baldo explains it all Now that there are three speaking members in our household, we are able to resolve certain disputes that have lingered between J. and myself for the past eleven years.

J. (to Baldo): Do beans go in chili?
Baldo: YES!

Child, have I taught you nothing? And you call yourself a Texan?

I'm going to give myself away as a big dork on this one--or at least something of an erstwhile stoner--but I was thrilled today by this remark:

Baldo: I love Pink Floyd!

I did my Snoopy dance all around the house while J. cringed in horror. Apparently during the Father-Son outing this morning, somebody was playing Dark Side of the Moon. I don't object to that at all. I think fear of classic rock is a healthful thing, but I lack it utterly. I'm from the age of the IROC, of Aqua Net, of Laser Floyd at the Burke Baker Planetarium. That's what we did. I retain a certain wistfulness for it all. It was big and loud and unabashed, just as toddlers are. So of course Baldo likes it. Of course he likes it when we drive around in the wagon blasting "Holy Diver." My kid's like a rainbow in the dark. Whatever that means. I could never figure it out.

I really got me down I've been Weepy McWeeples the past few days. I think it has something to do with progesterone. I think it has something to do with the alligator-wrestling process of publishing a book. I think it has something to do with a lack of pie. I think it has something to do with having a kid and realizing that you're doing the dance of separation.

So much of what people tell parents nowadays involves making sure your child never encounters an unpleasant experience that will be imprinted upon his or her personality, transforming a cute little blank slate into a pie-obsessed, Paxil-popping neurotic adult. You have to have the right start with appropriate bonding and warm associations and secure attachment, and all of those things are fine and good. Even if your child is born happy--mine was pulled out by his ass, screaming--you still reach a point where your child is going to be traumatized by something evidently benign, like the tank of live crabs at the grocery store or a passing trash truck. And he'll want you to make it stop, or make it start, and you just can't do that. And your child will realize you are not magical.

And you may get weepy.

Last night I finished the book that I was reading and collapsed into a little pile of blubbering Mother. Jesus, what if my kid has to go to war and somebody steps on a mine and he lands on his head and can't talk or write anymore? What the fuck are we going to do then? Steve Burns has taught us a little bit of ASL, so he might remember how to say "Blue" and "Thank you for helping me." And "elephant" and "giraffe." That's not much of a vocabulary. And then we'll get isolated and desperate and escape into addiction and maybe beat the shit out of transients and perhaps end up institutionalized.

Then I had a weird, wicked thought. Hey, I rule at that stuff! I've never physically assaulted anyone, except for that time I'd had quite enough antagonism from the stupid neighbor boy when I was four, and I punched his motherfucking lights out with my parents' blessing. But I have gone crazy and been addicted and escaped the institution by the skin of my teeth. So maybe I know more about that than I thought I did.

So many of us are running around trying to create perfect little environments so our children will never know frustration. And that's good for the little farts, but eventually you have to suck it up and work on the coping mechanisms.

And that's the job you'll have for the rest of your life.

dear james dobson Reverend Dobson:

Okay, so Focus on the Family is concerned that SpongeBob's a gay fella. I get that. Obviously the guy isn't a Kinsey Zero; he lives in a pineapple under the sea with a pet snail. He plays the ukelele. He wears briefs.

But have you ever seen Blue's Clues? Talk about your deviant children's entertainment. I think there's some kind of polyamory among the spices, or else Mrs. Pepper is a widow living in sin. She doesn't even bother to call herself Ms. Pepper-Salt, and the children only have one name...like Muslims! And you know, they're French.

fire in the disco Reminder to self: Do not try to party with the kids. I mean it this time. Please? Even if your companions are older than you are, they can kick your ass, too, and then go on to Beerland. OK?

did you get that memo? Note to self: Don't even try to party with the young kids. You look pathetic (not that looking pathetic ever stopped me from doing something) and you stay up too late. If you drink three beers, you will face-plant on the table. If you sit too close to the jukebox, you will have tinnitus the next morning.

Your child will wake up extra early in the morning, and his voice will be squeakier than it was yesterday. While you are attempting to apply a compound of esoteric lotions to his eczema, he will kick you in the face and give you a nosebleed. You will not like this.

Now. Onward.

Observations from partying with the young kids: Because I was a late bloomer and an early marrier, I never really experienced the phenomenon of courtship rituals. I don't know what people do to meet and interact with other people (besides enrolling in graduate school). And I had no idea it was all so...urgent? Is that the word I'm looking for? I'm used to pitchers of beer and bullshitting all night about Polish New Film. And none of that kind of thing was going on last night.

My friend E. was in town from Dallas, and we were met by her friend L., who is certified Man Candy: six feet tall, blonde, frosted lipstick, very tan, very hot, very Dallas. She was a fucking riot. And there was no seeming end to the stupid things people were saying to her to initiate conversation with her--Wow. You're tall. chief among them.

So at one point L. indicated her wish to meet a nice young man who was playing pool. I don't really give a fuck about anything, so while she hid under the table, E. and I walked over to him, and I said, "Hello, nice young man. Before you take that shot, I want to inform you that my Amazonian Man Candy friend sitting around that corner would like to meet you. Are you open to that?"

"The one in the green shirt?" As if he didn't know.
It was really more blue. "Yes."
"I'll come by."

So I went back. "He's coming over," I said. "He looks like he probably smells good." Remember, I am the freak of nature with No Sense of Smell, but I gather that smells are important to people. They like to sniff each other and sniff muffins and shit.

"Omigod, I can't believe you just did that," said L.

It used to be we had a yenta in the village for these things. Now our village is global, so I must offer myself as what I can only call a Single People Hag. Do you need a nosy, meddlesome married woman to procure men for your table and stoke the conversation when it flags? ("So tell me more about these amphibious vehicles. Are their engines complex?") She leaves early (of course) and can gauge the reaction of your hookup to commitment by casually mentioning her child and house and spouse.

Anyhow, the dude came over. And let me tell you, I am no shrinking violet, and I can talk about Violet Wands and enema porn with the best of them. (I used to write about enema porn. Please don't read that as "I used to write enema porn" because there's a big difference.) Even I was shocked and dismayed by how rapidly everybody goes for the crotch these days. I'm not saying I disapprove, because people should go for whatever they want to go for and blah blah blah, but in the immortal words of Maurice Chevalier, I'm glad I'm not young anymore.

unremarkable The past week has been pretty unremarkable. Of course I had to remark about that.

ruffles Call CPS. I took my son to school in pink ruffled pull-ups.

We're giving the pull-ups a try because Baldo sometimes evinces a fiery desire to use the toilet, like a Gene Kelly "Gotta Dance!" kind of self-motivation. Then he forgets about that twelve minutes later.

Of course the pull-ups come in boy and girl varieties. Everything has to come in separate girl and boy varieties. That way if you have more than one child, you'll buy two of everything! It's all about the benjamins. Anyhow, I find this practice odious, so I sprang for the girly pull-ups after Baldo selected them. ("I want the pink!")

The stupid fucking things have scratchy paper ruffles on them.

People shouldn't wear undergarments with scratchy paper ruffles on them unless they are fully-grown consenting adults embarking on a voyage of self-discovery through humiliation and pain. I've heard of such things.

In my nearly three years of mothering, I have tried every possible solution to the problem of baby butt waste, from organic Chinese cotton prefolds to disposable paper shitbombs printed with toxic ink and filled with god-knows-what kind of carcinogenic hyperabsorbent space-age gel. And they all fucking suck. They all leak, they all cause rashes. Not a one fits properly on my child, who is afflicted with a severe form of White Boy No-Ass. I hate them all equally.

I even danced dangerously close to the precipice atop the chasm of cloth diapering obsession. Tiger-striped snap fleece covers with a layer of PUL! Honeyboy AIOs! Get my VISA! Then came Paxil.

I'm inadequate Sometimes I read other blogs written by people my age with similar occupations, and I feel fantastically inadequate. They watch seven movies on a weekend, hang out at the Whisky Bar, eat breakfast tacos to mend hangovers.

I don't do these things.

I watch a shitty movie (chosen for that purpose) every weekend with Aunt K., and if I'm lucky I'll stay awake for the other movie I always rent along with the trash. This weekend was Control Room. I am the last working film writer on Earth to see Control Room. I watched the latter half of it supine.

And now the boy is up. Time to go read "Blue's Friendship Day." Ah, culture.

I'm speechless Oh my.

Did it help the kid sleep? Seriously.

I love you guys I used to worry that since none of my friends have kids I was going to have to go out and get new friends with kids. And these new friends would be humorless and staid people who wore belts with shorts and listened to Raffi. Unfounded.

To wit, we hung out yesterday with Moz the Wonder Baby and his dad, who presented us with a gift: An autographed program from a children's entertainment event we recently endured together. He had Photoshopped it so that the titles of the treacly songs now include "...It's in My Diaper, Too," "I'll Pull Your Hair Out," "Stem Cell, Schmem Cell," and "A.N.U.S." The rest of them are so appalling I won't even reiterate them here.

cold turkey All this week I've been super cranky and surly, like practically to the point of breaking bottles and attacking people with them.

I've also been freakishly tired.

And then yesterday the flatulence started up.

So I sat down in my Thinking Chair. Our clues were "super cranky and surly" (denoted by broken bottle and pool of blood), "freakishly tired" (denoted by a human form slumped over the couch), and "flatulence" (denoted by a small gray cloud).

Let's. Think.

"Your sperm count is supposed to be zero!" I yelled at J. "You're supposed to be a sport fuck!"

"I am!" he cried. "Look at the test results."

Okay, that wasn't it.

So what could it be?

I opened up the kitchen cabinet, and waiting for me there were five untaken tablets of Paxil. "There you are!" they seemed to exclaim. "You've been eating grapes instead!"

And that, shovels and pails, explains it all.

Do not--I repeat, DO NOT--cold turkey the Paxil.

I've cold-turkeyed many a pharmaceutical substance during my sojourn through the Valley of the Dolls. This doesn't quite touch the Serzone-induced psychosis, but it's pretty damn close.

There is in fact a class-action lawsuit under way in California to classify Paxil as a controlled substance because getting off it is so difficult. So scary. So weird.

It scared me to have this experience. I honestly don't think I am a chronically depressed person. I think I went through a thing, and I think I got better. And I think it's time to consider getting off of this ride.

Just don't cold turkey the Paxil.

call me jocasta Sometimes raising this boy is like being in the worst. relationship. ever. Sometimes his is a scary love.

Maybe there's something to that Oedipal stuff. I don't know. There's something in the way my kid wails for me to get in his bed with him but instead of going to sleep, he looks at me with Weird and Scary Love and says, "I loooooove you, Marrit" and stares at me for twenty minutes. It kind of freaks me out the way it used to when my cat in college would sit on the edge of the tub and watch me shower.

Or maybe it's just that in all my bad relationships of yore, I was dating some kind of outsized toddler. I've seen all this before. The yelling and hitting and throwing stuff when angry, followed by weepy contrition. Today Baldo pulled a pumice out of the bathroom cabinet and announced, "I will scrub your feet while you sleep." What? Is that from an article in Cosmo? He pumiced my feet while I was napping. And then he gave me chocolate and said, "You pick the movie tonight." Maybe you could just not scream in my face and beat the hell out of me? Women like that.

We are really having a problem with violent tantrums. Well, him, not me. My personal history is obliterating the tantrums with Xanax, and I don't do that anymore. (Although I did pretty much mainline Valerian yesterday.)We are throwing out the books and effecting a zero-tolerance policy in this household. And then he can pumice my feet.

I want a do-over Why does everyone keep telling me it's going to get easier?

radijazz The other day we went with Baldo's school chum E. and her mom to Radijazz since it was rainy and cold. And I made a decision: I am having a private party at Radijazz some day without kids. When I am fabulously wealthy enough to afford to rent all 9000 square feet. It may yet happen.

Baldo dragged me into the inner sanctum of the Lavascape, and all I could think was This would be so amazing...in an altered state.

One of the guys working there was a young mohawk guy. He was on floor duty, arbitrating the toddler chaos, when I went back to where I'd left our stuff. He buttonholed me.

"Is that your bag?" he asked.
"Yep." Um, did you search it? I have a prescription for that syringe. It's for my kid, I swear.
"It's really cool!"
My bag has lots of pins and patches and crap on it. It's my flair.
"Thanks," I said. It's not every day a crusty punk compliments you on your diaper bag. "I just got a new pin for it. A Public Enemy pin."
"You listen to Public Enemy?"
I swear, I try not to point out to these guys that they were, like, four when Fear of a Black Planet came out. "Yes," I said. "We listen to Public Enemy at home." And then I told him the story of how Baldo is obsessed with Flavor Flav, how my kid goes around yelling "Bass for your face!"
"Where'd you get it? The pin, I mean."
And there he had me. "I got it at Hot Topic," I confessed.
His face fell. I thought he was crushed that I wasn't hardcore, that I was a mall mom after all.
"Why'd you say it like that?" he asked. "I work at Hot Topic."
So then I was in the awkward position of apologizing to him while I was apologizing to myself.

It was kind of strange.

Sportacus here! Super! I've found something worse than Lazy Town. Ready for it?

It's the Lazy Town "radio" on nickjr.com.

"It's Stephanie!" Baldo cries. "She really rocks!"

It sounds just like Boney M to me, except the songs are about physical fitness instead of Christmas and Rasputin. Lots of "get on up!" and "everybody move!" and that dunt-dunt-dunt Euro beat. "Super moves! You got it!"

I hope these people realize that we aren't actually dancing. We are sitting at computers in our pajamas with bagels. Nothing about our sedentary lifestyle has changed. We have simply removed all pretense of educational objectives. Thanks for that! Before we were sorting and classifying and learning process knowledge. Now we are listening to streaming-audio Eurocheese.

God, now I'm imagining Baldo grown-up as a DJ on Ibiza. This worries me less than it might other mothers, but I'm still not pleased. Son, just don't drink that horribly fruity stuff with God knows what in it, respect your body, and test the MDMA for purity. And wear sunscreen if you go out during the day.

just in case Suppose you woke up asking yourself, "Gee, how does Marrit feel about her breasts?" Don't lie. You know it's happened.

Answers this month in Parent:Wise Austin Magazine.

I'm like Lionel Richie, and I can't slow down. Is that a line from something? Does anyone know?

Dear reader, if you've ever seen me pass the two-drink minimum you know that I can't shut up. And since Baldo is sleeping, that means I have to blog. I'm really sorry.

First of all: Andy Partridge, I love you, man. Do you know that XTC and KTRU saved me, with help from The Other J.? I can still remember the exact moment we were driving around northwest suburban Houston in The Other J's banana-yellow Dodge Caravan with the radio on scan, and we realized Holy shit, there's college radio! and it was "Making Plans for Nigel" and we went all slack-jawed and goofy. And did you know that when my kid isn't pooping on the coffee table, he goes around singing "Why, oh why?" tunelessly, which I realized today is from "Snowman"? Fuck, man, Andy Partridge, you make me a better person.

Secondly: I don't know who the fuck is responsible for the atrocity that is Lazy Town, but I'm going to find you and kick your ass. I don't care if I have to go to Iceland to do it. I'm not exactly in peak physical condition, but dammit I am nothing if not tenacious, and your "power jumps" will not save you. You've set back the cause of children's entertainment...um...decades! You're shittier than the Krofft puppets, and you represent the very worst excesses of European pop culture, like Boney M. My kid and I don't need your spandex lump shots and mini-trampolines and Casiotones, and if the worst thing your villain ever does is sit down and eat chocolate...well, maybe he might also read a book or something, huh? How the fuck did you get into my house, anyway? I don't even have cable. Andy Partridge and I are going to hold you down while my kid poops on you.

hic! or the story of our butts Champers all around, honeys. The manuscript got mailed today.

And not one but two pieces of pie.

Sending your first manuscript in to the publisher is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I know I'll never forget it, especially since my pants basically fell off in the post office. Take one heavy Express Mail parcel, add one squirmy 30-lb toddler in sling, mix with low-rise jeans. Surround with horrified elderly patrons for proper presentation.

In other news, we are ramping up for The Great Potty Experiment v. 2.0, which promises to be rich. J. and B. came back from Target yesterday with a sack of licensed-character underpants. Baldito soils them; we wash them. End of experiment. Well, almost. He ran into the bathroom with me at one point today, sat down on his mini-loo, and grunted and strained to no avail. Hopped up, ran out to the living room. I washed up and walked out just in time to see him standing unattired on our coffee table, pinching a giant loaf in midair.

I mean, I can't even estimate the number of messes I've cleaned up today. I'm going to have a spray bottle of nontoxic household cleaner surgically implanted in one hand.