Mr. Independent

So I was going to post a video I took of Noah last night, when he wandered downstairs in his Muppet jammies and announced that he wanted to "vote." He went up to the TV  and — amidst a sea of visual noise and percentages and red and blue— found a photo of President Obama, and touched it, iPad style.

"Check! I voted!" he said. "Bock Obama is the President of the United States."

And then he did a little happy dance. He also farted. 

I figured maybe I could edit that part out.

But then I realized I'd probably have to write a whole wind-up about how we have actually never talked politics with Noah, and that he simply wanted Obama to win because Obama is the only president he's ever really known and thus, in his little change-adverse mind, Obama should continue being the president. The fact that his opinion JUST SO HAPPENED to overlap with ours was just an adorable coincidence and not the result of us trying to push him into a specific party affiliation or put him in t-shirts and hand him signs to promote our own adult agendas and gaaaahhhhh.

I realized it was all starting to sound like too much work, what with trying to make sure people weren't offended or irritated and you're all probably getting gloating/opinions/tantrums from all kinds of classless idiots on Facebook and Twitter today AND ALSO EDITING OUT A FART TAKES TIME, so I decided to scrap it and post this dumb little video instead:

Mr. Ike Would Like His Dinner, Please from amalah on Vimeo.

Now that's pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and gettin' shit done. And also tiring your mother out, because LANDS, CHILD. You just climbed right up and ate my baby, didn't you? Why are you afraid of the vacuum cleaner and not of useful things, like gravity? 

PS. Good job, Maryland. And Maine and Minnesota and Washington. The pot thing is pretty cool too, but MAN. Marriage equality. Gets me so damn high, you guys. 

Decorative Gourd Season*

Okay, so. First, as required by LOOKIT MAH OFFSPRING law...uh, LOOKIT MAH OFFSPRING:

Anakin Skywalker

Obi-Wan Kenobi

(Captions provided because yeah, those Jedis all look alike. [SO RACIST.] Noah was also mistaken for a ninja and two people thought Ezra was dressed as a monk.)

And of course, Baby Yoda, the pièce de résistance. Who was occasionally mis-identified as Shrek, but that's okay, because this poor kid had no idea what was going on.

Your customs baffle him, earthlings, but your candy is pretty friggin' delicious.

***

BONUS:

***
And as if all the Halloween craziness wasn't enough, what with the class parties and trick-or-treating and staying-up-late-to-eat-your-children's-candy-while-watching-American-Horror-Story-and-then-Poltergeist (because anything seems like a good idea after enough Kit-Kats)...I had to go chaperone a first-grade field trip to a pumpkin patch yesterday. 

Cozied up on the bus together, when this still all seemed like a good idea.

I am pretty sure, waaaay back when I signed the volunteer sheet, that I was wearing a tank top. The school sent a reminder to check the weather and dress children appropriately that morning, but I can say with confidence that 99% of us completely failed to do that. Kids showed up dressed for the mild weather we'd all experienced the night before, while trick-or-treating. T-shirts. Hoodies. Little girls in knee-length leggings. Not a single hat or mitten in the entire bunch.

It. Was. Freezing. 

Even the adults were all pathetically underdressed. I prepared for muddy conditions, but not cold: rubber boots, spring trenchcoat, short sleeves underneath. Noah probably had the warmest coat out of everyone (because I couldn't find his other one, no points scored), but was wearing it over a t-shirt and again, no gloves or hat And even HE started complaining about the cold after an hour. Which means to a regular adult with no tolerance for "outside" and "nature" and "the slightest twinge of bodily discomfort," the weather felt like at least 30 degrees below zero. Sometimes it rained a little bit.

Me on the hayride. It has just dawned on me that we are all totally going to die, and I am contemplating a duck-and-roll and a mad dash back to the semi-heated school bus.

Yes, child. Smile through your chattering teeth! Use the festive gourd for warmth!

We ended the trip up on a goddamned HILL OF WIND AND HATE, so the children could go down some giant slides on burlap sacks. The teachers and chaperones huddled together and spoke wistfully of coffee and thermoses of soup.

The good news is that I was put in charge of four children (Noah and three little girls) and I did not lose a single one of them. (And oh hey are all first grade girls like, the most adorable things ever? I seriously almost stole a couple of them, and they would have LET ME, because "Noah's Mom" was the "best mom." DIRECT QUOTE, YOU GUYS.) Well, okay, technically I did kind of lose Noah for awhile, when he ran off and mingled in with another classroom and it took me a little bit to notice he was gone (HAYBALE MAZE, WTF).

But since he was my own kid I don't think that counts. I took damn good care of other people's children and shall be rewarding myself with a commemorative personalized CafePress mug shortly. 

"Noah's Mom is the Best Mom." -- Youth of America, Pumpkin Patch 2012 Never Forget

*Fuck yeah motherfuckers

This Official Everything Is Okay Alarm

We're fine, yes, for those of you who aren't on Teh Twittermajob or Teh Instagramamajig and therefore missed my HOURS LONG, hurricane-related, compulsive-shopping bender, during which I purchased approximately four dozen mismatched pieces of vintage Depression and Indiana glass, because apparently I am That Person now, That Person Who Collects Mismatched Vintage Glass And Gets Like, Scary Into It. 

OMG PLATES OMG BOWLS OMG CANDLEHOLDERS HOLY SHIT IT'S A GODDAMN CREAMER OMG.

A warning to anyone contemplating spending the holidays with us: I am now obligated to cook approximately 35 different side dishes, including stuff that will fit in a "pickle dish" or "celery plate."

(That aren't, like, plain pickles or celery. BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE WEIRD.)

(Not weird: Anything else I just typed.)

(Shutit.)

(It runs in the family.)

The kids slept in the basement, just to be safe. Although technically I should say they "slept" but only a little, after several hours of a live re-enactment of Beyond Thunderdome II: The Lost Tribe of Stir-Crazies. 

(I'm technically supposed to be "reviewing" the Furby for a holiday gift thing, but Noah won't let me put batteries in it because he's afraid it will grow up mean. The Furby 2012: it's an attractive yet vaguely creepy paperweight!)

Meanwhile, Giant Ikea Carrot kept Ike company in the Pack-n-Play. 

Anyway, that's about all that's happening here. Our power is on, our cars and house are undamaged, our streets are full of leaves but no flooding, and I am really, REALLY hoping I can send a couple certain children back to school tomorrow because really. Enough togetherness. It's time for me to spend some quality time trolling eBay and Etsy for the perfect vintage soup tureen. 

I hope everybody else reading fared similarly, and that y'all are okay and fine and up to your usual weirdness too.

 

NOT THE BEEEEEESSS!

Okay, so I'm guessing we're only a few hours away from being plunged into hurricane-related darkness and Nick-Jr-less misery, so I'm typing as fast as I can to get this entry done and we all nkow nothing goood kan com of thsi. You stay classy, East Coast! (And safe. That too.)

On the opposite end of the weather spectrum, Friday was a beautiful day. Almost unfair, even, that such a perfect fall day was ruined by intrusive thoughts of "I don't trust that tree over there" and "I need to go buy bread and canned goods and booze and a generator-powered TV."

The entire neighborhood was playing outside. The parents milled around and chatted about the weather, packs of little boys tossed up armfuls of dry leaves like confetti, and Ike chased after every toy that did not belong to him because fuck his boring-ass toys, that's why. 

I intercepted him during a crazy toddler run towards the street and put him back down on the sidewalk, but about halfway through the process he started screaming. And I mean: SCREAMING. Louder and more indignant-like than a usual "mo-ooo-ooom stop thwarting mah dreeeeamzzz!" whine-fest. This was more like, "mo-ooo-ooom how dare you immunize me against poliooooooo!" screaming.

When I set him down, I realized there was a bee on the back of his sweatshirt. I quickly swiped it off, then smushed that fucker flat on the sidewalk with my shoe of mama-bear justice. Ike continued to howl at the top of his lungs.

Ah, shit, man.

I pulled up the back of his shirt and sure enough, he'd been stung. Twice! 

And I realized I did not have the faintest idea of what to do. Three children, zero bee stings. UNTIL NOW. IN A WORLD. WHERE JUSTICE AND INCOMPETENCY MEET. ONE MOTHER. WILL FACE. Etc.

My choices were, basically, to whip out my phone and start Googling, or throw myself on the mercy of the crowd of my neighbors in hopes that someone else knew what to do. 

"BEE STINGS! BEE STINGS! WHAT DO YOU DO FOR BEE STINGS!" I started shrieking. "THE BABY HAS BEE STINGS AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M SUPPOSED TO DO!"

It takes a village, y'all. 

Two different parents went running towards their doors and back inside.

I thought, maybe, they were going for whatever necessary first aid equipment was necessary, but it turned out they were both going to check Wikipedia.

A mom emerged with an ice pack while a dad ran back out to confirm that yes, the Internet says to put ice on it. And to remove the stinger, if possible.

There was no stinger, just some swelling, but nothing horrific. Ike settled down and stopped crying, and I was instructed to go inside and put some itch stick on the stings, don't worry about getting Noah from the bus stop, we'll get him, the baby is okay the baby is okay poor baby. 

In the end, Ike's brush with bee stings turned out to be less of a big deal than Ezra's overly dramatic mosquito bites (OMG and ZOMG), and the welts faded completely after a couple hours. 

But I am telling the story anyway because I can add "bee stings" to the long list of things I have freaked out about unnecessarily, but am now an expert in. Bee stings = ice pack, itch stick, put some wine on it. The more you know, *rainbow jazz hands*, THE END.

PS:

 

GIFSoup

Bait and Switch. BAIT AND SWITCH!

On the other end of the Halloween Drama Spectrum, Noah walked into Target a few weeks ago and calmly and casually pointed at an Anakin Skywalker costume.

"That one," he said, like a perfectly regular kid who has never flipped his everloving shit at the mere mention of dressing up. 

It was one of those hugely baffling, come-from-nowhere breakthroughs that I no longer question. Just shut your mouth and hand over the credit card, Mom, lest you say the wrong thing and accidentally rip open the fabric of the universe anew.

I planned to take Ezra to Party City yesterday, hoping that maybe a non-Green-Ninja alternative would look more attractive in person. If that failed, we could pick up some poster paint and take another crack at a homemade costume, using the adorable cardboard ninja tutorial that a bunch of you linked to in the comments that I had somehow missed during HOURS of Google-fu for all things DIY Ninjago. (Though I was deeply doubtful that Ezra would tolerate wearing a cardboard box for more than five minutes no matter how cool it looked, and our attempt at the homemade ninja scarf was already a documented disaster of GET THAT OFF MY HEAD OFF MY HEAD OFF MAH HEEEAAAAADDDD.)

(So basically, he wanted a Green Ninja costume but did not actually want to wear a Green Ninja costume. Thanks for making so much sense, four year old!)

Before we left, it dawned on me that I hadn't actually tried any of our toddler-sized costumes on Ike yet, but was just sort of assuming we'd have something that fit. Probably better double-check that thesis, brainiac. 

So I gathered up the sad little green karate suit and hauled out our box of hand-me-down costumes: Monkey! Steve from Blue's Clues! Random alien monster thing! Obi-Wan and Baby Yoda! 

Hold the phone. Obi Fucking Wan and Baby Goddamn Yoda. 

Lesson learned: Never underestimate the power of the words "If you wear this, I will buy you a lightsaber."

Of course, THIS costume is technically at least two sizes too big for him, but since it's a cheap-as-hell piece of mass-produced shit, there's no hemming or seams: Just cut off the extra fabric and you're done.

Now THAT's a level of Do-It-Yourselfieness that I can handle. 

Now I just need to figure out a costume for myself. I'm thinking Sexy TIE Fighter or Slutty Jabba the Hutt. 

This Is the Birthday That Never Ends

After a few years of convincing our children that a visit from Grandma and Grandpa totally counts as a birthday party, we decided that we owed them a wee bit of a blowout. 

And so in accordance with our local traditions, we set two dozen or so children loose in a local inflatable thunderdome for a couple hours. 

Not to brag or anything, but this was THE birthday party to be at, at least between the hours of 1:00 and 2:45 pm. The next party started at three and was probably pretty much the same.

Slides, climbing, jumping, bouncing and the sounds of shrieking sweaty children hurling their bodies in every direction because everything is soft and squishy and WE ARE INVINCIBLE UNTIL SOMEBODY FACEPLANTS ON THE CARPET.

(So not kidding about the sweaty part. By the end of the party the children all looked like they'd just run through a car wash.)

Ike, who is — surprise, surprise — turning out to be absolutely FEARLESS, charmed our party hosts into taking him on every piece of equipment approximately 100 million times. After awhile they were just tossing him down the slide free-fall style while he shrieked in delight. 

After a couple hours it became clear that everybody was in dire need of a shitload of sugar.

Luckily we had some on hand. 

So. Okay. We decided on two cakes because 1) it would let us cover both sides of the oft-brutal chocolate vs. vanilla debate, 2) I was not sure I wanted Noah and Ezra crowding and elbowing each other just inches away from open flames, and 3) the bakery described these as "two small rounds," so why the heck not?

They ended up being easily twice as big as we were expecting, but also twice as BADASS AWESOME LOOKING.

Every little boy in attendance (and several of the girls) shrieked at the sight of GREEN NINJA CAKES and I was like, WINNING AT PARTIES AND PARENTHOOD. OR AT LEAST ORDER FORMS AT BAKERIES. 

(Ten minutes later one of those boys pointedly ask me why Noah "chose" to put a bunch of lame erasers in the goody bags, which of course were something I chose, so all coolness points were obviously immediately lost.)

(Though nobody can take away my awesome they-don't-make-licensed-Ninjago-party-merchandise sticker-application skillz.)

We killed one whole cake and about a third of the other. All the leftover slices are vanilla, which of course means they are naturally part of a balanced breakfast. 

So now the High Birthday Season is officially over around here. Until June, anyway, but luckily Ike still doesn't know that many people. Except Grandma and Grandpa. Those guys know how to party. 

Also:

Noah is in heaven. I am in some heavy-duty reinforced combat boots and mourning the official loss of the last uncluttered surfaces in the house. They belong to the Legos, now. Save yourselves. Have some cake.

Every Which Way But Good

I. The Genetics of Crud-Covered Scrunchface

Me, circa the days when metal cabinets with sharp rusty edges ruled the earth.

Ike, circa last week.

It's awesome how they only look like me when they're acting like goofball weirdos. Awesome and telling.

II. No, But Seriously, He's Huge Now

And all day long he's like "Shhzz? Go? Shhzz? Go?" which roughly translates to "Put my shoes on, woman, and let's bust this joint."

One of these doors has to take me outside. Or at least protect somethng dangerous and perfectly sized for my mouth.

III. Call Me Maybe

Hello?

OMG YOU GOT TICKETS TO THE WIGGLES NO FREAKING WAY.

I'll be right there. Just gotta find my shhzz.

I posted that last photo to Instagram, and the comments immediately all focused on Ike's spiffy little underroos, which is actually a gDiaper, which I actually bartered in exchange for writing a post for the gDiapers blog. (Which I still have to, you know, actually do. Coming soon! Hold please!) 

Yes, I requested and received payment for writing in the form of cloth diapers and was thrilled out of my goddamned mind over the arrangement. Mommyblogging! What a country! Get a real job, and etc.

Anyway, several commenters requested a cloth diapering update, so I suppose I need to write THAT now too. I'm sure I can manage to devote another 2,000 words or so to the subject, if I try. And by "try" I mean "open my mouth and let the stream-of-consciousness fall out because blah blah diapers diapers blah."

IV. More Gratuitous Beefcake

Ike learned the sign for "baby." Which he now uses as a descriptor for children OTHER THAN HIMSELF, BECAUSE I'M NOT ONE ANYMORE, MOM.

Or possibly this is more of an arm-folded stance of disapproval at the toy-pile disaster going on behind him, because MY GOD.

V. And On That Note, SEGUE!

Do you guys know AB Chao? Do you guys know that, way back in a previous life, I didn't have a blog but she had an "online journal" and I read it religiously, because she was just so smart and funny and hey, I wonder how hard it would be to acquire a personal web publishing property of my very own? Hmm!

She's pretty much the reason I was inspired to start blogging, and the reason you are reading this. But please don't hold that against her. She didn't know. How COULD she know?

Anyway, she's also a kick-ass interior decorator/designer, and is coming to DC next month for one of her famous Dewit Design Camps. And I will be there, and you guys, I've never actually met her in person and I am going to hyperventilate and probably cry and be all, "did you ever know that you're my herrrrrro" COMPLETELY NON-IRONICALLY. Then I will ask her what in sam hill I should do about that mess behind the couch. 

You should totally come. Bring a camera. Instagram the fangirl meltdown. Feel the (creepy, Internet-based) love.

It's Hard Out There For A Baby Ike

No call from the doctor yet, because of course. After briefly convincing myself that the lump was probably going to explode at any second, filling my skull with oozing deadly aneurysm cancer (it's a thing) (that I made up), I have since circled back to "it's just a cyst, dial it down, moron" and calmed down significantly. This concludes today's up-to-the-minute coverage of Amalah's Weird Ear Lump Thing. 

Anyway, what we really need to discuss is my drama queen of a toddler.

Soon.

(caption h/t @thesteph on Instagram)

Ike is 16 months old now, and has apparently decided to get a head start on his Terrible Two-ing, because OH MY GOD, the dramatics. The dramaaaahhhhhtics. They are at teenage girl levels around here.

Every set of photos I take now contains AT LEAST one or two random, out-of-the-blue meltdowns, usually bookmarked by happy, smiling photos snapped a few seconds before and after.

PROBLEM: I have just realized I am not standing directly next to the thing I want to be standing next to.

SOLUTION: Burst into momentary, hysterical tears, then walk four steps forward to the thing.

PROBLEM: My mother has just politely requested that I not eat the cat food.

SOLUTION: Throw self to floor, pound fists and kick feet like a big goddamn tantrum-y cliche. 

On Sunday, we let Noah choose the day's activity in honor of his birthday. (We're having a party in a few weeks, because I am awful and lazy and making Noah and Ezra have a single joint party, something I'm sure they will complain bitterly about for many blessed years to come.) He put our money right where our big fat mouths are and chose Chuck E. Cheese, aka Thanks Son, Why Don't You Just Stab Our Brains With A Screwdriver Instead?

Ike immediately found the one sole toddler-sized ride and began demanding tokens. (Who taught him that these rides move if you put money in them? WHO? Was it you? Asshole.)

And the mascot-based brand-loyalty assimilation was quick.

But unfortunately, so was the ride.

OMG I'M NOT BOUNCING ANYMORE AND I HAVE JUST NOTICED CHUCK E.'S DISTURBING LACK OF A LOWER BODY THIS IS THE WORST 30 SECONDS OF MY LIFE.

And last night, while attempting to document Ike's ring-stacking abilities, I instead ended up with the following series of preshus memories, all in under a single minute's time:

STAGE ONE: Disaster!

STAGE TWO: WHAT IS EVEN THE POINT ANYMORE IT'S ALL GONE SO WRONG

STAGE THREE: A slow slide-down-the-wall-to-the-floor while dramatically weeping.

(If I'd only been shooting video, I would GIF the SHIT out of this.)

STAGE FOUR: Defeat. Utter, heartbreaking defeat.

Not pictured: Minutes after I managed to coax him up off his face and get him back down to a woeful-sniffing level of sadness — via a bribe of apple juice — he took a swig from his cup and promptly thwacked his head on the wall behind him and started the whole rage-cycle all over again. 

Sorry, baby. Growing up sucks. I'd suggest you just stop doing it already but I know you won't. I promise I'll always put down the camera and give you hugs, though. 

Not-So-Baby MonkeyZillaToddler Ike

Hey, Internet. It's been real. It's been really very really real.

BUT IT'S ALL OVER NOW.

The walking-up-the-stair like a fully erect homo sapien photo I posted on Monday is not even half of what's going on, of what Not-So-Baby Ike is now capable of. 

Turn your back on him for a second and voila! He's pushed a stepstool out from where you "cleverly" "hid" it and...

"What?"

Not pictured: The time he pulled this same trick in front of the open pantry and I found him up on his tippy toes, hurling soup cans onto the floor while trying to reach a box of granola bars.

Personally, I blame the playgrounds. They are giving our country's toddlers an inflated sense of accomplishment and rewarding them for gross motor skill development and I for one will not stand for it anymore.

They are a menace and must be stopped.

Somebody start a petition or something. 

We installed drawer and cabinet latches about six years ago. We broke every single one in under a week. 

And that about brings you up-to-date on our current level of childproofing, save for a couple baby gates that Noah and Ezra know how to open but never remember to close and that detail will be important in a bit.

I have zero measuring spoons now. I have no idea where he's taking them.

But back to the baby gate thing. I close them, the boys open them. And Baby Ike has developed a near sixth sense when it comes to the opportunity.

We've seen him go UP plenty of times. As of last night, he know thinks he's hot shit at the going down part too. 

Which, you know, fine. One less thing to worry about, right? He can get up, he can get back down. Except that he's already tired of the belly-scoot method and tried to walk down the stairs this morning. 

Not pictured: Yeah, THAT. 

(He's fine. I caught him. And my heart resumed normal function about four hours later.)

Good thing he's so cute. Those genes must survive to adulthood. I'll do my best. 

What's Black & White &...aw man this sucks

Well, which IS it, Cereal Box? WHICH IS IT?

Not all black and white? Or pretty black and white. YOU CAN'T HAVE IT BOTH WAYS. STOP TOYING WITH ME. 

Especially in light of the National Zoo's devastating loss of the newborn panda cub this weekend. Which: No joke or snark, I am UPSET. I am feeling genuine feelings of feelingsosity and I don't like it. This goes against every word I've ever written about The Fucking Zoo and how it Fucking Sucks because it's Outside and Full Of Nature and Pooping Things and also Uphill In Every Possible Direction. But there it is. I am really terribly sad and bummed about the poor tiny wittle baby panda and the poor sad mama panda and DAMMIT, NATURE. YOU REALLY ARE THE WORST.

Also the worst: Me, for deciding to tell Noah about the baby panda yesterday morning, while he pondered the above cereal box and asked questions about pandas and hey! Speaking of pandas! There's a brand-new miracle panda baby at the zoo that we can maybe go see in a couple months!

And of course Noah — since he is NOT a bitter jaded Zoo-person like his mother who thinks the pandas are kind of overrated and not worth the line because they just SIT THERE and chew on leaves while the tourists are all OMFG PANDAS PANDAS PANDAS — thought this sounded excellent! Very exciting! Can we go today? Tomorrow? Today? 

I totally jinxed that poor baby panda and I feel terrible about it. And now I have to decide between telling my child the truth or inventing a cover story about how the baby panda went to go live on a nice big wide-open bamboo farm in China. 

***

Ugh. This is too depressing for a Monday. Let's look at some pictures instead, from earlier in the weekend when life was happy and fun and baby pandas lived forever.

BONUS OF WHAT THE ACTUAL LIVING HELL, STOP THAT RIGHT NOW, NOT-SO-BABY IKE: