Alien-Baby Ate My Brain!

Through the miracle of modern technology, you can now see your baby, in utero, in three dimensions. Which is to say, you can see a teeny little baby with a teeny little face and teeny little hands all curled up and totally beyond fetal in his teeny adorableness while he is still tucked away deep inside your lady parts.

Also, however, you can see your own umbilical cord, pressing against his face like some sort of intra-uterine alien life form that might just develop a consciousness and a will of its own and creep out of your nether regions and strangle you in the night. Which, you know, is disturbing. No more disturbing that some of those pregnancy dreams that can sneak up on you, I suppose, but still (am I the only who has had nightmares about nursing mutant kittens? No? Never mind). Maybe there's too much information that comes with being able to get a three-dimensional glimpse inside one's own uterus.

That said: LOOK AT MY TEENY-WEENY WIDDLE SPROUT WITH HIS ITTY-BITTY LITTLE HAND AND HIS PRECIOUS LITTLE MOUTH OMG!

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I was going to write something about science today, for the PBN blog blast, about imagination and scientific thinking and the magic of looking at the world through learning-goggles, but then I got all distracted by the pictures of the baby oh my god the baby - and, also, by my persistent exhaustion and crankiness and general inability to craft a sentence that is built upon language more sophisticated than oh my god, like, you know? So. You should still totally go read the other posts, tho'.

Also? Are you going to be watching the Oscars Sunday night? Because there's going to be a super awesometastic snarkerrific open-thread Oscar party over at MamaPop, and I can't promise anything, but there might be popcorn and naked pillow-fights. I can promise that there will be Kegel-straining blather about the aliens on the red carpet. And, also, some drooling in the general direction of Jon Stewart. So. Join us? We're kicking it off at 7pm, EST.

How To Lose Your Confidence As A Parent In Twenty Minutes Or Less

Today's lesson: if you are not, always and every day, prepared for the demands that your child's school or daycare might make upon you, you will - I guarantee you - be made to feel like the most worthless, incompetent parent that ever bore or received spawn.

Last week, it was Valentine's Day. "She needs to bring Valentines to school tomorrow," Her Bad Father (who usually does most of the daycare pick-ups and so is more usually the recipient of this kind of information) informed me on the eve of Valentine's Day. "36 of them. Signed with her name but not addressed to anyone."

Which meant, of course, a late-night dash to the nearest all-hours last-minute things store, whereupon hideous Valentines imprinted with licensed characters were purchased and brought home to be forged in her name.

And then, later that night: "Also, she needs to wear something red to school tomorrow."

Which, fine. Nothing that two cups of espresso and a little pre-dawn laundry cycle couldn't take care of.

And then, yesterday: "She needs to bring a family picture to school tomorrow. It's Family Picture Day."

Which: STUMPED.

We do not have any current family pictures. That is, rather, we have upwards of 10,000 pictures featuring Wonderbaby and one or the other of us and/or friends and/or extended family members, but these are all a) entirely digital, b) tending toward individual portraiture and/or group portraiture that excludes one of the more significant members of the family (it is almost always me taking the picture, and so from the evidence of our digital photo archives one would presume that Wonderbaby does not have a mother), and c) representative of situations that tend more or less to the embarassing (Wonderbaby bewigged, Wonderbaby naked and bewigged, me naked and bewigged, etc, etc.)

So, we had nothing. No family picture for Wonderbaby to take to school and share with her friends. We were facing - I was facing - the prospect of sending my child, at age two, into the deeply disappointing experience of being the lone child in the group who doesn't have anything for show 'n' tell, or no cupcakes to contribute to the bake sale, or whatever, because her mother sucks ASS.

So I sent her to school with this:

Was that wrong?

Jockstrap Mondays

I am spectacularly, hormonally cranky today. You don't want to be anywhere near me, because I guarantee you that you will not be able to say the right thing. Just ask my husband. This mood has been going on for two days now, and I think that he's considering wearing both earplugs and a jockstrap. You know, to protect the vulnerable parts.

So, there is just no readable prose forthcoming from me today. Or, probably, tomorrow. Unless you count the mocking of celebrity penises readable prose. In which case, you're in luck - I've had a lot to say about celebrity penises of late.

(If you are easily offended or weak of stomach or in the presence of small children, do not click on the first two of the above links. Just don't. I warned you.)