Don't take a picture, it won't last longer

Let me make a public service announcement about a pandemic that's sweeping the nation. And no, it's not the damn swine flu. It's people taking pictures at concerts with camera phones.

PEOPLE. Your camera phone is not going to take a decent shot of anything, much less a teeny-tiny figure up on the stage 20 yards away. All you are going to see is a blurry figure in front of colored lights.

Ditto with pictures of the crowd.

Don't even get me started with the pictures of your friends. It's really annoying when you take 47 pictures of your friends, 30 of which you are self-portraiting with them from an arm's length away. Those pictures won't turn out either, just FYI. You'll inevitably cut your head off or have your eyes closed.

We went to the Franz Ferdinand concert tonight. It was awesome. Except for the girl in front of me who I was about to punch in the face because she wouldn't stop with the damn camera phone. And it had a flash -- now with twice as much annoyance!

So please, just say no to concert pictures. We're all depending on you.

Again with the violence

I am sure everyone is sick of reading about my aggressive kid and his penchant for abusing his sister, but god damn, I am sick of watching it happen.

Today's event involved a toy train and her nose followed by six tissues worth of blood, a bottle of Oxyclean and 15 minutes of tears. Also, a serious timeout. I don't care what the "experts" say; when he hits, he sits. That's my new motto.

I told my mom if it was Josh or I inflicting this kind of abuse, they would take our kids away from us. It's not a joke -- I can't let this continue.

The sight of blood didn't even faze him. He looked a little confused, but he certainly didn't look contrite. I just don't know what to do with this anymore. I guess hope he grows out of it before he inflicts any serious injuries. Or that she learns to wallop back. Though I know I will rue the day she does that because then I'll be refereeing fights instead of sending one to timeout and hugging the other.

The poor thing. Her fever finally broke last night and she had her appetite back today and then he practically breaks her nose. The good news is that I will be able to hide her bruise behind a surgical mask and everyone will just suspect swine flu instead of sibling abuse.

She gives me fever

Emmie, Emmie, Emmie. She of the 104.4-degree temperature TWICE in the last 24 hours. This one, she's going to give me a heart attack.

Thursday she went for her 15-month checkup with a little runny nose. It morphed into a 101-degree temperature by Friday afternoon and she's been running a high fever almost continuously since Saturday. Last night at bedtime, it hit the 104s and again this afternoon after her nap.

She won't eat, but she's drinking milk like it's going out of style. I tried to give her some cold water and she took a huge gulp, then threw the cup at my head. Hard. I took that as a sign she wanted more milk. The poor thing is irritable, but also playing and interacting most of the time. The irritability might have something to do with her looking like a white trash toddler in her T-shirt and diaper. But we have to keep her cool, style be damned.

I did manage to clothe her properly for her repeat visit to the doctor this morning, however. While there, they deduced it's Just A Virus (that should be an official kid disease, like Measles and Chicken Pox). The treatment for Just A Virus is Motrin or Tylenol, fluids and alcohol. The alcohol being for the parents, who don't get any sleep and spend all day wiping noses and carrying weeping child around.

She did, however, test negative for the flu. I, of course, was convinced she had the Swine Flu. Because she's traveled to Mexico. And played with livestock. If she did have it, damn would that have made for an awesome blog post! I figured maybe it would be like birthing the first baby of the New Year -- we'd be famous and get lots of free stuff. I heard on the news that one of the kids who had it in New York went to the doctor with a 103-degree fever and I was all, "That's total bullshit. Emmie's is higher than that and no one thinks SHE has swine flu."

So in the meantime, we'll just be here tending to the not-Swine Flu and ducking flying water cups.

Average is awesome in my book

Emmie had her 15-month pediatrician appointment this afternoon and I am pleased to say she is now in the 50th percentile for weight. She's come a long way from her 5th percentile days and I could not be more relieved.

I knew all along that she would gain weight on her own terms, especially once she started eating solid foods. Add in the whole milk and whole-milk yogurt she so adores and you have a 22-pound little girl who shows no signs of her previous infant anorexia.

At 32 inches, she's still rocking the top of the charts in height at the 90th percentile. Her noggin is also 90th percentile, which OHMYGOD she's going to have a pumpkin head for the rest of her life. Her doctor prefers to say she's growing a big brain in there.

She was also given the award for Best 15-Month Appointment Patient of the Day. She was fascinated by everything. Well, that is, until we got the shot portion of the visit. That's something she was not a fan of. And she got two of them.

It's pretty bizarre how even two months ago, she seemed like so much more of a baby. Now she's a full-time walker. She loves to climb the equipment at the playground and go down the slide. She won't eat peas and carrots anymore, instead she just squishes the peas and throws the carrots. She sits forward-facing in her big-girl carseat. She likes to play with the kitchen in the playroom and covers her own head with blankets for endless games of peek-a-boo. She despises being contained in any way. She tries to color a little, but ends up eating the marker. She recognizes family and friends and runs to the Grandmas when she sees them.

She is an absolute joy to be around. Even her tantrums are funny, as she throws her little body backward or forward, showing us the depths of her toddler woes, covering her face with her hands and crying real tears.

Today we went to her music class and as usual, she was charming everyone. She loves to share whatever she has and makes it her personal mission to see each and every instrument put away in the bin. She dances and spins and stares and laughs. She recognizes the songs and definitely has her favorites.

Why can't they stay this age forever? It's the best because their personalities have emerged, but they don't have the need for power struggles. Don't get me wrong, Jack's ability to tell me what he's thinking and what he needs is great. But this stage Emmie is in makes everything feel so easy. Aaaand, I have just cursed myself. I am so stupid.

This is what passes for a post these days

I was so bored this morning that I packed both kids up and drove to Target. We didn't need anything, but I just couldn't stomach the thought of sitting in this house one more minute.

When your day starts at 6:30 a.m, you are out of ideas by 10 a.m. We had already watched a video (that's upon awakening these days), eaten breakfast, gotten dressed, played with toys, read books, made a quilt and solved the nuclear proliferation problem.

The park was an option, but we couldn't stay there for two hours, so I decided to use that as my bribe for good behavior at the store. Except before we even left the driveway, that was taken away because Jack decided to crawl into the front seat and play with the automatic gate-opener instead of getting into his carseat.

Listening to the wail of lament from the backseat the entire drive, I had second thoughts about our outing. "But I waaaant to gooooooo to the paaaaark." But I would not be deterred! This is Target, damn it. They have Starbucks AND Pizza Hut. And cute little kids' shorts for $4. How can you beat $4 shorts? You can't.

We wandered around for a while, I picked up some Oxyclean, Jack tried to convince me he needed a brush (What? You don't even have enough hair to comb.) and Emmie kept turning around in the seat and hitting Jack in the head. I heard a grown man drop the F-bomb in the toy department (dude, check your audience) and played cart-chicken in the baby bath product aisle with another mom who looked just as weary as I did.

When Jack stood up and tried to climb out of the cart, I bid a fond farewell to the red-dot and drove slowly home. We had burned a whole hour, including travel time and a stop to pick up mail at our old house.

If it wasn't for Jack, we could have totally gone to the park and had fun. Instead we had to go home and stare at each other for another 30 minutes before it was time for lunch. We did each other's hair too, since I got suckered into buying a new brush.

Doesn't this make you want to be a stay-at-home mom? Action! Adventure! Thrills! We've got it all -- and all before noon.

New meaning to "grab me a cold one"

Yesterday afternoon, the kids and my mom and I were all playing in the living room after naptime when Jack announced he wanted his milk. Because he is growing about an inch a day lately, he can now reach the shelf in the fridge and get his own cup. This is no small feat, as we have a lower freezer door, making the shelf a pretty good stretch for him, but it makes it a lot easier for me to not have to get up off my ass and get his cup for him. Score!

He ran over and opened the door and his movements caught Emmie's attention. She toddled on in to see what was going on and was delighted to find the refrigerator open. She so enjoys checking out the goods and likes the cool breeze on her face. I think she's secretly trying to figure out how to get to the wine, but I'll worry about that when she's taller.

As she walked around the door, I saw Jack get that look in his eye. You know the one, every kid has it. The look that says nothing good can come out of what is about to transpire.

He let her walk a little closer to him and then even guided her in a little closer with his hand on her back. And then he slammed the door on her head.

I screamed and ran the three feet to the fridge where he was standing with a smile on his face and she was sucking air to begin the loudest scream I have ever heard. I grabbed her and told him to get out of the room -- NOW. I was so shaken up by his behavior that I just sat and held Emmie for a few seconds, contemplating what to do.

Immediately after she calmed down, I held him in my lap and asked him why on earth he would have done such a thing? What was he feeling inside when he did that? Didn't he know that was not nice and very dangerous and that he hurt Emmie very badly?

He didn't care. He just laughed and tried to run away from me. My next move was to the computer, where I Googled "violent 3-year-old" and got nothing helpful.

It was then that I noticed a raised, red scratch running from Emmie's ear, down her neck, all the way around to the back of her head. Then I got super pissed. I took her downstairs to show Josh, who told me perhaps I should have been watching them more closely. I'm sorry -- what?

I attended a discipline seminar today and asked specifically what you are supposed to do when your 3-year-old slams your 15-month-old's head in the refrigerator door. The therapist said to calm the child who was hurt and then tell the other child that we don't do that and it's not acceptable. Then, you drop it. No time-out, no yelling, no threats.

Clearly those things have not been working for us either. But how do you let your older one beat the living hell out of your younger one without punishment? How does he learn consequences if all you do is shake your head and say, "No, no. We don't hit. How about a hug?"

Clearly I am simplifying. They say that kids this age are so caught up in wanting their autonomy and imagine someone ordering you around all day and night, telling you when to sleep and when to eat and when to leave the park and when to use the bathroom. You might get pissy too, but at least you have the words to express yourself and to identify your emotions. They don't. Hence, the hell of raising a 3-year-old. So they recommend giving as many choices as possible, being empathetic and redirecting anger when it flares. They believe time-outs only work because you are demonstrating you are bigger and stronger than they are. And in the end, they can't differentiate between bad behavior and being a bad person. So they see time-out as something that happened because they are a bad person.

So let's see: no time-out, no yelling, no sending him to his room (they said that will only make his attention-grabbing antics escalate) and no threatening. That's all I got, folks. That's my parenting bag of tricks. Have any of you had experience -- good or bad -- with Positive Discipline or Gentle Discipline? Please do share!

A Grandma's work is never done

Conversation at my mother-in-law's house last week...

Jack: "Mommy, Grandma have new pants on 'cause she have pee on her pants."
Amy: "Excuse me?"
Grandma nods her head.
Amy: "What do you mean, Grandma have pee on her pants?"
Jack: "Mommy, I just pee on Grandma and on the rug and the sink and EVERYWHERE!"
Amy snorts and explodes with laughter, turning away from Jack.
Amy (regaining some composure): "How exactly did that happen?"
Jack: "I not point it down. I just pee everywhere."

Poor grandma. She confirmed that yes, he did indeed pee on everything he said he did. Including her.

But at least it wasn't me!

Getting on with it

Over the past several months, there have been a few events that made me pause and think about how lucky I am. I have two beautiful, healthy children. I have a wonderful husband who makes me laugh and makes it possible for us to have the life we have. I have a supportive family and awesome friends. I have it all.

And in an instant, that could change. I know that. And it's always when you hear about something awful -- the death of a child, a little girl choking, a young father losing his wife the day after their baby is born -- that you take stock in your life.

After my friend Jenny nearly lost her adorable little CiCi to choking, I vowed I would appreciate each and every minute with my kids. And for a while, I did. I was serenity personified. Jack flung a bowl of peas and carrots at my head the next night and I thought to myself, "It's fine. It's just vegetables. He's 3. And I am lucky to have him." I just smiled and asked if he wanted dessert.

But then the minutes turned to hours and I wasn't as mindful of how lucky I was. Emmie was waking up in the middle of the night screaming and I was annoyed. Jack would kick me and I would send him to timeout. And real life descended on me once again.

I have to admit: I am kind of obsessed with Matt Logelin's blog. Josh jokes that I have a dad crush on him. But I just love reading about his Maddy and his experiences with single fatherhood as a widow. And I always think to myself, "That could have been Josh." And it makes me so sad to think about. How on earth would Josh have raised Jack on his own while grieving the loss of his wife?

Again, for a day or two after reading his blog for the first time, I really thought about how lucky I was. I was thoughtful with Josh, bought him his favorite licorice from Trader Joe's for no reason. Let him sleep in. Encouraged him to go out with his friends. But then a few days passed and I was back to bitching about him being on the computer all the time and nagging him to pick the freaking sock lint up off the floor. What the hell is the deal with his sock lint anyway? It appears only on his side of the bed, always from his black socks and it drives me BATSHIT CRAZY that he doesn't see it or doesn't care. But this is a perfect of example of what I am talking about: really, sock lint? I am bitching about sock lint? Matt Logelin would probably give anything to have his wife leave sock lint next to the bed.

A few days ago, I learned that a little girl, Maddie Spohr, had died. And it was horrifying. Again, I vowed to hug my kids a little tighter. And then Emmie was head-butting me during a tantrum and Jack was peeing on the toilet seat on purpose and I was yelling at Josh that he was talking on the phone instead of playing with the kids when he got home from work.

Shitty things happen to good people. It sucks. And I wish I was a better person who took these lessons and actually made life changes based on them. Or even that I could lie and tell you that I did. I am trying, and I guess that's a start.

It hit me this morning; that is life. Life is not sunshine and rainbows and unicorns. Life is being exasperated with your kids. It's being annoyed with your husband. It's sending your calls to voicemail because you don't feel like talking. It's taking five extra minutes after your shower to just be alone in the bathroom. It's looking forward to naptime.

But just because you do those things, doesn't mean you don't love your kids or your husband or your family or your friends. To me, real life is tragic and wonderful and fun and scary and boring and unpredictable all at the same time. And real life means sometimes you are going to lose your shit and yell but then turn around and pick up your kids and tickle them until they laugh themselves into the hiccups.

The fine line between those emotions is what makes me a parent. It's what makes me a wife. And it's what makes me real. Those moms who never yell, never sleep in past 5 a.m. and never complain about having to clean up pee off the floor are not real moms. They're not even real people.

Floored

Before we had children, Josh and I used to eat pleasant dinners. Sometimes, we would light candles and have wine. Occasionally, we ate on our good china. Mostly, we ate pizza. But I did cook quite a bit and we usually ate dinner together after work.

In the five years I was with Josh before our children came along, I never once saw him throw his food on the floor. He can tell you the same thing about me. So I'm not sure where my son, the child who put me flat on my back for four months and has brought joy to my life each and every day for the past 38 months, got the idea that flinging your entire plate full of food on the floor was a good idea.

For several months now, with some improvement and much backsliding, Jack has been dumping his meals on the floor. Sometimes he'll eat everything on his plate, and throw the empty dish across the room like it's a frisbee. But usually, it's a plate full of food that he either doesn't want to eat or thinks would be funny to see decorating the dining room that whizzes through my line of sight on its way to the hardwood flooring.

Tonight's extravaganza included salmon and mashed potatoes all over my mother-in-law's csrpeting. One minute he was eating nicely and the nex,t he was laughing like a lunatic before I could grab his arm and stop him.

My mother-in-law said she thought I had been bitten by something based on my reaction. After pulling my shit together, I calmly picked him up out of his seat and told him he had to clean all of the mess up and then he was going straight to bed after we were finished.

"But Mommy, I can't clean it, it's too hard," Jack whined.

"Perhaps you should have thought of that before giving your mashed potatoes a ride," I said smugly.

The most annoying part of the whole thing is that he had only taken three bites of the grilled salmon. And it was awesome. I would have totally eaten his, had he only chosen to throw his salad instead of his main course.

As it was, I had to give half of mine to Emmie because she ate her weight in salmon. In addition to eating her own piece, she ate some of both mine and Josh's, as well as veggies, mashed potatoes and strawberries.

I'm an idiot. I should have just sat her next to Jack's chair where she would have had access to the all-you-can-eat floor buffet.

Just read

Last week, I saw a number of my favorite bloggers had posted about the passing of Maddie Spohr. I can't say I had ever heard of Maddie, or her mommy Heather or Heather's blog.

I sat down and read Heather's archives. I can't even begin to tell you what it felt like to read the complete story, knowing there was no way to change the ending. Little Maddie, just two months older than my sweet Emmie, passed away last week.

I have a place in my heart for moms who have endured bedrest. Heather pretty much spent her entire pregnancy in bed, so I know what she went through. The worry, the boredom, the guilt over wanting to get up and just walk around, the stress. I don't know what it's like to have a NICU baby, and for that, I am thankful. But to come out of that experience and lose your baby more than a year later? It's just not fair.

If you have a moment, please read Heather's tribute to Maddie. (If you can't access her blog -- it's been experiencing some problems because of all the traffic, try this link instead.) And watch the slideshow at the end -- it will take your breath away. I know I am hugging my kids a little tighter today.

Egg-cellent

Many years ago, when it was still just my sister and I participating in the annual Easter Egg Hunt, my parents hid the eggs so well one year that we could not find the 12th -- and final -- egg. After a longer-than-normal search, my dad announced whoever found the damn thing would win a dollar. He would clearly have rather paid us than come home to the smell of a rotting egg in a few days, which was fine by us.

A tradition was born that morning: the Dollar Egg. No special egg is given the designation, it's simply the last egg found. You locate it, you get the dollar. Over the years, we have added boyfriends and spouses to the mix. Notice I did not say we added children, because even though we do have children, they are not allowed to take part in the adult egg hunt. They get their own eggs to search for and then have to be barricaded in a safe spot, lest they be trampled in the frenzy.

During his first year as part of the search party, Josh actually cheated by holding several eggs in his arms and not telling anyone how many he had found. New rules had to be established after that. He's always one for finding a way around the rules, that Josh.

I won it two years ago and in my usual understated manner, leaped into the air and screamed "I FOUND IT" at the top of my lungs, then ran laps around my parents' condo with my arms raised. I am what's known as a Gracious Winner.

Five years ago, my parents had a plaque made up and each year, the winner's name is inscribed on said plaque and that person gets to display it in his or her home for the remainder of the year. (I told you this was serious business.) We have been known to stretch before the event and there may or may not have been a year where someone was tackled and F-bombs were dropped. Yes, F-bombs on the morning of the resurrection of our lord. Nothing is sacred in our family.

Last year, my sister won after her boyfriend, in his first year of participation, blocked me out of the closet and she snuck under his arm to find the Dollar Egg. It was total bullshit and I filed a grievance. That was also the year they showed up with matching headbands and sweatbands. Idiots. Everyone knows it's all about the tube socks.

This year, I looked in the closet and found nothing when Josh followed in my footsteps and emerged victorious. Again, total bullshit. But the rightful owners of the family Easter Egg Plaque retook possession of said plaque. While I might not have won, Josh did, and that's almost as good as winning because it means we shut my sister and Kevin out. What's up now bitches? Huh? HUH?


My dad, Josh, the dollar, the plaque and the egg. I am so proud.

Oh yeah, we had some kids who celebrated Easter, too.


Emmie finds the first egg. In fairness to Jack, hers IS located in plain sight on the couch. But still.

Jack sees his first egg in a normally forbidden spot. Notice he has no problem going into said forbidden spot.

We're getting candy! Wait, what? No candy? Bullshit.

Jack learns how Easter egg dye looks on your hands.

He's only pretending to like her in the hopes we'll give him some of our candy.

Rad disguise.

Emmie feels the need to try them on, too.

Mmm, tastes like chicken

Things Emmie ate today:

* Oatmeal
* Applesauce
* Milk
* Almond butter sandwich
* Yogurt
* Chalk

You know, a standard toddler diet.

I plead the fifth on the chalk. I was busy chatting with my friend during our playdate with the 3-year-olds. Emmie was along for the fun and playing nicely with the big kids a few feet away. I mean come on, if we can't trust two 3-year-olds to watch her, who can we trust?

Strangely, I was more upset about the fact she had a little choke-able piece in her mouth than the fact she was eating CHALK. Perhaps she was lacking a little something in her diet.

As I was trying to pick up all the pieces, she was trying to grab them and shove them in her mouth as fast as she could. She's a determined one.

So I just handed her some paste. If she's going to eat childhood craft items, at least let them be ones we know taste good.

Shark week

Apparently my daughter is really a shark. That is the only explanation for the amount of pain her newest tooth is causing her.

The bump is huge. We're talking the size of a golf ball. Which, I know! In her little mouth! It's a freak of nature. Or maybe just a slight exaggeration.

But this bump, which I am pretty sure is not going to break through anytime this millennium, is causing all sorts of trouble in our house. She's cranky and drooly and whiny and clingy. She's also waking up at 3:15. That's 3:15 a.m. As in, the middle of the damn night.

I jumped out of bed and sprinted to her room to find her standing in the crib, peeking over the rail and sobbing. I went in armed with Tylenol and dim lighting, but she was having none of it. She suckered me into rocking her and she snuggled right into my chest, sticking her fingers in her mouth and breathing deeply.

As I lowered her into the crib a few minutes later, she figured out what I had planned. The horror of going back in the crib! Nooooooooo!

So I thought maybe I would just bring her into bed with us -- brilliant! I would get some sleep and she would drift off with a smile on her face. Except not. Because my husband started snoring, which caused her to try to investigate where the sounds where coming from. Then once she stopped trying to figure out where that god-awful noise was coming from, she just laid there staring at the ceiling.

Since she had been dosed with the sweet, sweet Tylenol and was not screaming bloody murder, I figured she could go back to her own bed. She disagreed with my observations. Vehemently. For the next 10 minutes.

But then it was quiet. And everyone was fast asleep once again. Except Mommy. Of course I couldn't fall back asleep after the hour-long shenanigans that just went on. So I tossed and turned for a while and finally fell back asleep.

Just in time to hear the piercing screech of, "Mommy! Mommy! I awake! Mommy I awake!"

Awesome.

Hippity hoppity, Easter's on its way

In my little parenting world, seeing the Easter bunny is a rite of spring. I see peeps on the shelves and I know it's time to see the big white bunny at the mall. Scared children? No worries. That which does not kill them...

We set off for the mall this morning, bright and early, to have our audience with his rabbitness. I was fully prepared to fork over my $15 for a photo, because then I would be allowed to take my own pictures as well. If there's one thing I have learned in the last three years, it's that there is no price too large for the entertainment of my readers.

Jack had a headstart with Grandma as I had to stop to return something first. When I finally got to the rabbit hutch (OK, it was an oversize wicker chair) Jack was almost jumping out of his skin with excitement. Emmie took one look at where I was taking her and started trying to jump over my shoulder.

Oh but this is a rite of passage, my dear girl. You will get a picture with the Easter bunny.

Jack posed nicely and smiled, Emmie tried valiantly to slither out of the bunny's arms and off his lap. Then she just wailed and covered her face with her hands. She couldn't stand to look.

No amount of cajoling could cheer her up while she was in the rabbit's death grip, so we ended the visit and went on our merry ways. Emmie will need therapy for a fear of furry mascots when she's an adult, but we'll deal with that later. At least I know she won't grow up to indulge in one of those weird furry fetishes that I read about a few years ago in Vanity Fair. I am still scarred from that piece myself.

As I was assuming the position for the mall employee to bend me over (see: price increase this year to $19.99 for the cheapest photo) I asked if we had to buy the picture. You know, just for giggles. The poor little college girl, obviously a photography major working on some artistic animal/human still life shots for her portfolio, looked at me blankly and said, "No?" (Emphasis on the question mark, because she was an up-talker.)

I smiled and thanked her as I ran away as quickly as possible, lest she change her mind. Thank you oh gods of Snickers eggs and malted milk robin's eggs, someone is looking out for me in these times of economic crisis.


Jack looks for a way to get some candy without Emmie ruining it all.

Missing: one snarky mommy

I was looking back at my archives last week and I have come to the realization that I have lost the funny. I can't pinpoint it and say, "Well damn, on July 13 I was hilarious and by July 15, I just didn't have it anymore." It's just I feel a little, well, off.

Sure, high-risk pregnancy is money when it comes to comedic blog posts. I mean who isn't catching their breath after laughing themselves into an asthma attack over the description of a dildocam session documenting yet another shortening of the old cervix? Or trying to ignore the stitch in their side after reading more hilarious adventures in pregnancy hemorrhoids?

But then I wasn't pregnant anymore and I had two kids and I whined about being home alone with them and how haaaarrrrrrddddd it was to have to feed, bathe and put them to bed BY MYSELF. That's funny. No wait, it's not. It's just whiny.

I looked back at a few recent posts and realized I have been mailing it in. I am going to try harder, but it's going to take some effort on my part. I think I would like to actually make something of this blog someday. And it isn't going to happen with me posting three paragraphs about my kid pooping on the potty.

Blaming Twitter was my first instinct, as I usually bring the funny there and find it so much easier to snark it up in less than 140 characters. No plot, no seques -- just amusing one-offs. But blaming Twitter is wrong. I used to be a reporter for God's sake. People paid me to tell stories in long form. It's my creativity that needs a kick in the ass.

Emmie got her first pair of big-girl shoes today. Goodbye Robeez, hello Stride Rite. We put the tennis shoes on her feet in the store and she laid down on the floor and declined our requests to walk or even to crawl, refusing to lift her legs because she had 50-pound weights attached to her ankles. Oh, the horror of shoes.

But then she spotted Grandma's Coach purse on the table and she couldn't get up fast enough. She toddled over to grab it and chew on the strap and completely forgot about the awfulness of her feet being encased.

Lesson learned: sometimes, you have to make an effort to move beyond your comfort zone. A nice purse as a reward doesn't hurt, either.

So from now on, I am bringing the funny back. Or at least trying to. I imagine my stats will be the judge of that. Of course Jack is on spring break for two weeks and all I will want to write are posts that sound something like "OMFG I am going to lose my mind because I am with my 3-year-old 24 hours a day. Please someone find me a babysitter already."

The search is over. Maybe.

Over a year ago, I shared with all of you my quest for an eye cream that would make some sort of difference in the ridiculous dark circles under my eyes. I spent hundreds of dollars over the years on various products that never eradicated my issue.

Thanks to the one-two punch of genetics and fair skin, I have some pretty serious dark circles. I don't have wrinkles (again, thanks genetics, coupled with moisturizing routines starting in my teens) and I don't have bags. But oh my holy hell, I get one measly less hour of sleep one night and I look like a Twilight character.

After all my Googling and product samples last year, in the end, I stuck with Philosphy's Hope in a Tube. It didn't do much for the circles, but I wasn't getting any wrinkles either. So, bleh. A wash.

As any good dark-circle sufferer will tell you, it's not about the eye cream anyway. It's all about the concealer. That's what takes you from "night of the living dead" to "morning of the somewhat alive" in 20 seconds.

I had been using "Boi-ing" concealer from Benefit for the last year, on the recommendation of the fabulous Fluid Pudding. And yes, it does live up to its moniker of "industrial-strength concealer." It did a great job of concealing my circles, but they were never truly gone. But still, better than any product I had been using up to that point.

When I ran out last month before our trip, I ran over to the Benefit boutique down the block for a restock. Because it is the greatest makeup store ever, they insist on practically giving you a whole makeover for free every time you set foot in the store. The girl that day insisted I try their new eye product.

"Nah," I said. "I am running late and leaving for a vacation and ... oh, well, OK. But just the concealer. I really have to get home."

As she spun me toward the mirror, I gasped. You could not see my circles. I thought it was a trick of the lighting, but no. She laughed and said, "See! I told you that you would love it."

This little miracle in a jar goes by the name of Erase Paste. And it is my new best friend. It came with me on vacation and saved my jet-lagged ass from scaring anyone with my heroin-addict eyes. I look at it longingly every morning and thank it for coming into my life. Even Josh has remarked what a good job it does.

So if you suffer from this as I do (Supacoo, I kept meaning to tell you of this miracle product and wondering if you have access to it) you should give it a try. You only use the tiniest amount and you have to use the twee little scooper that comes with it to get it out and it's got some heat-activated component that works with your skin, but I promise, you will love it.