8 months, 11 days, 12 hours, and 43 minutes old, she takes two unassisted steps forward. Look Mom. No hands.

Watching my children play and interact with other children naturally makes me think of my own childhood. Recently the Count has been overly polite with his friends.
“Would you please like to play with me please? That would be really great if you would play with me, please.”
“Oh, thank you, I would love to share that car with you. Its beautiful. Thank you. Thank you.”
I’m not kidding. He has said these things.
And while I would love to ask my mother if I went through a similar phase of playground niceities, I can save myself the long distance call and just let everyone know now that I was a raging, evil, horrible, mean girl bitch.
No, really.
I wish I were kidding. I wish I could tell you that I was nice. And if you were to ask anyone I grew up with if I was nice, they might break into a cold sweat and, out of fear, tell you “Oh, yeah…her? She was nice. Supernice. Really supernice. She didn’t bug you, did she? You’re sure you’re not wearing a wire??”
Ok, ok, so maybe I wasn’t that bad. But there is one instance, in particular, that I can clearly remember that makes me think on my good days you could call me Nelly Olsen. And on the bad days, well…
Now, all I ask is that you remember I was a very, very young girl. And, at the time, I had no idea how bad this particular situation really was. And when I look back, I am horrified.

I grew up across the street from my Aunt. She had two daughters. Her youngest daughter, lets call her Maggie, was a real tomboy. Still is, as a matter of fact. This is only important to note because Maggie was the kind of girl who would take her dirt bike to the top of the tallest slide at the park and try and go down with “no hands.” She would leap off the top of her two story house into a pile of leaves. She would tie ropes from tree branches and climb up and down all day long. She would also lay a piece of cardboard in the driveway, smear it with baby powder, put on some parachute pants and breakdance…but that’s another story. She also got on top of a table at my wedding and swallowed a goldfish..but that’s another story too.
Maggie and I were playing in my Aunt’s backyard one afternoon when a girl (our age) from down the street came to join us. Kelly. Poor, poor, poor Kelly.
We didn’t like Kelly. We called her Kelly Smelly. And for the record, she eats her belly with jam and jelly, or so we said over and over and over and over again.
My Aunt had a HUGE apple tree in the backyard. That same tree also housed Maggie’s treehouse. My Aunt had told us in no uncertain terms that we could not begin playing until all the apples that feel from the tree were collected and thrown into a garbage can. So, in that begrudging way kids do, we began to pick up the apples. Until Kelly Smelly showed up, that is.
Upon Kelly’s arrival Maggie and I scurried up into the tree house.
“Hi! Can I come up and play with you guys?” Said poor, poor Kelly.
“Sure!” said Maggie and I, giggling amongst eachother.
“You can come up…but you have to pick up all the apples first.”
Kelly Smelly, always trying to fit in to the already close cousin crowd, agreed.
As she picked up every single apple in that yard and threw it into the green, plastic, trash can…Maggie and I played in the tree house.
After Kelly Smelly finished she began to climb the ladder. Maggie and I huddled.
Giggled.
Giggled some more.
And in a move that would eventually haunt me forever, we pushed Kelly off the ladder once she reached the top.
She lay screaming on the ground. And, at first, we giggled some more.
Then we realized she was hurt. Uh-Oh. Bad. And instead of any sense of nurture or love kicking in, fear kicked in for both Maggie and I.
We were going to be in trouble. BIG trouble.
We panicked. And with our hearts pounding the only thing we could think to do was get Kelly Smelly home. But we had to get her home without anyone knowing it was us that did the damage.
So we picked her up, she screaming with a broken leg, and we put her in the garbage can with the apples. It had wheels. We wheeled her the 4 or 5 houses down the block, rang her doorbell, and ran.
We left Kelly there, in a trash can, on her front porch, for her mother to find.
Of course Kelly told her mother everything. And of course as soon as they got back from the hospital, cast and all, her mother came marching down to my Aunt’s house.
Maggie and I heard that knock on the door and knew we were doomed.
We could hear the muffled adult voices at the door. We could hear my Aunt call my mother over from across the street. We could hear my Aunt and mother’s footsteps coming down the hall.
This was it. My life as a 7-8-year-old girl was over.
The door opened, we were accused of our crimes and then…then…
I denied everything.
Maggie denied everything.
Our mothers, never really liking Kelly Smelly’s mother, as I found out much later, believed every word we said.
We never got in trouble.
We never served our time.
And it wasn’t until a Christmas not too long ago that Maggie and I fessed up.
Both my Aunt and mother told us how they fought Kelly Smelly’s mother on the matter,
“If our girls say they didn’t do it…they didn’t do it!!!!”
I spent years trying to catch Kelly Smelly’s eye in my elementary school hallway. And my middle school hallway. And my high school hallway. I was always nice. I always said hello.
Can’t really blame her for never really giving me a heartfelt “Hi there” back.
I hear Kelly Smelly is a cop now. If she ever pulls me over, I totally expect to have drugs and murder weapons planted in my trunk. And to be jailed forever on trumped up charges. So if you read about me, you know, in prison, know I didn’t really do whatever crime I was sentenced for…but for another…

*editor’s note: when I first told this story to the Kaiser many years ago, he didn’t realize the trash can had wheels. And he was under the impression Maggie and I rolled a girl with a broken leg, sideways in the can…tumbling over and over like clothes in a dryer.

As seen on True Blue Semi-Crunchy Mamma

Remember that one time…

Please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL MEMORY OF YOU AND ME. It can be anything you want, good or bad, BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.

An example: Remember that one time we met at that seedy bar in Amsterdam? Those boys never knew what hit them when you shot them with your tranquilizer gun. I was so glad we outran the cops, but damn were our husbands mad we got home so late…

Play along if you want!

Its my birthday. I’m 31. Last year I got a big party and diamonds. This year I am just plain old. So play along…or its off with your heads.

Happy birthday to the Kaiser! We love you! And Dammit, we’re having CAKE for breakfast!!! Hahahahahaha.

This is a long standing joke between the Kaiser and I. Back when we had these fairy tale notions of how to raise our children (read: before they were here) he thought they would never, ever eat junk food, or fast food, or anything remotely unhealthy. When I suggested they could eat cake for breakfast (like my family does when there is leftover cake) he about died. So I said…maybe on their birthdays they can have cake for breakfast. The Kaiser stood firm. No cake. Never, ever cake for breakfast.

Well guess what we’re waking you up with in 3…2…1…

And for those who don’t know. The Kaiser’s real name is Aaron. My real name is Erin. My birthday is tomorrow. You still have time to FedEx your gifts.

There is a legendary tale in our house about my witnessing of a Turkey Riot at Whole Foods Market Thanksgiving of last year. Ok, so it wasn’t really a riot. But my husband and brother like to tease me mercilessly that I used the term “riot” when I came home, breathless, telling of my heroic experience trying to pick up our fresh turkey.

Basically a very nasty trophy wife got upset she couldn’t get a fresh turkey the day before Thanksgiving. She had not ordered one. And couldn’t seem to understand how everyone else could pick up their preordered turkey and she had to settle for frozen. She got very animated. Shouting occurred. I came home and called it a near “riot” and the Kaiser and Houseboy STILL talk about about my brush with death in the Turkey Riots of ’04.

Well, I’ve got an EVEN bigger one for them this year. And this time, I promise not to exaggerate. But I’m calling it the TEACUP RIOTS of ’05.

So I’m at Target. I am in the girly girl toy-section. I see this adorable Princess tea-cup set. Thinking I’m a little lopsided on gifts from Santa for the kids, I wonder if this would be good for Princess Peanut. It says 2 and up, but I can see there are big saucers and teacups inside, and I can take out the little things. So I put it in my cart and continue looking in that aisle. As I’m considering a Barbie for one of the Count’s friends I hear:

“SHE TOOK THE PINK ONE! You did NOT just take the last pink one…”
“I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”
“I really wanted that pink one. There are blue ones..here” shoving a blue teacup set in my cart, “take a blue one and give me the pink one.”
Baffled, I am staring blankly at a 30-something woman. She’s with, what I assume, is her mother. They have two carts filled with toys.
I calmly take the blue teacup set out of my cart and set it on the shelf.
“No, thanks. I really want the pink one. Sorry. Maybe ask someone if they have more pink ones in the back.”
“Is this for your baby???”
“I’m sorry?? What?”
“Are you buying this for that little baby?”
She points to Peanut, asleep in her Baby Bjorn.
“Well I’m not sure who I’m giving it to yet, but maybe. Probably.”
“She’s so little, she won’t know if she gets pink or blue.”
“Sure, but I know. And I like pink.”
At this point I start down to the end of the aisle. She follows me.
“That baby can’t even have it. It says 2 and up. Don’t you see it says 2 and up? Are you trying to hurt her? She’ll get HURT if she plays with that.”
“I’m sorry, what???”
Slowly, I’m starting to gather myself. This is been going on for so long now, that the fog of being confronted is lifting, and I’m gaining some composure.
“Did you just call me a bad mother? You don’t even know me. And I’m really not giving you this pink teacup set now.”
This entire time there were two other mothers, both with small children, in the same aisle. They are both looking at me with those sympathetic eyes like…wow, poor you…and when I start to get angry one of the other mothers in the aisle pipes up…
“Listen lady, I don’t know what your problem is, but leave this girl alone. She got it first. You weren’t even in this aisle when she took it.”
Back up. I’ve got backup.
“BUD out. Who the hell are you anyway? This isn’t your conversation, ” says the crazy pink wanting woman. She is clearly insane.
I give the nice other Mom a “thank you” look and I shake my head and start walking further away.
“Did you just shake your head at me?”
Jesus F’in Christ. Are you kidding me?
“Excuse me?” I say, wondering if she’s going to ask me to step outside. NOW I’m looking for anyone with a red Target shirt.
“Your baby can’t have that toy!” She screams as I walk away. “She’ll choke on that teacup!”
I can still hear her yelling as I’m in a completely different section.
I finish my shopping and head to the checkout. Guess who’s there.
“There she is,” crazy lady says to the cashier.
“Look at that baby. Doesn’t know pink from blue, that’s for sure.”
Now I’m mad. Really, really mad. But I also don’t want to get into a fist fight at a Target, wearing my baby and making the five o’clock news. Mothers at Target riot over Princess Tea Set, film at 11.
The security guard who has now been witnessing all of this, walks over to me and says they got more pink ones on the shelf.
I thank him and walk out front.
I wait for the crazy lady and her mother to come out.
Then I place my Pink Pink Princess Disney Teacup Set in the Toys for Tots bin.
Take that you stupid bitch.
She was speechless. She huffed off to her car. And her mother, silent the entire time, winks at me.
I went back inside Target and bought another teacup set.
Pink.

I’m just as obsessed as the next mom, but I refuse to blog about baby poop. Instead, here is list of things OTHER than poop I have found in Princess Peanut’s diaper:

Dental floss
“Inspected by #2” sticker
Feathers
Candy wrapper, minus the candy
Banana sticker
Crayon bits

In my defense, I keep a decently clean home. I am attentive, and I catch stuff before it gets into her mouth all the time.

Nothing, and I mean nothing ever came near the Count’s mouth when he was this age. In fact, had he ingested just one of the many feathers falling out of our cushions I would have rushed him to the ER.

Is this what its like for the second child? Eh, it came out of her, right?

The Kaiser’s family and I have a good relationship, but its a weird one. Some days it feels like we’re making progress on being closer. Other days I feel like they are from another planet. The Kaiser normally just reminds me they (and this is important) are simply NOT LIKE MY FAMILY.

Admittedly, my family is a little weird too. Aren’t they all though? My Mom and I talk every single day, sometimes several times a day. I can tell you exactly what my Aunt had for dinner yesterday because my mother talks to her every single day. My family knows everything. About everyone. And we all talk about it. All the time.

So imagine my shock and surprise when I got an email from my sister-in-law telling me she had just returned home. From the HOSPITAL. With my ONE YEAR OLD NEPHEW. After NEARLY A WEEK OF BEING THERE.

To quote John Stewart, “WWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA?????????”

The Kaiser’s brother and his family live in Germany. So I expect news to be slow here and there. I don’t expect to know about every little sneeze. But when one of the kids, or ANYONE for that matter, ends up in a hospital…call me crazy but I expect someone to tell us.

So after a day of talking with my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law and getting up to date (pneumonia…he’s better, etc.) and making it clear to everyone we’d really appreciate a phone call next time, I had a talk with the Kaiser about what went on.

Somehow I ended up being the crazy one.

It wasn’t that big of a deal. And I got those looks from my husband that I always get when I’m all manic about something…you know, the ones where they look at you like you have six heads and there is fire shooting out of your mouth. He seemed to think if anyone was DYING they’d be more than fast to let us know. But since it wasn’t a DEATH situation, I needed to chill out.

Granted, I was mad as hell yesterday. Mainly because this isn’t the first time we’ve been left out of the loop for what I consider to be “call all immediate family” issues. So I was very animated about the whole thing. BUT COME ON. My mother-in-law basically said the same thing as the Kaiser, “it didn’t seem like it was too bad.” No. No. A one-year-old in a hospital for six days is a FUCKING party people. They just admit them for the sniffles.

Why was it ME who was getting the head shake and eye roll from my husband? At the end of the day I was the crazy, nosy, oversensitive bitch, who apparently got all riled up over nothing. And someone would have told us eventually, you know, if anyone DIED. Nevermind we look like assholes for not calling to check on him, or send a card or anything.

Can’t wait for the holidays and my the families coming together. My mother will be asking my mother-in-law all sorts of questions about stupid things, like what they ate for dinner…and then I won’t be alone when the heads start to shake and the eyes start to roll.

Annie’s Knight for December. Congrats to MsMama. She’s Mommylicious. She’s Mommyfabulous. She’s Fertile. She’s the ultimate Yummy Mummy. She gets a free shirt. This photo is so good even blogging baby picked it up. And if you read MsMama, you know her breastfeeding story…which really seals the deal on the photo.

Thanks to everyone who played. We’ll do it again in January!

*I posted early, I know…but I have a final tomorrow. I’m the Queen. I change the rules when I see fit.