party, I am supposed to refrain from saying the N-word anywhere near my child.

“We try to say ‘that’s not for babies’ or ‘that’s not a good idea’ instead of no,” the parent of a 14-month-old divulged to a circle of fellow parents, who all nodded in agreement.  “We don’t think it’s good for children to learn that word.”

That word.  Said in hushed tones, as if she were referring to something really and truly horrific.  Like the flood in Pakistan.  Or life without chocolate.

Uh-oh.  Only twelve months into this parenting gig, and I am already guilty of teaching my child habits that are universally frowned upon?  (Well, besides the Ben & Jerry’s for lunch and Gossip Girl for pre-bedtime entertainment.  Also known as Meltdown Preemption.  Skye gets very cranky when she’s not kept apprised of the latest in Upper East Side tights and headband trends.)  Yet, as Carrie Bradshaw would say, I couldn’t help but wonder… aren’t there times when a firm N-O is necessary and more effective than, say, a shake of my head and tsk-tsk*?

Confused, I turned to the No-Fail, Totally Credible Holy Grail of Parenting for answers.  And, when my Google search for “saying no to kids is bad?” proved inconclusive, I turned to my mom.

“You young parents crack me up with your alternative discipline and crap,” Mom responded.  “Of course you should say no.  Kids have to learn right from wrong.”

“But what if Skye starts saying ‘no’ back to me?”

“Not if.  When.”

“Then what?”

“Then I sit back and laugh.”

The take-away here is clear:  we all have different parenting techniques — most of them well-intentioned — but kids should learn to say “no,” if only to refuse drugs and to react the inevitable return of acid wash jeans in their lifetime.  Also, never seek parental advice from a grandparent.  Their only mission is karma-driven revenge.

*To the mother who used this technique when her child kicked the back of my seat for most of a five-hour flight:  Next time I am going to SIC MY CHILD ON YOUR SHOULDER.

MAN IN 7-ELEVEN PARKING LOT:  [BLANK STARE]

ME:  [GESTURING]  You’re parked too close.  I can’t open my door.

MAN:  Why don’t you get in the passenger side and crawl the f*ck over?

NOTE TO SELF:  Load up trunk with ammunition — I mean, of course, a pile of ripe, window-ready dirty diapers — as soon as I get home for such situations in the future.

The woman imparting her pearls of wisdom. Do you trust her advice? I didn't think so.

Dear Candy,

Love your site!

I was wondering if you had any advice. My husband and I just had our first baby. A little girl named Emma. We are planning on going back to visit our respective families for the holidays for Emma’s first Christmas. The only problem is that we live in Texas and I am from South Carolina and my husband is from Arizona. Both Grandparents want to have us for Christmas morning, but I really want to go to my parents. What do I do?

Sincerely,
Emma’s Mommy

Dear Emma’s Mommy,

Congratulations on your new arrival!  Emma is a lovely name.  My husband pushed hard for Emma/Emily, but once I learned he liked the name because it reminded him of a junior high crush, I said, “No freakin’ way, Jose!”  True story.

There is only one fair and constructive way to solve your dilemma:  rock, paper, scissors.  And, if that doesn’t go your way, do not hesitate to play the “I carried that butterball in my womb for nine months” card.  Its shelf-life doesn’t last forever; however, you say you just had the baby, so take advantage of it while you can.

Assuage your husband by suggesting you visit his parents for another important holiday.  I hear Arizona is simply lovely over Arbor Day weekend!

————————————————-

Candy,

I know you only have 1 baby, but I now have 2. A 6 year old boy and a 2 year old girl. I know we aren’t supposed to have favorites and I love them both dearly, but my little girl is such a Momma’s girl. How do I keep from playing favorites?

Nina M.

Dear Nina M.,

I am actually an expert in this area, being both the youngest daughter and, I say with complete objectivity, the favorite child in my family.  So you have come to the right place for advice!

It is important that your son not detect any favoritism; therefore, make a concerted effort to show you love him in ways that really matter — i.e., by buying him fancy electronics and allowing him to watch lots of TV.

If your son still manages to pick up on your bias, assure him this will only last until your daughter hits puberty and decides she hates you — at which point he automatically becomes top dog!  That will be an exciting time for him, indeed.

————————————————-

candy, Your love life is set to rock

Tired about the jokes your girlfriends make about your small equipment? Here’s the solution.

http://www.XXXXXXXX.com/

Dear Love Life Savior,

I AM tired of the “small equipment” jokes.  How did you know?  Women can be so cruel… but I will get the last laugh when they find out I’m set to inherit $3.5 million from a dying Russian woman named Mrs.Lyudmila Kornilina.  Yes!  I am!  It was quite a surprise, as you can imagine, but Mrs.Lyudmila Kornilina sent me an e-mail that mistakenly landed in my spam box, letting me know she is dying of cancer and has kindly decided to donate all of her money to me just as soon as she ties up some odds and ends with my credit card.

So thank you for offering an ear to bend and a solution for my little problem, but my newfound riches will more than make up for the inadequacy, I’m sure!

Okay, so the last one isn’t exactly a sentimental reaction or a new development.  But it is how I started my day today.

Being Sappy McSappyPants and all, I created a video celebrating Miss Skye’s first year of life.  I wasn’t going to post it here because it feels oddly intimate — and, other than my hair in the post-birth photos, it isn’t particularly humorous.  However, you guys and this site are such a big part of the journey that it only seems right to share it with you. And, hell, let’s be honest: I’m so freakin’ crazy about this kid that I can’t stop myself from telling anyone who will humor me. (Those Starbucks baristas more than earn their pay, believe you me.)

Not to mention we’ve already had the mucus plug talk; hard to get much more “intimate” than that.

Don’t worry, I won’t *SOB* make this sappiness thing *SOB* a *SOB* habit.  (My apologies… a pregnancy hemorrhoids ad is getting me all choked up. Ah, memories.)

It is Mr. Candy’s birthday today, a day that sort of went unnoticed last year because we were too busy gazing at the new eight-pound resident in our house and asking each other with wonder, “Whom does SHE belong to?  And when are they coming to change her diaper?”  So I plan to make it up to my husband this year by taking him out to dinner with his two girls and maybe, just maybe, treating him to a little somethin’-somethin’ that he wasn’t getting last year at this time, if you catch my drift.

Uh-huh, you guessed it: a big, wet chocolate martini!