Julep: On that note...

When you have a minute, check out this little snippet I just read called "How Thick Is Your Bubble?" I got 53 and I am interested to hear how y'all score.

Twinkle: Elitist B*tch

So I had an epiphany tonight in the Rainforest Cafe at Downtown Disney.

You know how all our friends are when choosing restaurants: it has to be fresh; it has to be local. All the better if it involves Capriole goat cheese and kale from the Grasshopper CSA. We all like to rave about Kathy Cary and Jim Gerhardt and Edward Lee; our bourbon cocktails must be handmade creations by the incomparable Joy Perrine.

So I haven't been a fan of the Rainforest Cafe ever since we were forced into going with my inlaws and extended family during our Chicago days. But when my cousin, who lives down here (and is very normal and fun) suggested it as a family-friendly choice near Disneyworld, I agreed. Even though I b*tchily thought I'd like to try somewhere local and farm fresh (not on the grounds of Disney, clearly). At the same time, I do know that I'm in the wrong place on earth to be railing against marketing, commercialism, and chain restaurants, so the Rainforest Cafe really wasn't that big a deal. But I have to admit, I did think, "Ugh...can't we try someplace local?"

Anyway, my epiphany came when one of the Rainforest Cafe's trademark simulated thunderstorms broke out, and a family of elephants emerged from the walls to sound their trumpets. My children's faces showed a mixture of shock, awe, and joy, and that's when I was shocked and awed (although not overjoyed) to realize that I am an elitist b*tch. They were having fun, everyone there was having fun, and I should have just gone with it to begin with. Everything doesn't always have to involve farm-fresh Kentucky bison in a red wine demi-glace. I have always been a "when in Rome" kind of a girl, which is why I will not balk tomorrow when my daughters explore Walt Disney World--the most magical and corporately-manufactured place on earth--in their politically incorrect princess gowns. Because I'm in a simulated version of Rome, and by golly there's something fun about that.

Later I almost took off a toenail after hitting my foot against the bathroom door in the hotel.

You know who's an even bigger elitist b*tch? Karma.

Twinkle: B*tchalicious

Put my children in a room full of college professors and child psychologists and their whelps, and I think mine stack up pretty well. They don't watch a lot of tv (Twinklette is old enough to enjoy an episode of the Berenstain Bears here and there on a snowy day), aren't obsessed with characters or princesses, and couldn't sing the theme song to Dora the Explorer if they tried. I carried them in a sling and breastfed them. They play outside. They play freely and creatively. They eat organic and own an arsenal of wooden Melissa and Doug puzzles. This is all just how we roll; it's not about proving anything. It's not actually based on any philosophy; it's kind of just how we've evolved, and I don't think I'm better or worse than people who do things differently. But I do think I can hang in a room full of professors.

And this afternoon, I clearly wasn't. Thinking, that is. Or maybe I just didn't expect to encounter such an intolerant b*tch.

Rewind to this afternoon. My girls and I participated in a video produced by the local university about the dos and don'ts of good sleep habits. (My cousin is a child sleep psychologist there--and let me just say that she is an awesome resource for any parent who has questions about infant or child sleep). She called yesterday and asked Twinklette to act out some different good and bad scenarios with other children. Little did we know when we showed up to a quaint center hall colonial on Strathmoor Blvd. that we were actually walking into a liberal intellectual bloodbath.

The bitch was wearing mom jeans. Her name was Katie, and she had the slightly outdated hairstyle and and smug, self-satisfied look of a private therapist. (Why can't real-life therapists ever look like they're from the current decade?) She introduced herself and proceeded to let me know through the course of the conversation that she was intellectual and enlightened, a conscious citizen and socially-aware mother.

Filming began. Her daughter was supposed to be playing on a computer in her pajamas (screen time is a no-no before bed, according to the experts in the house on Strathmoor Blvd). Now, this girl was probably in fifth grade, but she didn't know what to do on a computer because she had never been on one before. Apparently she is a student at the hippy-dippy Waldorf School, which subscribes to a completely screen-free philosophy. (I actually like the Waldorf School, but if I end up sending my children there, I don't plan on being a jerk about it).

So, her kid, Holly, is sitting in front of a computer screen, unaware of what to do and completely uninterested. Whatever. I didn't think twice about Holly's computer habits or lack thereof; I'm not one to judge and I didn't really care one way or the other. But the fact remained that the cameraman needed his shot.

Cameraman: Uh...maybe there's a fun kids' Web site or something she can visit.

Me (ill-advisedly trying to be helpful): Oh, Pinkalicious has a cute Web site.

Katie (with a horrified look like I'd asked Holly to visit a porn site for Bratz dolls): Um..........yeah. Let's do pbs.org.

Bitch!

First of all, Pinkalicious is a book. I mean, yes, it is a book about the color pink, but it is a book nonetheless. It's not like I was suggesting she put on a tiara and full whore makeup and twirl around in a Disney princess gown. It's a book. Not a tv show. A book. It's actually a really cute book--a little girl eats too many pink cupcakes and turns pink. The other books in the series are slightly less well-written but have good messages nonetheless (Purplelicious is about being yourself no matter what other people think, and Goldilicious is a strange stream-of-consciousness tome on imagination that might have been inspired by a very girlie acid trip). My point: Pinkalicious is respectable children's literature. For that matter, so is Fancy Nancy. Best of all is Madeline.

Second of all, am I the only one who notices the irony of her letting the totally screen-free Holly appear in a video? The hypocrisy.

Like I said, it never occurred to me that I was going to have to impress Katie or anyone else at the house on Strathmoor Blvd. I was just generously letting them film my child (watching a cartoon, no less). I wonder if Katie judged the fact that, unlike her kid, Twinklette seemed to know exactly what to do when placed in front of a television.

Will it be hard for Holly to write a paper on a computer once she leaves the Waldorf School and ends up at a school that's less screen-free? Maybe, but it's not my problem. If I do end up sending my children to the Waldorf School, will they still watch The Berenstain Bears occasionally? Probably, but if it's going to have to be a big secret I probably don't want to send them there in the first place. I live my life and try not to get all judgy about what other people are doing. People get so myopic about their child-rearing philosophies, and it's all just a bunch of BS anyway. You do what works and try to survive; I'm not ashamed that my daughter loves Pinkalicious and I'll even admit letting her play on the Pinkalicious Web site every now and then.

Here's a dirty little secret: next to all those Melissa and Doug puzzles is this scary-looking Barbie styling head who looks like a complete whore and reinforces negative stereotypes and body images for young girls. And yes I hated myself when I bought it, and yes it cheapens the whole playroom, and yes Twinklette loves it. From now on it will stand as a meaningful reminder that I may aspire to the greatness of all-wooden, eco-friendly, gender-neutral toys for my children, but we must also be firmly grounded in reality. Because we do live in the real world, Pinkalicious and all.

Hanukkah Dramakkah

So Mr. Twinkle's cousin is a little intense and she gets offended at the slightest little thing, and I just don't have time to deal with her. She's the type who will call me to ask what my children want for Hanukkah, but then when I say, "What do yours want?" she will want me to call her back later on that night. Sorry, b*tch. You get one phone conversation at a time. I texted her (yesterday) to see what they wanted, but didn't hear back until last night (she wanted me to have to track her down instead of the other way around, probably). She finally called last night, desperately looking for me once again to respond to the text message. Too late--her kids are getting gift cards.

Well, tonight she passive-aggressively b*tched me out over some coupon books that were Twinklette's school fundraiser last fall. Yeah, I forgot to get them to her, because honestly the damn things are not my top priority (it's not like she'd paid for them, either...we had a strictly verbal agreement over them). We wrote a check to the school for them in September, and if family members want to buy them that's cool, but I don't have the time, energy, or inclination to hit up family and friends to sell them. I have two children, one of whom is rather high maintenance, and a husband who belongs on the show Hoarders; my day is spent wiping *ss and trying to tame clutter...not to mention all the Christmukkah magic I'm responsible for this time of year. I couldn't care less about some damn coupon books.

So tonight she came up to me with a huge, intense, maniacal smile.

Her: Do you ever check your messages?

Me: Oh, sometimes. But...not today.

Her: You know, with all the social things that you do, I'd think you would check your messages.

Me: Yes, it's one of my many shortcomings.

Her: Well, did you bring the coupon books?

Me: Oh, I forgot. I'm sorry.

Her: If you'd checked your messages you would have known that I wanted a coupon book.

Me: Yes, I know. I'm not perfect. I forgot.

Her: I really need the coupon book.

Me: I'm sorry. I don't have it.

Her: Because, if I can't get it from you, I'm going to get it somewhere else.

Me: That's fine. If you need to do that, I totally understand.

Her: I really want to get it from you, but I can get it at Kroger if I need to.

Me: Well, if you need it right now, maybe you should just get it at Kroger, then.

Her: Because, the thing is, I've already needed the coupon book.

Me: OK, well if you need it, you should just go ahead and get it somewhere else.

Her: See, the old books expired December 1.

Me: Well, do what you need to do. I understand.

Her: I mean, if you could just give it to David, then we could get it from him.

Me: OK. I can do that.

Her: Because we see him a lot, so you don't even need to bring it to me. Just give it to him and he will get it to us.

Me: OK. That's fine.

Anyway it went on and on with her pushing the issue and me agreeing with her/not caring until she finally turned and walked off in a huff. It was the most bizarre thing I have ever seen, because the maniacal smile did not leave her face the entire time, and I just wanted the conversation to be over. Then she didn't talk to me again the rest of the night until the very end, when she thrust $40 in my face and put her order in for 2 coupon books.

(P.S. Do you love value? Coupon books still available!)

Twinkle: Fancy Here's Your One Chance Don't Let Me Down

So, today was the sad, sad Thanksgiving luncheon, and the situation is so dire with Mr. Twinkle's uncle that I was actually glad I wasn't the one in charge of the Thanksgiving meal. The insurance company will only pay for ICU for so long, which has forced the family to make some very awful decisions on Thanksgiving Eve/Thanksgiving Day.

So in the midst of all this, I am trying to make Thanksgiving memories for my children. Which is why I planned a nice Thanksgiving dinner for tomorrow--how could I know he'd be removed from the ventilator then? No one could have.

I'm not worried about the turkey and all the fixings that I bought. I just don't want to do the wrong thing, and if I fix everything and it goes uneaten that'll be OK. I'm doing what Mr. Twinkle wants, and Mr. Twinkle said to go ahead and fix everything. He said his parents probably won't want to cook, so maybe they could come over. And of course they can. His mom is a b*tch to me, but I'm not so heartless as to deny her a nice meal and family time with the grandchildren who will surely cheer her up at least a little, as her brother is dying. If she wants to come, she is welcome. If the meal doesn't happen at all because of how the day goes, that's OK too.

But...y'all know me. I planned a nice meal for my family. Turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, corn pudding, green bean casserole, a big, decadent chocolate cake that Mr. Twinkle requested from the pages of this month's Southern Living. We will use our nicest dishes and silver; we always do because enjoying our nice things is part of my whole worldview. Someone might find this meal to be feast-like and--dare I say it--fancy.

I planned the meal for just us, but now they're coming and I can try to tone it down all I want, but I know she will only see that I'm trying to be fancy. And I wish that I could just explain myself to her. I like to use my nice dishes on normal days and holidays, not because I'm trying to be all uppity and fancy, but because I believe in making occasions special. My desire for our own Thanksgiving isn't about me trying to take over, but about me trying to make memories for my children. She just takes everything I do the wrong way, and I know this will be more proof to her that I'm just a big snob with no sense of how to act when tragedy strikes. Never mind that I planned this meal weeks ago and she was never invited to it in the first place and is only coming now because I want to help alleviate a little of her pain in this small way. I'm sure she'll take it all wrong, and I wish I could just get it out in the open that I'm actually a good person with good intentions.

Twinkle: I'm done trying

So Mr. Twinkle's uncle had a stroke, and it's very sad for the family, but my blog posting deals with the fallout from the Thanksgiving plans. This uncle always hosted, but this year's dinner will clearly be kind of sad. There was talk of going to a restaurant, or bringing food in, which I think sounds even sadder, so I offered to host it. I knew my MIL would never let that happen, but I offered anyway.

What happened? She won't let it happen, and I knew she wouldn't. But I still hoped. And I still think having it at my house is preferable to having it at a damn restaurant. And here was how Mr. Twinkle pitched it: it would be a low-key version of the traditional feast, and all the usual guests would be welcome to bring whatever they always do. If they didn't feel like making their usual dish, I said I'd make it. I thought it was a lovely and appropriate gesture, and I meant it. I think that in trying times sometimes it's the traditions that make people feel a little better, especially Thanksgiving since it's so tied up with the same comfort foods year after year.

Yeah, not going to happen.

MIL shot that down and was all, "We don't need to be doing anything fancy." Now I KNOW that everything I touch turns to fabulous--it's what she hates most about me-- but I have nothing if not a sense of decorum. I would never have let this Thanksgiving lunch turn into one of my usual fun family parties (and make no mistake about it--my family parties are more fun than anyone's on that side, which is not saying a whole lot). There would be no mimosas (tacky, under the circumstances), there would be no over-the-top seasonal decor. Just the traditional Thanksgiving meal and maybe a sense of comfort in the chaos and sadness. But, no. Her "fancy" comment is at the heart of her misunderstanding of me and my ability to make occasions special and appropriate.

And I am done. I am done offering to help with every holiday only to be turned away, when everyone else in the family pitches in. I am done offering to prepare a dish only to be told that she has it all under control. I am done saying I will arrange the flowers for one of MIL's dinners (after she ASKS me) only to have her do it herself anyway (which has happened more than once). I don't need a power struggle with this woman, and I don't want one, because I HOLD the power. I have Mr. Twinkle, and my two daughters, and I can make family traditions on my own, with or without her.

We do our own Thanksgiving dinner, just for us, on the Friday after. She has no control there, and she has no control over our day-to-day lives. This prejudice she has against me is officially her problem, because I am done trying and done caring, done expecting ever to be truly included, and done having my feelings hurt when I am not. Her son obviously finds something redeeming about me, and my daughters think I'm pretty fabulous. And I'm the person who gets to teach them everything about family and traditions and how to throw a party and when and when not to have a champagne toast. The day she finally learns that will be a sad day for her, because she alienated me long ago, and the tragedy for her is that she also alienated herself.

Julep: Some kind of help is the kind of help we all can do without.

I hope none of you will think I'm a bad mother when I say that I am currently concocting ways to torture my child. He refused to sleep during the dark hours last night, and I am determined to get him straightened out today. If anyone has suggestions on how to keep a sleepy baby awake all day (other than a walk, running errands, and a bath - which he hates) please pass them along.

But that is not what I came here to say. I must vent. Y'all know we did not have much time to prepare for the arrival of Babycakes. The nursery walls were already cream and the carpet blue, and there is a cozy yellow chair in there, so I bought yellow gingham crib sheets and skirt and curtains. Blue, cream, yellow. Very sunny, not cutesy or babyfied but I was OK with that. I prefer a minimalist style of decor.

Well, while we were stranded Across The River waiting for the paperwork to come through to bring Babycakes home, Mr-Sister was staying at our house with the pets. (So sweet of her, truly - a huge help.) She asked if I would like for her to paint a sailboat mural on the wall. One of her friends did something similar for her own baby a few months back and Mr-Sis loved it. And yes, the walls were bland. So I said that would be great, Mr-Sis accepted direction on which wall to paint on, and it is indeed really cute.

But it didn't stop there. Oh no, not the Mr-Family. Mr-Mama got in on the act, and by the time we got home from Across The River, the nursery had acquired two sailboat picture frames, two anchor-shaped wall pegs, a model boat, a stool with a compass rose on the top, and a full-sized oar with sea-themed appliques stuck to it and painted letters spelling out Babycakes dangling from it. OK, the nautical theme is established.

"Tell me if it's too much," said Mr-Sis, "I know how we can be." It's cute, I said, but we're done now. Well, she said, her mother was looking for a sailboat-themed lamp. I like the lamp that's in here, I said - it's a pretty little crystal lamp with low light and it's perfect for a baby's room. In case telling Mr-Sis were not enough, I told Mr. J: you had better tell your mom not to hunt for a lamp. I do not want any more themed articles in this room. We could use a night light, or perhaps a yellow throw rug, and I'd love to have some yellow cushions for the rocking chair. If she wants to shop for something, tell her to look for those things.

For three days, I reminded Mr. J: tell your mom not to buy a sailboat lamp. Tell her. I know his mother. I said: no lamp, and if she brings it here, I will tell her to her face that I do not want it and she can take it home. Finally, after copious nagging, Mr. J called his mother yesterday. Well, of COURSE she had already bought a sailboat lamp. She spent two days hunting for it and it is darling. Mr. J refused the lamp, hung up the phone, and accused me of hurting her feelings over something that is "no big deal."

Well excuse the h-ll out of me, but it's a big deal to me. I have accepted the seven useless articles already foisted upon me with good grace, but I am not going to remove an object which I chose and which I like in order to enable Mr-Mama to fill the whole g-dd-mn room with sailboats. That woman goes crazy with a theme. Every single inch of the room where we sleep on her boat has a lighthouse stitched, painted, sculpted, or appliqued on it and although I think it's ridiculous, it's her boat. This is MY g-dd-mn house, and MY g-dd-mn baby, and I will not be compelled to allow my in-laws to decorate his room to their taste. I draw the line here.

I am sorry her feelings were hurt, but IF before she spent two days shopping she had bothered to ASK "would you like a lamp?" I would have said, "no thank you, I like the lamp that is in there now." She could have spent her two days looking for something we actually need, like the rocker cushions.

My mother wanted to buy us things for the baby. My mother took me to Target, let me fill the whole cart with things I needed, and paid for it all. THAT is the kind of help that helping's all about. Mr-Mama doesn't want to help, she just wants to shop. She can do that on her own time.