Family Photoshoot Dos & Don’ts (Alternate Title: Learn From My Failure)

My child turns two in 5 days, and I’ve had “take family photos” on my to-do list for…well, two years minus five days. I know, I know: I’m pretty much the worst. Luckily, my husband is not the worst and eventually got sick of hearing me talk about how we should “someday” take some damn photos, so a few weeks ago he kindly took the reigns and booked us a photoshoot with a local photographer he found on Craigslist. We arranged to take the photos at a park near the beach — a spot the photographer recommended — and I got to work planning our outfits and visualizing these gorgeous photographic treasures we’d cherish for the rest of our lives. I couldn’t wait!

Now, I should mention that this was the first time I’ve ever had photos like this taken (aside from my wedding, which required no planning or action from me other than showing up and standing there in my dress). I will admit that I had no reason to assume that I knew anything at all about what happens at a photoshoot aside from the likelihood that some sort of camera would be involved, but I suppose I just thought we’d show up, the photographer lady would instruct us to stand in a couple different configurations, and we’d wrap this sucker up in half an hour. That sounds reasonable, right?

As it turns out, I was wrong. I know now that without careful planning, you might wind up with a bunch of photos of your half-naked son hurling himself into the ocean instead of the lovely fully-clothed and nowhere-near-the-water posed shots you’d envisioned. Lest this problem plague your next photoshoot, I encourage you to read my list of Family Photoshoot Dos & Don’ts before busting out that camera:

DO ask your photographer to clarify her plan ahead of time. Apparently, “we’ll take the photos at a park by the beach” can sometimes mean “we’ll meet at that location, and then I’ll lead you and your small child on a half-mile hike down a steep cliff so that we can take the photos IN THE GODDAMN OCEAN, never mind the fact that you are in no way dressed for such an adventure!” This is good information to have.

If it turns out that that is your photographer’s plan, DON’T wear leather knee-high boots, and DON’T dress your poor husband and child in thick sweaters thinking it’ll be cool and breezy at this “park by the beach” location and that you’ll be in and out of there before you have enough time to get hot. At a minimum, DO bring extra clothes and shoes for everyone, because after that long, sweaty hike followed by the sand-and-water combo, you’re going to wind up with precisely two photos in which you’re all wearing all the components of your original outfits:

If you fail to bring a costume change for your husband, DON’T assume that the shirt he’s wearing under his sweater is a presentable piece of clothing and not a baggy, stained white t-shirt, because it’s probably the latter:

DO plan ahead by bringing M&Ms in an optimistic but ultimately useless attempt at bribing your child to smile on command, and DON’T bother trying to make him leave his bear in the car:

DON’T be surprised when even with the promise of M&Ms, your child has ZERO interest in sitting down for a photo when the option of diving into the frigid water is right in front of him:

DO get over it and accept that the clothes and shoes are a lost cause, as are your dreams of a nicely posed family portrait:

When the photoshoot finally seems to be wrapping itself up and you’re all exhausted and your clothes are ruined and you just want to get the hell out of there, DON’T let your photographer talk you into driving to “a nearby park” for “a few more photos,” because said park might actually be 15 minutes away and your child will be SO OVER IT and also he’ll be wearing a random pair of extremely tattered pants that happened to be in your purse because you really didn’t anticipate his nice pair of jeans to be soaked in sand and ocean filth and thus didn’t put much thought into bringing a decent backup option for him:

And even if you can convince your child to smile for a few more photos at this point in the ridiculous day, you will be looking haggard yourself because you gave up on your appearance about an hour prior when you threw your hair up into an “I’m over it” ponytail and used your cute jacket as a diaper changing pad and your makeup melted off when you HIKED HALF A MILE UPHILL BACK TO YOUR CAR WHILE CARRYING A 28-POUND SACK OF POTATOES (or a toddler; same diff):

Eventually, your photographer will have mercy and put an end to the photoshoot, putting you all out of your misery at last. DO laugh riotously with your husband about what just transpired, and DON’T feel guilty for deciding that the only thing to do at this point is to drive through McDonald’s and let your child eat as much ketchup as he wants before passing out:

DON’T even think about doing this again for another two years.

I Mama Too?

When I found out I was pregnant, I swear I knew immediately that it was a boy. I don’t know why…I just felt it. I called the baby “he” throughout the pregnancy, and when we went for our 20-week ultrasound and the doctor confirmed my assumption, I felt no surprise whatsoever — tell me something I don’t already know, doc!

I was happy to be having a boy and wasn’t the least bit disappointed that I wasn’t having a daughter, but I will admit that I felt like having a girl would have been a little easier. I’m from a family of all girls and felt like I knew what to expect from them (both good and bad!). Boys, on the other hand, were an unknown commodity to me. What do they play with? Are they really as rough-and-tumble as I’m imagining? How do I deal with that whole “penis” thing?

(If you’re curious, the answers to the above questions are: 1) totally awesome stuff, 2) even worse, and 3) just get used to saying the word “penis” more times than you ever thought possible.)

My biggest concern, though, was the closeness factor. I could easily envision a little girl snuggling up with her mama, wanting to hold hands with me all the time, and pretending to dress up in my (hideous) clothes, but I just couldn’t see it with a boy. I wasn’t worried that my son wouldn’t love me and I definitely wasn’t worried about me adoring him, but I had it in my head that little boys simply aren’t as close with their moms as a little girl might be.

Two years later, I can confirm that I could NOT have been more wrong!

My son is my biggest fan.

Seriously, guys: he’s obsessed. So many hugs. So many kisses. He says “I love you” unprompted, and it’s just as adorable as you would think. And no one compares to me: anytime poor Daddy tries to help by fetching Bubba from his crib in the morning, I giggle from the other room as I hear Bubba’s obvious disappointment that it wasn’t I who came to his aid. He even likes to wear my things, just as I imagined a daughter might:

Whatever I’m doing, he wants to do. “I watch!” he’ll proclaim as he pulls up a stool:

My favorite, though, is when he ever-so-hopefully asks “I Mama too?” In toddler-speak, this roughly translates to “can my mom please do this with me?” and I hear it daily: he wants me to go down the slide next to him at the park, to sit next to him on the couch, to share his dinner — and the answer, of course, is always a resounding yes.

Will this last forever? Probably not, and that would be kinda creepy at a certain point anyway. Someday he’ll realize I’m lame (and he’ll be right, of course). For now, though, I will relish every chance I get to tag along when I hear “I Mama too?”

How to Snag a Husband by Being Super Annoying

Nine years ago today, I drove from San Diego to Los Angeles, picked up my little sisters, and headed to Hollywood for a Bad Religion concert. The girls weren’t as awesome and hardcore as I was (ahem), so they opted to hang out in the back of the venue to enjoy the show from a safe distance while I pushed my way towards the stage in anticipation of singing and moshing along with my fellow BR-loving brethren. Since I was now sans my companions, I took it upon myself to chat with the person who was standing next to me while we waited for the band to start playing. In the course of our chit-chat, I bragged that I’d seen the band over twenty times (so charming!), at which point the guy turned to his friend and said, “hey, this chick has seen BR even more times than you!”

That friend is now my husband.

And how did I pull this off, you ask? BY BEING SUPER ANNOYING. If you’re one of the millions of frustrated singles out there, wishing you were in a relationship and wondering why you can’t seem to find a suitable mate, chances are that you’re simply not annoying enough. For example, it was my obnoxious insistence upon talking to my fellow concert-goers instead of just patiently awaiting the commencement of entertainment like a normal person that led to my conversation with TFW’s friend, and then my unprompted boasting about my dedication to the band compelled the fellow to draw his similarly-obsessed pal (TFW) into the fold. Perhaps he was just sick of talking to me and wanted to pawn me off on his friend, but no matter — had I kept quiet and waited for the music, I never would have met my future husband!

So as you can see, you’ve got to put yourself out there if you want to meet someone, and that means chatting up strangers whenever possible. However, you can’t just stop there! Your next step is to ensure future contact, and that means getting his contact information so you can bug him to go out with you later. And just so I’m crystal clear here, I must stress the importance of getting his information in addition to (or as opposed to) just giving him your info. What if he loses your number, or is too nervous or shy to contact you? If you have HIS info, you can take the reins and stalk him to your heart’s content! This proved to be a bit complicated in my case, since this was back in ancient times before everyone carried cell phones everywhere they went and neither of us had pens at the ready since we were, ya know, in the mosh pit of a punk rock concert, but luckily my mark happened to carry his business cards in his wallet and he was able to give one of those to me. I tucked that sucker in my pocket and guarded it with my life until I got home (WHAT IF I LOST IT?!), when I immediately fired up the computer and emailed him.

This brings me to my next tip, which is to bypass all “games” and “rules” (and “politeness”) and just contact the damn guy right away. Waiting three days to call?! Psssh. What if he meets someone else in the interim, or forgets how hot you are? DON’T RISK IT. If he thinks you’re a nutjob for contacting him so quickly (which you totally are, but that’s OK), then it’s his loss and you can move on. I emailed TFW literally within thirty minutes of arriving home that night, telling him I’d enjoyed meeting him and giving him a brief rundown of my life (remember, we’d only talked for about 90 seconds at the show) and included about thirty different ways he could contact me, then obsessively hit “refresh” on my inbox every thirty seconds for the next 24 hours. When he wrote back the next day with his instant messenger screen name (remember, kids, this was the olden days), I added him to my buddy list immediately and then stared at the computer screen until he finally signed on so I could pester him some more.

Unfortunately for me, my new love interest had flown to New York the day after our meeting to spend a week with his family, so I had to wait an agonizing eight days to actually lure him out for a date. Believe you me, had he been in town I would have insisted upon a meeting much sooner. Again, what’s the point of waiting? What are you waiting for? Nothing good can come from waiting. The faster you can get your hooks into your intended, the better! Since I had his screen name, at least, I was able to talk to him multiple times that week, and this proved to be a valuable opportunity as it gave us ample time to get to know each other without the awkwardness or pressure associated with an actual date (in these modern times, you could substitute Facebook messaging or Gtalk and accomplish the same thing). Sure, obsessively contacting someone you barely know via social media could be considered a little annoying, but you’ve gotta go big or go home (dateless). By the time he was back in town, we were well acquainted with each other and ready to go on a date!

Once you’ve made it to this stage, you’ve got it made in the shade, baby! Assuming you still like the guy and he hasn’t turned out to be a creepy weirdo or a drug dealer, your relationship is about 10 steps further along than it would have been if you’d sat around waiting for him to call or if you’d wasted precious time holding off on calling him in fear of being “too annoying.” Go on that date, and then suggest an outing for the next weekend as if a second date is a given! Invite him to meet your family! Buy him a nice Valentine’s Day gift even if you’ve only been together for a few months! Before you know it, you’ll be living together and he’ll be stuck with you!

Hey, it worked for me.

The Time My Son Dropped His Teddy Bear out the Window of a Moving Vehicle

Have you ever seen a child-size shoe or jacket or toy on the side of the road and wondered how the heck it got there?

I’ll tell you how: a child threw it out the damn window of their long-suffering parent’s moving vehicle.

And how do I know this, you ask? BECAUSE MY SON “ACCIDENTALLY” TOSSED HIS BELOVED TEDDY BEAR OUT THE WINDOW OF MY CAR LAST NIGHT.

It was about 6pm and we were on our way home from the mall, where we’d had a delightful time purchasing multiple pairs of those stupid pants he’s so obsessed with and riding up and down the escalator fifty times. Spirits were high (he was already wearing one of the new pants!) and we were thoroughly enjoying our journey, chatting and singing and pointing out every bus and motorcycle we passed along the way. Unfortunately, since we live in hell Los Angeles and even the quickest trip around town is invariably plagued by hideous traffic, dear Bubba got a little bored after a while and began looking for other forms of entertainment. He asked me to roll the window down (“window? Window pwease? Mine window? WIIINDOOOOOOW!!!!!!!!!“), and since it was rather warm out and we weren’t driving very fast, I happily obliged.

Not thirty seconds later came a gasp from the backseat. “Oh no!” Bubba squealed in a tone of voice I know means nothing but trouble. I glanced at him in the rear view mirror and saw him reaching towards the window and knew immediately that something had just made a tragic exit from our vehicle — but what was it? I said a little prayer that it was just a goldfish cracker or a sippy cup, but a quick look into his empty lap confirmed that it was Gokey who was no longer with us.

“OH NO!” I agreed, panic setting in, my heart pounding as my mind whirled with thoughts of the PTSD my child would soon be developing. “Don’t worry, Bud,” I told him, feigning confidence I most certainly did not have. “We’ll get him!”

Now, this is where the trouble really started. You’re probably thinking, “OK, so the bear fell out the window — pull over and pick the stupid thing up and be on your merry way!” There are a number of problems with that seemingly simple resolution, though, not least of which is the fact that my car was in motion and we were already at least a tenth of a mile away from where poor Gokey lay sadly in the street by the time I realized what had transpired. Furthermore, there were no fewer than six billion cars whizzing past on all sides and I can only imagine the calamity that would have ensued if I had simply stopped my vehicle dead in its tracks in the middle of the road and hopped out to scrape a mangled stuffed animal off the pavement. The obvious solution was to pull over at the nearest possible opportunity, but because the universe hates me and Los Angeles is the worst place in the world, there literally was nowhere to pull over. I was on a stretch of road where every available inch is used for traffic and no curbside parking is permitted (i.e. if you pull over, you will be blocking an entire lane of traffic and possibly subjecting yourself to violent retaliation from a justifiably angry commuter), and there were no parking lots or strip malls or office buildings in sight.

I am telling you, I almost had a heart attack. Here I am, moving along with the flow of traffic with NO option to stop, and meanwhile I know that somewhere behind me, my child’s most prized possession is being run over repeatedly by a relentless throng of two-ton crushing machines.

Knowing there was no hope of pulling over on the current street, I made a couple turns and finally found an office building with an open parking structure. A sign sternly warned that the lot was for employees only and that trespassers would be towed, but I had no time to concern myself with such threats. GOKEY NEEDED US. I whipped Bubba out of his seat and off we ran.

Obviously, taking photographs during this crisis was out of the question, but here’s an artist’s rendering of the catastrophic events unfolding:

Site “A” is where Gokey left the vehicle. “B” is where I was finally able to park my car so Bubba and I could begin our search and rescue operation.

Five agonizing minute later, we reached the scene of the crime. I breathed a sigh of relief when I spotted the bear, thankful that at least he hadn’t been swept away down a storm drain or torn to shreds by a snowplow (never mind that we have neither storm drains nor snow around here). I watched the poor critter get run over a few more times before I was finally able to get the attention of the driver of one of the passing cars and signal for him to stop for a moment so I could retrieve my victim, then scooped him up and returned him to his rightful owner. “GOKEY!” Bubba cheered, thankfully not noticing that his cuddly friend was a little smooshed and a lot dirty.

Crisis averted, we made our way back to the car. (It had not been towed, blessedly.) As we began our drive home, Bubba asked me again to open the window. “No, Bud,” I replied, obviously having learned my lesson. “We can’t open it because Gokey could fall out again!”

“No,” he corrected me, not skipping a beat. “Gokey jumped it,” he explained. “I hold it!”

That’s right, folks: Gokey hadn’t been tossed out the window, he had jumped of his own volition. And it was perfectly safe for me to open the window again, because this time around, Bubba would hold him so he couldn’t jump again!

We drove home with the windows closed. Fool me once, shame on you…

Toddler Fashion Drama (Alternate Title: PANTS!!!!!)

Toddlers are weird creatures. In many ways they’re still babies, what with their diaper-wearing and middle-of-the-night bottle-drinking (don’t judge me), but then they do stuff like climb onto the changing table all by themselves or sing the ABCs (best part: “emenemo peeeeeee”) and remind you that they are in fact a big kid.

They’re also emotionally unstable maniacs with strong opinions about everything and a willingness to hold out for what they want that would be impressive if it weren’t so damn annoying.

It’s that last one that causes the most problems for me, as the parent of a weird little toddler. From food to television to how his chair is positioned in relation to the table, Bubba knows what he likes and he’s rarely willing to accept anything short of his vision of perfection. If I weren’t the one tasked with fulfilling his many requests (not to mention dealing with the fallout when said requests cannot be accommodated), I think I’d actually quite enjoy this developmental stage — it’s fascinating to see his little personality develop via his likes and dislikes and the strategies he employs in attempts of getting his way.

But I am his mother, so this seemingly endless period of wacko demands and staunch refusal to bend is proving to be more obnoxious than enchanting.

Last week, Bubba decided that he really, really liked a particular pair of pants. He’s had these pants for months and has worn them countless times, but he never asked to wear them over any other pants or expressed any excitement when they came up in the rotation. Then one day, out of the blue, prompted by absolutely nothing, he saw them in the laundry basket and excitedly proclaimed “PANTS!” as if he’d been searching for them his whole life and couldn’t believe his luck at having found them. He excitedly marched them over to me and insisted that I remove his suddenly-offensive jeans immediately so he could wear these magical pants, after which he pranced around happily chanting, “PANTS! PANTS!”

I was a bit puzzled at this sudden affection for this random article, but I didn’t think much of it until that night when it was time to change into pajamas and he freaked out. “PAAAAANTS!!!!!!!” he cried as I tossed them into the hamper. “MINE PANTS!”

I was able to distract him enough to put some pajamas on him, but within 30 minutes he was asking about the damn pants again! And then he apparently spent the whole night dreaming about them, because the very first words out of his mouth the next morning were “mine pants?” I explained that they were too dirty and stinky to wear, which resulted in him fishing them out of the hamper and pathetically whimpering “stinky paaaants” repeatedly as if that might resolve their confirmed stinky status so that he could wear them once again.

And again, just to clarify: HE HAD NEVER CARED ABOUT THESE PANTS BEFORE.

This nonsense has been going on for days now and it’s showing no signs of letting up. If the pants are not on his body, he’s looking for them in the hamper or the drier (I quickly wised up and started washing them daily). And why? What is it about these pants that’s so special!? To be fair, they do seem quite comfy (they’re sort of like warmup pants or basketball shorts with a soft lining), but why the sudden obsession when they didn’t warrant a second glance the first 30 times he wore them?

These are the types of mysteries that plague the parents of a toddler on a daily basis. I may never know why Bubba has taken such a shine to these godforsaken pants, but I do know this: I’m placing an order for five more pairs tonight.

How I’m Convincing Myself That Letting My Toddler Watch WWE Isn’t That Bad

For the past 23 months, I’ve been longing for the day that my child would want to watch some TV and give me a few blessed moments of peace. Yes, I realize how terrible that sounds, but I can’t even feel guilty about it: have YOU ever tried to make dinner, wash dishes, or even go to the bathroom with a toddler underfoot?! Let me tell you, it’s not easy.

It took him a while, but Bubba has finally embraced the sweet warm glow of television. He still prefers playing with his toys and harassing me 99% of the time, but every once in a while he’ll saddle up and allow the TV to entertain him for ten minutes or so:

That’s the good news.

The bad news is that the only thing he wants to watch is professional wrestling.

I assure you that I did not intend for this to happen. It all started innocently enough: in an attempt to occupy the dear boy one day when he was being particularly pesty, my husband showed him some YouTube videos of wrestlers performing some rather gymnastic feats. Why not, right? Bubba enjoys jumping and climbing on things himself, so my husband naturally (and rightly) presumed that he’d enjoy seeing others do the same. Then, upon realizing that the videos were a hit, my husband upped the ante by firing up the DVR and showing him some actual episodes of WWE Raw and Smackdown.

And that was the end of that. Now he’s hooked on “nennings,” as he calls it (and I’m sure that butchered pronunciation isn’t confusing at all for babysitters and other outsiders, considering they would probably not believe that a two-year-old was asking to watch wrestling even if the word was perfectly articulated), and it’s the only television programming he’s interested in. He requests it daily (thank God for DVRs) and takes great personal offense if we try to watch anything else in his presence. He’s learned several wrestlers’ names and can perform a number of their catchphrases on demand, which is adorable, and he tries to imitate their death-defying moves, which is less adorable. He’s completely obsessed and I can’t say I really mind.

Now, listen: I know the WWE isn’t the best thing dear Bubba could be watching, what with all the violence and the scantily-clad giant-breasted lady-wrestlers and the occasional bad language and all, but Mommy’s burned out and needs some quiet time every once in a while. So when I start to feel like a terrible mother for letting my son watch a 7-foot-tall man throw a 6-foot-tall opponent onto the ground and then beat him over the head with a folding chair, I just remind myself of the following and brush aside my guilt:

Since he feels the need to imitate much of the on-screen action by leaping off the couch onto an admittedly impressively-crafted crash-pad of pillows, I can comfort myself that at least he’s not sitting around like a couch potato!

He’s learning colorful new vocabulary, like “Ole!” (There’s a tag team that has some sort of a Spanish bullfighting theme going on; don’t ask.)

The ridiculous characters aren’t really any more absurd than, say, Yo Gabba Gabba.

The wrestlers’ over-the-top reactions help reinforce the fact that boo-boos can and do occur when you fall off of things, something I’ve been trying to drill into this monkey-child’s head since he started walking. (Sample commentary from Bubba during a match: “Jumping! OH NO! Hurt…boo-boo..uh oh…AGAIN JUMPING!”)

It encourages him to jump around and climb on things, and a fearless, adventurous kid is better than a timid one who won’t try anything, right? (OK, I’m really stretching here.)

“Fear? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that term.”

And finally:

At least it’s better than that whiny Caillou.