dr. teeth Teeth teeth teeth teeth teeth teeth teeth. Teeth teeth teeth teeth teeth.
Teeth.
So many teeth. Coming in at once.
Motrin. Motrin.
Must have Motrin.

J. said he dreamed last night that Donald Rumsfeld was debating the Iraq war with Miss Piggy. Miss Piggy was walking away with it--without having to resort to judo, even. B. has a horrible diaper rash. I took him outside to crawl around in the breeze and the sun, hoping it would clear up, and let him be diaperless inside, which worked really well until he shat on his activity center and then tracked it all through the office. NB: The Target stain remover (knock-off of Resolve) works really well.
After days of having lain dormant due to hepatitis, my appetite has returned. I ate a massive lunch and then another one. A. and N. came over to play today. N. gave B. lots of hugs. He talks a blue streak and still seems to be a different animal. Evidently these next six months of toddlerhood are a big, big deal, with lots of exponential changes. I can buy that. I totally forgot to mention that B. is walking with the help of his wagon and his walker. You kind of have to induce him, and he doesn't even bear weight on his feet if you "walk" along with him. He's just not that into it. I'm not so much bothered by that. He won't be crawling around when he's six. (At least I suppose not.) I am bothered by the bat-out-of-hell screaming that accompanies the cutting of teeth. God knows how many are busting through in there. In mid-scream we are able to peer into Baldito's drooling maw and discern up to five different puffy areas. I don't like this business. We have flung aside our commitment to natural living in favor of a broad-range strike package: pain reliever, Hyland's tablets, Hyland's gel, and Atarax. The chamomile-tea-and-wet-washcloth route isn't cutting the mustard here. This kid is pissed.
As for me, I'm still not up to full "Yah!" strength. But I don't have a fever, and my excretions are their usual colors, so I am pleased nonetheless. I was afraid to leave the house today for fear that I might suddenly face-plant in public. I've got to say this one more time: People, do not screw around with your liver. Your liver is everything. This from a woman who is brutalizing her child's liver with acetaminophen. I need to switch to Motrin. Motrin. Teeth. Teeth. Teeth...

L is for liver Well, I'm back. Back from the hospital, that is--where I landed after an allergic reaction to the aforementioned Septra turned my liver into the physiologic equivalent of a crumpled aluminum can. I came home from that hideous Boat Trip movie with fever and chills on Oscar night. I got colder and sicker and more feverish, so I went to urgent care and was diagnosed with the flu and told to keep taking the Septra, which I did, along with pounding quarts of Gatorade. I assumed the Gatorade was what was turning my peepee a florid bright orange-yellow. Then I broke out in a pinprick rash all over on Tuesday night; by Wednesday morning it had blended together into an even shade of pink. Back to urgent care, where a very friendly and helpful doctor measured my liver levels and called me back and ushered me into the hospital. It felt strange to just drive myself into the hospital, doo doo doo doo, and go sit in a room and get the gown, when I didn't feel that strange except for a fever, and there were all these patients on my floor with biohazard signs on their doors. Then the nurse came and took five vials of blood, and then I felt like I was really a patient. T. came to visit me and brought a flowery blanket, a Hershey bar, and some trashy books. She talked me through the blood draws and was really awesome. Those books are really trashy, though--exhaustively researched historical details about the castles of Cornwall, interspersed with throbbing manhoods and loose cotton chemises plunging dramatically to the floor. J. brought me my pump, and after one really dismal pumping session, I was prepared to face the music about weaning B. I was really dehydrated and just felt so tired, which hepatits will do to you, I guess. After a couple of days of IV fluid, I felt better and was able to pump more, so we are delaying the weaning question for now. (If I really felt as if I weren't able to handle it physically, I'd have more of an opinion one way or the other.) Everybody was great to me: Mom, who rules; J., who is a fantastic committed dad and really great partner; A., who called me and checked up on me and offered me food. But this is what I gotta say right now: Nurses, you rock my world. My daytime nurse was one of those hilarious salty Texan chicks with the big brassy voice and blond hair, and she had just the best freakin' attitude. You can tell how hard it is to be a nurse, how you're spread so thin between your six rooms or whatever, when you have an IV to start here and one to cap off and flush here and paperwork this and so-and-so to call that, and you know? Everybody at Seton was so nice and competent. I never felt sad that I had to go be monitored, even though I missed B. and J., because I knew this situation was going to go as well as it possibly could, and I'd finally stop being sick, and if I needed anything I could ask for it and feel better. Which sounds like a totally prosaic thing to say, I guess, but when you're a new mother you're so used to giving out to others and worrying about yourself if you have time, so it was like water in the desert to me. And then there was cable. We don't have cable, and I don't think we're missing anything. Except for those redecorating shows: Trading Spaces and whatnot. I'd be lying in my recliner watching people change fixtures and place flooring and I'd think, By Jove, I've got to get better! I've got to tear out my kitchen tile and stain the concrete and paint the cabinets! Which is not true, of course: Sadly, we're still in the repairs-over-renovations stage, meaning that all available time, money, and energy is siphoned toward leaks, rot, and other malfunctions. I feel so so much better now, except that I am very tired. Doing stuff takes all the wind out of my sails. I pretty much slept around the clock yesterday. But I'm happy because my liver is no longer palpably tender and swollen, I don't have a fever, and my pee isn't freakishly bright. Nor are my poops white--apparently an alarming consequence of spilled bilirubin. It's good to feel better.

i can't sleep This op-ed says exactly what I've been feeling. It was a comfort to find it this morning after tossing and turning in bed since 2:30.

I am very afraid. For B. more than for the rest of us. Will he live in a world transformed by might into Pax Americana? Or will his United States be the second coming of Israel--a furiously insular, heavily militarized fortress whose hard-line rulers have alienated and infuriated the rest of the world? Will he die on a battlefield in the desert when he is 21? Or of a heart attack on his back porch when he is 80? I don't want his life to be spent in a pissing match between ideologues. How could a mother want that? But I also can't help but think that he, as a citizen of the world, will bear some responsibility in promoting the liberty and welfare of other people, just as we do. I know so many people, war supporters (some of whom read my journal), who really believe this war is the right thing, that civilized nations cannot sit idly while a tyrant gasses his own people and uses them as human shields. If my government willfully placed B. in harm's way, building a munitions plant in our residential neighborhood, I would of course be furious. My question is: Is my government willfully placing B. in harm's way by inflaming anti-Americanism? Creating martyrs? Elbowing France and Russia out of the way to get at the oil once Saddam is deposed?

And then as I was lying in bed, a voice in my head said North Korea. If you grew up in the 1980s, like I did, or in the 1950s, like my parents did, the barest mention of nuclear armageddon is enough to make you shit your pants. Will B.'s generation be the one to experience what we feared?

I don't feel as if I fit anywhere. My pro-peace friends' energies are misdirected, at this point. I agree with that author that since we're there, let's be there. Let's finish what was started and invest our efforts into a democratic reconstruction. It's too late to find another way. Why are people blocking the streets? (This said, after we blocked the street on Thursday.) My pro-war friends' energies are also misdirected. I felt sick when I saw the marquee at a church exhorting us to "Pray for our country, president, and troops." I can't do that. How could anyone, if what we're indeed doing is reshaping the world to reflect our values, our culture, our society, redrawing the map in blood? Does it strike anyone as ironic that we're bombing the bejabbers out of the "cradle of civilization"? I pray that this is over quickly and that we don't leapfrog from one Muslim country to another, deposing "hostile" governments and pushing the Islamic fundamentalist fringe further toward martyrdom, while pushing our "allies" further away with our arrogance. Remember how hard we worked to establish diplomatic ties after 9/11? Did we just crap all over that by blowing off the UN--except, of course, we still expect the UN to come in after us and clean up the humanitarian mess we made?

B. has found his hair. If you ask him where it is, he tugs on it and smiles. It's quite charming, actually. I keep thinking that I'm seeing a molar at the surface. Please let it be so. He gnaws on everything--everything. He's actually bitten pieces out of his board books. I'll see him chewing contentedly on paper pulp. We bought an adorable set of oversized cardboard blocks, and I have to keep them put away, or else forcibly stick a Zwieback in his mouth to keep him from gumming the corners off.

soy bomb I'm reading the AP headlines with half my attention and writing with the other. Meanwhile, there is vanilla Soy Dream J. brought from the store. It's uncommonly good. I think soybeans could save us all. I'm pretty sure they could be used as fuel somehow.

I just read that some swanky celebrities are arriving at the Academy Awards in hybrid-electric cars. I think that's kind of swell. J. and I have been speculating what the ceremony will be like tomorrow, considering that the US is at war. We have also decided to have fondue, and we will play our usual "Oscar pool" game, which pits me against J.'s students in a kind of "beat the pro" challenge. The winning student gets some movie passes.

We got so sad the other night that all there was to do after B. was in bed was sit and play a quiet game of Mille Bornes. We were Mille Bornes fiends in grad school. It was sweet to play again.

We went to the mall briefly to get a cable from Radio Shack. The security is really beefed-up. I don't want to sound negative, but I don't think it's going to make a difference--maybe it will reduce the number of marauding middle-schoolers? I don't like crowded places, but now I *really* don't have any interest in sporting events, stadium shows, or shoppertainment. As if going to Radio Shack wasn't unpleasant enough. We ran the footage that we have so far, and J. was right--it's going to work out to about five seconds of screen time. What a bummer. The beauty shot I was hoping for didn't turn out too well, but J. got some nice looking stuff.

I went in to get the mullet cut. L., my stylist, is the Nicest Man Alive. I had to sit at the shampoo bowl for a long time getting a condition (apparently my hair is dry), and we wound up talking about postpartum depression and motherhood and stuff. (He has a three-year-old at home.) So when we got back to the chair, L. ran off to the back of the salon and returned with a bowl, a tint brush, and some foils. Then he proceeded to give me blond highlights and a sort of titian-red base color. He wouldn't let me pay him for it. I was floored. And the mullet is gone. Only B.'s baby mullet remains.

B. balked at broccoli at dinner tonight. We were eating dinosaur-shaped pasta with it, and pretty soon he started rejecting the vegetables. He's a carb addict. I think he was tired as much as anything. In other riveting baby news, I am crossing my fingers and hoping against hope that this new lotion we got--which is butt-crushingly expensive and available at only one store in town--is working. His rash seems to have subsided a little. It gets irritated if he scratches his knees, but his feet are all clear. It's called Shikai Borage Therapy and has borage oil in it, which is the one essential fatty acid oil we haven't tried yet.

I have to go see "Boat Trip" tomorrow for the paper. I don't know how I'm going to resist those nautical metaphors.

shock and awe There's nothing more to say.

all about me I don't know what's living in my sinuses, but the Septra is killing it off. Better eat lots of yogurt, kwim?

I tried listening to NPR this morning while B. was eating his papayas and rice cereal. It sounded like "Bla da da da bombing runs da dee dee DEE biological or chemical agents da da da-da-da na na." I don't know what to think or feel. All I can say is that I am hoping and praying for the best possible outcome for everyone involved--which is, well, every single last one of us.

B. now has a gesture to indicate "giraffe." He sways from side to side. It's too sweet. This morning he also took the Biggest Crap Ever. I'm serious.

Jessica sent me an e-mail with a quiz in it. I thought I'd answer it here while B. finishes out his nap. Let's see how far I can get. I did learn quite a few things about Jess. Must remember that tomorrow is her birthday.

1. Who sent this e-mail to you? Jessica
2. What time is it? 9:16 am
3. Name as it appears on your birth certificate? Not here.
4. Nickname(s): Rugrat (my parents), Mamamamama (B.) 5. Parents' names: Johnny and Sheila
6. Number of candles on your last birthday cake: 30
7. Date that you regularly blow them out: 8-26
8. Pets: Scooter, the allergenic cat who doesn't live here anymore.
9. Hair color: beige, colored red.
10.Tattoos: one
11. Piercings: just my ears, so far br> 12. Favorite color(s): brown, brown, brown, and brown
13. Hometown: Austin, TX
14. Current Residence: same
15. Favorite food: soul food
16. Been to Africa? Nope. I've never been anywhere except Maui.
17. Been toilet papering? Once. I regret it. 18. Loved somebody so much it made you cry? All my life.
19. Been in a car accident? A couple. I've never been at fault.
20. Croutons or Bacon Bits? bacon bits
21. Current car you drive: the Mamamobile. Watch out!
22. Favorite Movie(s)? Ikiru, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg
23. Favorite Holiday: Thanksgiving, but not in a "yay, pilgrims!" way
24. Favorite day of the week: Thursday
25. Favorite word or phrase: I can't print it here.
26. Favorite toothpaste:Tom's of Maine
27. Favorite Restaurant: Curra's
28. Favorite Flowers: peonies
29. Favorite Drink(s): shiraz, lemonade
30. Favorite sport to watch: racewalking
31. Preferred type of ice cream: peppermint
32. Favorite Sesame Street Character: Link Hogthrob
33. Last book you read? Kiss of the Spider Woman
34. Favorite fast food restaurant? Wally's. Nothing corporate.
35. When was your last hospital visit? When I had B.
36. What color is your bedroom carpet? beige
37. How many times did you fail your driver's test? None. But I had to take it a second time when we went to California.
38. Who is the last person you got email from before this? my Yahoo! group
39. Have you ever been convicted of a crime? Not yet.
40. Which single store would you choose to max out your credit? Ikea
41. What do you do when you are bored? Write in my blog.
42. Name the friend that lives farthest away from you: Leah, in Siby, Mali, West Africa.
43. Most annoying thing people ask: Is that a baby?
44. Where are you working now? At home with my kid.
45. Favorite all time TV show? Twin Peaks
48. Last person you were out to dinner with? J. and B.
49. What's in your CD player right now? TMBG "No!" and a mix for B.
50. PC or Mac? PC

I skipped some.

i win! Ha ha. I beat the "20 Questions" A.I. by asking it to guess about a nasal aspirator. It got pretty close, though--first it guessed a funnel, then a catheter, then a noose, of all things. I think I'm going to teach it about babies while B. is still napping.

can't think of a title I just got back from the grocery store. I guess buying groceries is the postindustrial equivalent of Java Woman tying her baby on her back and foraging for edible plants and medicinal herbs. Or maybe it's just that I ran out of laundry soap and I have a washer full of pooped-on diapers. It was a curiously action-packed task. I got a bottle of Smoking Loon and it didn't have a price tag on it, so the checker paged someone in grocery four of five times before giving up and charging me $3. Then as I was wheeling us back to Mamamobile 3000, I heard a tremendous commotion and looked up to see a big jolly round guy cussing a blue streak while pursuing his windswept summer-weight straw cowboy hat around the parking lot. B. thought it was hilarious. I looked at all the headlines in the newspaper machines, and they said things like War Planners Say U.S. May Attack Early and Terror attacks 'a certainty' when war begins, official says. We were driving home, and we almost bought it when some ass clown peeled out of a parking lot going left and crossed the double yellow right in front of us without even looking in our direction. There are near accidents, when you get cut off or somebody runs a light, and then there are *near accidents* when you feel like you got punched in the solar plexus and you think you have to pull over and puke.

I think I've been writing a lot lately because I'm sketched out over it all. B. is being his usual self, for what it's worth--drooling and biting, zerberting our bellies (which is incredibly cute), out-and-out refusing to be diapered. We played outside this morning, and the wind was so strong that it kept blowing showers of oak leaves off our roof and B. would laugh and laugh. We dug in the flowerbed with his rake and shovel; I blew bubbles but B. isn't really into it. The mysterious neighbors were getting new carpeting. They're really doing a number on Sylvia's old place. I feel like we should go over to welcome them, privacy fence and all, especially since they appear to be a gay couple and I wonder sometimes if they won't get the hairy eyeball from some of the more traditional folks in the nabe. Then I'd feel stupid and petty for wondering about dumb shit like what to bake for the new neighbors on a day like today.

J. brought home a DV camera from school. I want to play with it. I have some things in mind to shoot, and I keep meaning to start talking to people and setting it all up, but I sit down at the computer and next to the phone, and my mind kind of blanks out. Not in the usual way, mind you. I'm not the most cerebral person on two feet (I'm smart enough to realize that, at least) but this is that kind of cloud-over-the-head ennui that makes you question taking the trouble to put pants on. For the record, I am wearing pants, however.

la la la la la la la la la la la la http://www.theonion.com/onion3701/bush_nightmare.html la la la la la la

still wasting time http://www.20q.net/index.html

ding! I was getting really frustrated this morning. B has been skipping his naps and it seems like at any given moment, he's scratching himself somewhere. I put three different ointments on him after bathtime, and he slipped on one of them (who knows which one?) and face-planted on the tile. It's funny, however, to hear the timer go off: B. says, "Ding," to it, not emphatically, just matter-of-factly. Yesterday I freaked out after Skipped Nap #2 and packed Baldito up for the thrift store, where it's always Babypalooza. The thrift store is always full of babies and mamas. Assorted older folks, too--they make a fuss over your kid, and they don't care if you drop a sock while you're waiting in line.

Why are there no family-friendly public spaces where you don't have to buy anything? I guess there are parks, but that's no good when it's raining, like yesterday. I'm going to build a big-ass one-room building someday, and I'm going to fill it up with rugs and pillows and cardboard books and unbreakable livingware, and then people can just come over and plop down with their kids. We'll cover the floor with that rubberized playscape stuff and put a drain in it so we can just hose off the vomit and spilled stuff and dirt. Things get so much easier when you can just get eye-to-eye with another parent. When someone asks you a fully-formed question--like "What time is it?" or "What's the sale item today?"--that you can answer cogently--"I don't know" and "I don't know." I guess there's Gymboree, but I'm afraid to go in there. I'm not asking for planned group activities or qualified supervision and I don't want to listen to Raffi: I just want to be casually social in a public place that exists as much for me as for my kid. (Kristin--that's not a slam on Raffi, I swear.) Lionesses raise their cubs in a group, and not without reason.

As I was on my way to the thrift store, I passed a billboard for a Cadillac Escalade. Someone had spray-painted "12/16" (the miles per gallon) and "Worth War?" on it. I thought that was a reasonable question, considering that we have the technology and the ability to manufacture the Toyota Estima, a hybrid-electric minivan that gets 44 mpg and seats seven and is apparently the bee's knees in Japan. I don't care if it drives like a golf cart. I don't care if it looks like a Vanagon. I don't care if it's only available in green. Maybe I might like it a little bit better if it looked like a bullet and hovered above the ground, but who gives a shit?

My snot and I went to the doctor this morning to get checked out. Sure enough, I have a sinus infection. I got a prescription for antibiotics and two testers of Nasalcrom. J. and I like to say "Nasalcrom" to each other in our odder moments, so I bet he'll get a kick out of that.

la la la la la http://www.salon.com/news/wire/2003/03/16/world_war/index.html La la la la la la la la la la la la.

oh no I forgot to mention that we had an unassisted stand on Friday. B. had both hands in my hair and forgot to lean on me for a while. Then he realized he was standing on his own, sat down hard, and freaked out.

I love you, Mom.

doggie go? Oh, and here's an up-yours to our new neighbors, who have constructed a big hermetic privacy fence. Now my son is pointing at an imaginary giant fluffy neighbor dog.

monkey We went to Toy Joy yesterday and showed B. one of those toy monkeys that does a gymnastic routine on the rings when you push the buttons. He laughed hysterically at it. If only we could keep him from eating it. Of course there was too much stimulation in the store and I had to go outside to avert a toddler meltdown. J. stayed inside and reported the following conversation, overheard at the birthday bin:

SHOPPER: Is that the birthday bin?
AIRHEADED PERSON: Yes.
SHOPPER: Is today your birthday?
AIRHEADED PERSON: Uh, no.
SHOPPER: Today is my birthday.
AIRHEADED PERSON: Wow...I wish I were born on a Friday!

B. was born on a Wednesday, which means he's "full of woe," if that poem is to be believed. He does kind of seem to be full of woe; then again, I was born on a Saturday, which means I'm supposed to "work hard for a living." Hah! J. is "fair of face." I think he's pretty cute.

We watched a trashy movie last night, but it didn't compare with the Trashiest Thing Ever--that "Are You Hot or Not?" show, which I watched briefly while I was waiting for J. to come out of the bathroom. Since then, J. and I have been joking with each other. ("Give us a turn. Your smile says Evan Marriott but your brows say Martin Scor-seese. I give you an 8 for the face.") I'm going to be sad when spring break is over.

OK, I guess
you're american beauty. you're full of hope and appreciate the beautiful things in life.
take the which prettie movie are you? quiz, a product of the slinkstercool community.

man date J. just took B. on a "man date," or Daddy playdate. It was cute. J. got all dressed up in an aloha shirt fresh from the closet; the datee is getting some beer. We're finally getting the sheetrock in our garage fixed. It'll be nice not to have to worry about it collapsing. I'm feeling random because I'm still riding out the end of the Bolivian Lung Rot or whatever this is. My head is so stopped up that I can hear my blood circulating. It's really freaking me out; I'm perpetually distracted by it. Huh?! What's that? What's that? Just the sounds of my head. Speaking of heads, this mullet of mine is driving me crazy.

pop goes the weasel So I took myself out on a date last night. Technically I was on the job, but it was quite a bit of fun all the same. I went to the Alamo to see the Pauly Shore indie movie--inauspiciously titled "You'll Never Wiez in This Town Again"--and discovered to my great surprise that the occasion had attracted a small army of youthful hipsters too young to recall "Totally Pauly." Does the smell of irony attract these people? Anyhow, the line for badge holders was incredibly long; I think i was #200 or something crazy like that. I met some dudes from the Harvard Film Archive in line and discovered that we knew a person in common (two, actually, if you count that one of them was related to the publisher of my paper, which is just so weird that I don't count it). The Alamo is a brew-and-view, so I was able to order a piece of pecan pie and a Schlitz to go along with The Weasel. And let me say, while I have the conch, that the Alamo's pie crust is deliciousy--never, never be afraid to add enough salt to your cookies and pies, people. We watched the movie and did Q&A and when it was all over, we spilled out into the night and I walked back to where I'd parked, realizing that I was passing club doors and restaurants. I was OUT. I could have ducked into the Red Fez for a martini. And the cool thing about being a hausfrau mom instead of an insecure twentysomething dilletante is that I looked like shit and honestly didn't care: no makeup, chapped nose from the cold, growing-out hair up in clips. I could have sat down and had a martini and really tasted it for the first time instead of wondering if my lipstick was vanishing or if I was being checked out. I guess this is what people mean when they say that youth is wasted on the young, but what can you really do about that? Everything was cool when I got home. B. accepts nighttime comforting so readily from J. now that it amazes me. He is really a little boy now instead of the lumpen baby of yesteryear. Random note: Have decided that it really isn't better to burn out than to fade away, but it is better still never to have become famous or important in the first place, if Pauly Shore is to be an example. I think I'd rather be a schmoe than to have to go through the cycle of fame, even if I didn't spend my millions on Heidi Fleiss girls and trips to Hawaii and wind up parking cars for tips. Another random note: At another of my screenings, I met the girl wrestler from Girl Wrestler. I feel compelled to mention that she is cute as a bug's ear, though I was unable to mention that in my writeup of the film because I feared it would be sexist to do so. But, in point of fact, she really is, in a MollyRingwald-esque kind of way. This whole week I have been suffused with goodwill toward my fellow filmgoers, who are either cute-as-bug's-ears or fun to chat with over Schlitz or both. Lovely people. It's the spoonful of sugar that's helped me deal with a cold, a sick child, massive bomb tests, Serbian assassinations, etc. I try not to get political in my journal since this is a family affair and my readers are a diverse group, but I would point out that a lot of things have the Baldo Family covering up our ears and saying, "La, la, la, la."

the elephant man Sheila, you should be proud: You've taught B. to say "elephant" by cupping his ears. He pulled that out of nowhere today while eating an unusually large supper of broccoli, noodles, and chicken.

i'm pleased
Vanessa Olivarez

What American Idol Top 12 Finalist Are you???
brought to you by Quizilla

you think it's funny but it's snot Oi, this cold is killing me. First Baldo, now moi. I have a rattling cough--almost but not quite as bad as that one I kept hearing through the wall of my room when I stayed at the Trump Taj Mahal during ECVS a few years ago. I feel nastily congested. The next two days are my "late" assignments, so I'm trying to lie around like moss to conserve energy. I am a bad, bad SXSWer. I keep imagining 2010, when J. and B. can go camping at Lost Maples and I'll paint the town red, going to all the parties all night and all the screenings all day. It kills me how someone in our little family is inevitably sick whenever there is a holiday or break from school. Christmas? Check. Valentine's Day? Check. Spring Break? Check. I saw a delightful movie yesterday, Girl Wrestler. It's about--as you might anticipate--a girl wrestler. I saw a not-at-all delightful movie Saturday, Agent Cody Banks. [rant="on"] Every now and then I am absolutely pleased to take one of these good-karma assignments. But every time it happens, I ask myself: "Self, why are PG movies such slime?" I have no answer. I guess producers (Madonna, are you listening?) expect parents to be totally undiscriminating wrt to their children's entertainment choices. As long as it's fast, loud, and packed with product placement...I mean, my head is reeling from all the Segways and Coke machines and mall-punk music and snowboards. Maybe the family movies were crap when I was little, too, but is it wrong that I so fondly remember Herbie the Love Bug? And that extraterrestrial cat who talked to Ken Berry by dint of its glowing crystal collar? I'm not trying to convince anyone that The Apple Dumpling Gang is great cinema, but at least it wasn't so nakedly self-promotional, was it? Maybe it is all relative, but it didn't seem like these kids on Saturday were really into the movie any more than I was. Nobody clapped or laughed or reacted discernibly. What a bummer. [rant="off"]And *then* there were the clever parents who took their school-aged kids to see Girl Wrestler instead. Here's this straightforward, smart little documentary about a twelve-year-old girl who is a seriously committed freestyle wrestler. She practices. She deals with her parents' divorce. She goes to nationals. She faces sexism with a shrug: She just wants to be at the top of her game. It was kid-friendly in length (about 70 minutes) and when the lights were down, everybody in the theater was hooked in to this kid's life, sharing her experiences, getting nervous with her before each match, etc. It was dramatic and real. It wasn't frenetic or silly. This, my friends, is why we make movies: so two hundred or so strangers can sit in the dark and all ride the same wave of emotion together. I harangued J. to show it to his students. And then it made me want to have a daughter. That's dangerous thinkin', eh? We've got our hands so full of baby right now that I can't even imagine having a second kid, even one who doesn't throw up six or seven times a day and chew the skin off her fingers. Maybe this is my unconscious telling me to nurture my inner girl or something.

ahoy!

l.a. face and an oakland booty

cake or death? Baldo is unimpressed.

nuts! The verdict is in from the allergist, and I am sad. The Baldacious One is allergic to peanuts, eggs, and cat dander. The good news is that pharmacy techs get right on your prescription when you need an Epi-Pen. It's bad news for Scooter, who cannot return to Nipplewood. It was a borderline class 3 reaction. The dr also said it can take 6 to 8 months to get the cat dander out of your house. I guess it's good that there wasn't a reaction to dog, so maybe we can get a short-haired dog at some point if we decide we want a mammalian pet. The word for now is no household pets. Natch, the alarming bit is the peanut thing. I've been semi-freaking out for a couple of hours. There is a chance of false positives with the RAST, but for now we're going to take it seriously. We'll test again in another year. Time for another turn on the merry-go-round of elimination diets. I am terribly chagrined to recall the wheatless cake of yore, which was, of course, loaded with eggs--four eggs and a big glop of mayonnaise. I was most concerned to see that doughnuts are not allowed. Somebody: Make an eggless doughnut! Isn't there a vegan doughnut out there somewhere? Ethical people need fried food, too. I got my SXSW assignments--three of 'em. Wahoo! What else, what else? Not much else, not much else.

i call him mr. pointy So I popped by the ped's office, B. got weighed and measured and poked with sharp needles, and we're seeing the allergist again this afternoon. Drumroll please...he is 22 lbs, 5 oz. and is 30 inches long. Precisely 50% percentile, which figures because J. and I are about as statistically average as you can get, right down to our (natural) brown hair. The doctor hemmed and hawed about the MMR, and we decided to postpone it because it's made with eggs (like the flu vaccine) and we're still waiting on the RAST results. The doctor did say that "almost all" of their vaccines on the shelf are thimerosal free. Whew! Our chances of getting a neurotoxin are low! Don't these things have a list of ingredients on them somewhere? B. still has very itchy hands, so last night we put on some coconut oil and lanolin and covered them up with newborn-size socks. And then we laughed our asses off because it looked hilarious. First B. laughed and made puppety gestures, then he nursed to sleep and tore them off in the night--by biting, I assume. The literature I have says to pin the socks to his pajama sleeves, but how burdensome is that? What, he's got to wear long-sleeved pjs all year? Next let's grow out his toenails and put Kleenex boxes on his feet. You have to draw the line somewhere. Perhaps we'll end up with him in a Lucite bubble, which we can bedeck with cheery designs in nontoxic paint. In other gripping bloggy-type news, I'm still waiting on the SXSW pass (I'm guessing it's a no?) and my hair is getting seriously mullety. So I guess if the pass falls through, I'll have to spend spring break with J., which would be nice except my hair will be too mullety for me to enjoy it. Pictures will be ready after 5:00, and "24" is so ridiculous I can't stand it anymore. Wait! It's...it's...George! In the back of the plane! No, George! Don't...sacrifice...yourself! Jack jumps to safety...and...NOOOOOOooooooo! President Palmer must be with the people of Los Angeles! Wasn't the fallout heading to Vegas? The people of Los Angeles are none the wiser. Why not go be with the people of Apple Valley, since they're the ones who are being irradiated? I guess it's not very sexy to go to Apple Valley, home of the Dale Evans museum. Am I the only one who's actually still wondering what happened to Miguel, the matchboxtwentyesque Wonderboyfriend, with his automatic kung-fu skills and perfectly texturized hair? Can we have at least a split-screen of Miguel in the hospital or something? Where's the abusive dad? Where's Megan? *At least* we have reason to believe that the--ahem--*evidence* suggesting the--ahem--*collusion* of certain countries in the terrorist plot is--ahem--iffy. Hey, Kristin--can we get an accuracy check on whatever that blather was about the type of encryption discovered by the Scullyesque sysadmin? What the hell was that? The flux capacitor? ("I'm afraid it's PQ3-encrypted, Tony. It'll take well into the next episode to decode this intel. Let's bring in the shady Middle Eastern diplomat with suspicious motives! Okay, I'll admit it now. I'm enjoying this more than I thought I am.

ok, I forgot the pictures Soon. I promise.

and yes, I am dropping off a roll of film today.

toddlerthon 2003 Personal circumstances in the lives of some folks I know occasioned a full day of toddler play yesterday. We had six running around at one point (and crawling around, in the case of Baldito). This lets me know what it might be like to have the Arizona Quints. "More than we can handle," is an understatement, especially considering that we had multiple parents on the job at all times. We read books and played catch and wore hats and jumped in imaginary indoor rain puddles and dispensed yogurt and sandwiches and changed diapers and washed hands and put sleepers down for naps on the couch. We ate pizza. We got stuff figured out. When J. and I got home, I wrote up my review for "Amen.", which is the new Costa-Gavras movie. (Lest you think I'm slipping up on my punctuation, I'd like to point out that the period is part of the film's title. I hate shit like that. That, and FUNny capITALization, and mis/USE of the solidus. I gave into that temptation when I was writing my thesis, whose title contains a misemployed hyphen and italics, but I'm so over it now. Now it's all about the editing.) I saw a link to an article about how text messaging is driving down the standards of literacy, and I couldn't even read it. I was full of despair. I'm already guilty of singing along with "Free to Be You and Me," heedless of the fact that it really should say "You and I are free to be you and I." Will I even be able to understand my child? Will there be doctoral theses claiming text-message syntax as a legitimate variant of the English language? (There probably already are.) Okay, I'm nattering, but I just get really overexcited about this stuff since I'm a big dork whose child is napping. Baldito has his one-year checkup today. This is big stuff. This is when he will be pronounced as thriving or not thriving. He will receive the MMR vaccine, which terrifies me utterly. There had better not be any thimerosal in there. I am quite guilty of putting my hands over my ears and saying, "La, la, la, la..." on the topic of vaccination. There's such an explosion of information on either side of the issue. I utterly and completely respect any parent's decision to consciously refuse vaccinations, but I think the risks of most of the diseases outweigh the risk of the vaccines *in our case,* especially since J. is a public worker and I have my hands over my ears saying, "La, la, la, la..." The exception is the chickenpox vaccine, which I think is straight-up stupid, probably because I don't remember chickenpox being anything but a nuisance back in the day, when every kid on the block had it and the worst long-term effect was perhaps the occasional scar. J. and I are running around with lifelong immunity to it, and B. will need boosters until he's an adult, at which point he'll forget and contract chickenpox and it will be considerably more serious than a youthful infection. Yeah, yeah, okay, there's the shingles thing, which I get on account of the Dave Letterman angle and because my dingleberry college boyfriend "Skip" had it, and that really wasn't anything to joke about because he was sicker than a dog (a worthy comparison for other reasons, as well) and threw up down the side of my car when we were driving to the hospital and wound up being there for two months. I hate choosing between different potentially dreadful outcomes. Evidently my own esteemed and very by-the-book family doctor encouraged selective vaccinations when I was a lass. But still, you know, la, la, la, la. I just hope we weigh in well and are healthy and thriving, which I don't doubt of course. Baldito was unbelievably mellow throughout Toddlerthon 2003, playing happily, and he points to the kangaroo in his bath book when prompted and says "Daddy" all day. So what's the rub?

party animal We had our baby party yesterday, and it was a blast. There were infants and toddlers everywhere and chatting and drinking and playing and cake and presents and B. took a big nap in the midst of it. I think the best thing that happened, though, was when a couple of parents I hadn't met before came up to me and thanked me for making a gluten-free cake because their daughter has celiac disease. Whenever she goes to birthday parties she doesn't get to eat cake. She was so excited to get to eat cake with everybody else. I was really stoked for this kid. Personally I think the cake was a little dry but it wasn't half bad just the same. I can tweak the recipe if I make it again--and why not, since I have all this leftover xanthan gum? It was so much fun that something inevitably was bound to go wrong, and in the case of my child that something usually involves reverse peristalsis. He had a weirded-out look on his face as we packed B. up in the car to depart. As we were turning out of the neighborhood, he honked up a giant tide of vomit and (sorry) mucus. Just disgusting. We had to pull over into the parking lot of a school to wipe up and calm him, and there was apparently a band concert going on, because all these minivans were turning in around us and discharging adolescents with french horns, and they all kind of gawked at us and our vomit-covered child, who was screaming so frantically that he stopped making noise and did that open-mouthed silent baby thing. J. and I tag-teamed our supper (from the Wally's drive-through) and took turns rocking and comforting. And on that note I would like to say that Wally's is The Shit. If I can enjoy your cuisine after having been repeatedly puked on, that's some good stuff. I wish I had a butterscotch milkshake right now. I'm curious to try their other new dessert, but I'm so not going to order it. It's a "Wally Banger." I don't even want to say that out loud; it sounds like something you just don't want to ask for.

grand old baby Grandparents take note: I think Baldo is a Republican. At least he's started gesticulating wildly in the direction of the latest Texas Monthly, which features a close-up shot of Karl Rowe on the cover. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that he was pointing at the magazine and making the sign for baby, so maybe he thinks Karl Rowe is a baby (due to his paucity of hair)? B. likes to flip through the pages and usually ends up at one of the giant glossy pullout ads for something horrible, like cosmetic surgery or retirement property.