Your recommended daily dose of sappiness
Aug 11, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Video | Tags: Big Sap Alert
Since the day those two pink lines (See what I just did there? This here’s a fancy-schmancy high-tech blog, I tell ya!) appeared on my home pregnancy test, I have become a big sentimental mess of an individual. A look shared between mother and baby on a diaper commercial can reduce me to tears. The discovery of Skye’s hat from the hospital found in the back of her baby hat drawer (yes, we have an entire drawer full of just hats) catapults me on a trip down blubbery memory lane. The realization that Starbucks has sold out of cinnamon swirl coffee cakes before I was able to snag one causes me to fall to the floor in a puddle of tears.
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.)
Mr. C’s big day
Aug 10, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Mr. Candy
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!
The next chapter
Aug 9, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Musings | Tags: I'm bringing todby back
There comes a moment in most every parent’s life when we sit down, take a deep breath and ask ourselves, “Did I just sit on a plastic hammer?” Then, once we remove the offending toy from our behind, we look at our kid and think, “Now what?”
As you may remember from waaaaaaay back when, like, a whole two weeks ago (well, it feels like a lifetime ago), I was struggling with the blues. Blues that had manifested in the form of a horrifying pimple named Pete (naturally), with which I was on the verge of a common-law marriage. Although we stayed together longer than, say, a Kate Hudson liaison, I am happy to report that Pete and I have since amicably parted ways. Partially because Mr. Candy did not want any part of that threesome — not exactly the ménage à trois he has dreamed of ever since I mentioned my dream about Tiffani-Amber Thiessen — but mostly because I got over my mourning period that caused Pete to appear in the first place.
That’s right. I now realize I was in mourning the weeks preceding Miss Skye’s birthday. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I was mourning the passing of her first year, which flew by ridiculously fast. There is just something about that first year of life, especially with a first-born. It is so very difficult, yes, but also such an adrenaline rush. Everything is novel; I woke up every day wondering what new, amazing trick my baby had in store for me. Would she blow two bubbles in a row? Grab a block with HER OWN HANDS? Drool enough to save California from the drought? Despite my exhaustion, I was fascinated. I was, for lack of a less corny phrase, on a mommy high. We need that high to survive pregnancy and the first year of parenthood. ‘Cause, let’s face it, it’s not all rainbows and unicorns. And as Lindsay Lohan can surely attest, unexpectedly coming off of a 21-month-high is highly unsettling.
“Where did my baby go?” I lamented to my mother during Skye’s Birthday Tour. Mom comforted me with her trademark sensitivity.
“What is WRONG with you?” she demanded to know. “When you guys were babies, I was PROUD when you grew older and could start doing things, like walking.”
Sidebar: Right now my mom is sitting in her kitchen and shaking her head at the computer monitor: “Why does that Candy always make me look like an a-hole?!”
Because that’s more entertaining, Mom! That’s why. But you know I adore you. And your sensitivity.
Of course I am proud. I love that Skye has become my little buddy and is blossoming into an actual — GASP! — person. Yes! Even when she throws a tantrum because the evil that is her mother won’t let her eat a penny. POOR BABY. Oops… I mean, POOR TODDLER. When she does start walking, which will no doubt be any day now (perhaps when I offer her a delicious penny as incentive), you won’t have to read about it on this here blog because I will hire a skywriter to announce it to the world: MY KID IS ON HER WAY TO BEING THE NEXT FLORENCE GRIFFITH JOYNER, PEOPLE! ONLY WITHOUT THE DRUGS. OR CRAZY NAILS. OR PERSONAL TRAGEDY.
Hmmm. Or not. I think I’ll just Tweet, “Woo-hoo! The kid’s walking!”
My sadness should not be mistaken for a desire to hold the kid back or, heaven forbid, relive her first year in any way. It’s more that having a baby was sort of like my sixteenth birthday party: I looked forward to it for months and months, feeling as though I would literally burst from the anticipation, enjoyed the ride, then before I could even blink — POW! It was over. Where did the time go?
At least I still have a ton of stuff to look forward to with Skye, unlike my post-birthday party life. Because, as any women’s magazine will insinuate with its pre-adolescent models, it’s all downhill after turning the big 1-6. Unless you’re a man, in which case you only become more virile and appealing well into your 80s. True story.
During Miss Skye’s East Coast Birthday Tour, I could feel my sadness lifting. The massive amounts of cake I consumed certainly helped. By the time we got back to Los Angeles, I was already over it and ready to move on to the next exciting chapter in our little family’s life. Which, I’ve decided, includes a return to three-inch heels and blonder highlights. (Done, and done.) You know, the things that really matter. With Skye’s increasing independence — that’s right, she practically watches herself these days (but we’re not letting her drive until next year) — also comes an increasing amount of time to focus on myself again. And you know what? It is so nice.
But I still refuse to call my little girl a toddler. Yikes! I’m not quite there yet. Maybe a baby-toddler hybrid: a todby? Or a babler…?
Yeah, you’re right. Let’s just call her Skye. Or HEY YOU, DROP THAT PENNY!
Lapping up the attention
Aug 5, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Marcy & Matty
Ever since we returned from Skye’s eight-day East Coast Birthday Party Tour, Marcy has been on us like The Hoff on a cheeseburger. She refuses to take her eye off of us for a second, squeezing her way onto my office chair, her father’s lap and our bed at night — and, most surprisingly, waiting outside of Skye’s room as she sleeps, eager for the kid to come out and play with her. And by “play with,” I mean “pound on.”
Yes! After Marcy’s Great Summer Depression of ’09, she and Skye have become sweet buddies; a coming-together even more unlikely, and certainly more anticipated around the world, than Reagan and Gorbachev.
I just love how Marcy is loving up Mr. Candy ON HIS FRESHLY LAUNDERED BLACK PANTS. Don’t think that’s not deliberate. She’s all, Yeah, I’m thrilled you’re finally home. But that’s not going to stop me from exacting my revenge, bitches!
Out of the mouths of babes’ parents
Aug 4, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: Huh?
Babyologists have long discussed the horrifying things that come out of a baby’s butt during the first years of life, but rarely have they tackled something potentially even more confounding: the things that come out of new parents’ mouths.
I believe my husband, for one, is worthy of extensive research. The moment our infant daughter started following the sound of our voices, Elmo inhabited his body.
“Aren’t you pretty! Aren’t you pretty!” Mr. Candy would exclaim over and over again in an octave only dogs could hear. He continues to speak in a jarringly high pitch to this very day, which is bad for his business meetings and the few remaining crumbs of my sanity, but good for marine biologists wishing to communicate with beluga whales*.
It also dawned on me last week that Mr. Candy addresses our one-year-old daughter almost exclusively with rhetorical questions.
Are you smiling at your grandma?
Is your Uncle Chris holding you?
Is your toy blue?
“Bah bah, da da,” Skye responds more often than not, which roughly translates** to “DUH, Captain Obvious.”
Being the sensitive, caring wife that I am, I couldn’t help but laugh at Mr. Candy and, in between giggles, demand to know why he’s turned into The Daddy-Riddler. He mumbled something about trying to be interactive and waved in my direction without looking at me. Except his hand must have gotten a cramp, because he was only able to wave with one finger.
Turns out, however, that Mr. Candy isn’t the only parent in this household to talk to the kid in question marks. Oh no. I decided to turn my evil eye of judgment on myself and what I saw, er… heard…? Wasn’t pretty.
Let’s make you some oatmeal… huh?
Those Cheerios are tasty… huh?
The bags under Mommy’s eyes are getting bigger… huh?
Yes! I have come down with a tragically annoying case of Huh?-itis! I am physically incapable of finishing a sentence without matter-of-factly punctuating it with, “Huh?”
Our daughter is going to have some messed up communication skills. Huh?
And don’t even get me STARTED on the baby talk that goes on between these walls. No, seriously, don’t. I promised Mr. Candy I wouldn’t talk about our sex habits again.
*What we’ve learned so far: Beluga whales are able to follow ‘Inception’ better than 99 percent of humans
**Translated with the iPhone “Babble Translator” app, most commonly used to converse with Ozzy Osbourne
Well, that’s one way to clean the closet
Aug 3, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Home & Garden,Musings | Tags: Cleaning Tips
You know how I was bitching about having to clean my closet? Problem solved!
Here is one home organization tip you won’t find in Redbook: Simply have your home developer install an air conditioner with a drain smaller than an anthill entrance above your closet, wait four years for it to clog up, making it leak all over your closet carpet for days without your knowledge (because you were too busy avoiding the closet and the task of cleaning it. . . duh), so you are forced to fork over a thousand bucks to a carpet restoration company to rip up the carpet, along with your baseboards, and — this is where the Martha Stewart-esque organization system comes into play — dump the contents of your closet on your bed and floor to make room for the massive, heat-generating dehumidifier that must run for days to prevent mold and mildew, causing the temperature in your bedroom to spike to 100 degrees and rendering the clothes in your closet moot, anyway, because the only way to survive the Death Valley-like conditions is to go completely and utterly naked. (Or so my husband insists.)
Woo-hoo! Closet: CLEANED.
The Baby Manicure Tragedy
Aug 2, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Featured,Musings
Re-posted from October 16, 2009. The family is en route to Los Angeles after Skye’s successful 2010 East Coast Birthday Tour.
The manicure victim blows bubbles to cope with her trauma
With motherhood comes many new and important responsibilities, such as picking baby boogers, wincing when your husband picks out the wrong pair of baby socks and Tweeting about the State of Your Breast Milk. Another such responsibility is giving your baby regular manicures so that she doesn’t wake up looking like she’d spent the night wrestling a raccoon, as my child did this morning. Feeling horribly guilty about the tiny scratches near Miss Skye’s right eye, I did what any concerned mother would — and put out several raccoon traps around the house.
Once I owned up to the situation and maturely admitted that she had scratches because MR. CANDY had failed to trim her nails (men, I tell ya), I decided to clip them myself before she, you know, lost an eye or something. Have you ever given a baby a manicure? The thing about babies is — and you non-parents out there may not know this — is that they’re small! As are their nails! And their nail CLIPPERS! Cutting their tiny little nails with their tiny little nail clippers feels as natural as putting fake eyelashes on the cats. Which they are not happy about, by the way.
Another thing about babies? Is that, at eleven weeks old, they like to move around. A LOT. Fascinated by these things called arms and legs attached to her body, Skylar is constantly testing them and flailing about as though she’s auditioning for Michael Flatley’s Lord of the Dance. Given this, any mother with common sense would, of course, try to cut her nails while she was asleep and immobile.
So I, naturally, cut them while she was awake and flailing on my lap.
You know what’s coming, don’t you? Oh yes. SNIP goes the skin, making her tiny little finger bleed. Baby Girl looked at me like, “Why would you DO that to me?!”, pouted, then cried for a solid ten seconds. Yes, only ten seconds. I, on the other hand, cried about it all afternoon. Omigod, people — inflicting pain on your child, however unintentional…? THE. WORST. FEELING. IN. THE. WORLD. I honestly felt faint, like I could pass out from the horrible, overwhelming guilt. Is this what Catholics often feel like? If so, I’m glad my dad stopped practicing Catholicism before I was born. ‘Cause that depth of guilt is practically paralyzing, I tell ya.
Needless to say, I did not cut the remainder of Miss Skye’s nails today. Instead I held her closely and offered my boobs as a peace offering. Now I’m faced with the age-old parental dilemma: Let my daughter scratch her eyes out or sever her hand with the clippers? Ugh. It’s SO much more fun picking baby boogers.
Top 10 Signs Your First Birthday Party Was a Success
Jul 29, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Top 10 Lists
1. You get more cake in your hair than in your mouth.
2. You don’t go to bed until the ridiculously late hour of… 9 p.m.
3. Nobody insults you with an “over-the-hill” birthday card saying, “Don’t worry, Old Fart. One year is the new nine months!”
4. The guests totally kicked two gallons of skim milk, bitches!
5. You got to wear a tiara…
…making your father jealous. (You’ll always be a pretty princess to me, Mr. Candy.)
6. Spencer Pratt did not crash the party despite threatening to do so in last week’s Us Weekly.
7. The neighbors called the cops because the party was rocking out to “Farmer in the Dell” at full blast.
8. Your parents took 312 pictures of the birthday festivities (See also: Top 10 Signs That You Are the First Child)
9. By the time you go to bed, you’re only twitching a little bit from the sugar overdose.
10. You got so many presents from your TWO East Coast birthday parties, that your parents have to charter Suzanne Somers’ private jet just to get them back to L.A.
Happy 1st Birthday, Miss Skye!
