Girl Detective

I’m experiencing a maddening form of writers block. I have plenty to write about, but I can’t shape it into a form that pleases me. I feel as if I’ve lost any small skill to write in a coherent, meaningful way. I know the way out of this rut. It’s to write, trying to keep things brief and focused. Even that simple-sounding prescription feels beyond me today, though.

The current blockage is ironic. I haven’t posted in over a week because I was out of town for a writers conference. The speakers and sessions sent a combined message of humility and hope: write, hone your skills, continue in spite of almost inevitable rejection, and someday you may be published.

Midway through the conference I experienced a whopping low. I was suddenly certain that I was a hack and that my manuscript was crap and not worth any further time or effort. Either of those might be true. But if I follow the advice to keep writing and learning, then someday they might not be true.

I hope to be a better writer, therefore I write. It’s very simple, really.

On last Friday’s (01/28/05) episode of Joan of Arcadia, Annie Potts finally proved what television viewers have always known.

She is evil.

Kudos to Joan of Arcadia for casting her so perfectly against type. The reveal was so satisfying it was positively delicious.

I’ve written before about why I like the show. It focuses on a family that includes teenagers. Amazingly, the portrayal feels both realistic and yet, *gasp*, not bitter or depressing. And every member of the family gets a thorough characterization.

In my previous entry on the new Sci Fi Channel series of Battlestar Galactica, I noted that the show had “English roots”. My friend Blogenheimer asked me to clarify what I meant by this. Upon further reflection, I think it would be more accurate to note that the show has pronounced English influences. Technically, its roots are the original 1980’s era American television series.

First, the current series was developed and written by Ron Moore, a former Star Trek writer who is English. Second, the new series was partially financed by Sky One, “the UK’s most popular non-terrestrial entertainment TV channel.” The series initially ran on Sky One to strong reviews, and premiered in the US on the Sci Fi Channel in January 2005. I remark on the English influences because I think the show has a dark intelligence that is much more characteristic of English television than it is of most mainstream US television.

For example, in last Friday’s episode, “Act of Contrition,” Starbuck confessed to Adama that she had passed Zak (his son and her lover) for basic flight though he shouldn’t have qualified. Zak was subsequently killed in a flight accident. Edward James Olmos stood stony faced, inches from her as Starbuck stammered and sobbed. She finished, he made a comment about a related issue, and she began to babble, relieved to have come clean.

As I watched, I cringed as she began to speak again. “Run, run!” I urged her in my head.

“Get out,” snarled Adama, “while you still can.”

A lesser show would have played this scene differently. It would have had Adama forgive her, or at least show something less harrowing than the billowing, murderous rage that Olmos so skillfully projected without saying a word or moving a muscle.

I continue to be surprised that my new favorite show is science fiction. I worry for its success. Neither science fiction shows nor dark shows have a good record in the US. Yet spurred by HBO shows like The Sopranos, Sex and the City, and Six Feet Under, networks other than the big three (ABC, CBS and NBC) and the newer three (FOX, WB, and UPN) are building a strong and loyal viewership for new shows, providing both strong support and canny marketing. FX has done well both with Nip/Tuck and Rescue Me. I hope that Battlestar Galactica will continue to surprise and entertain, and in the process become the Sci Fi Channel’s biggest hit.

Slashdot teaser for the new Battlestar Galactica series
More on Battlestar Galactica at
TVTome
IMDB
NixFlix

That isn’t entirely true. Just last week I bought him two toys: a bouncy plastic ball for $2.49 and a baby doll. I couldn’t stomach buying the blond, blue-eyed girl doll, so instead I bought the non-white, potentially gender-neutral doll. (The doll came with a purple headband, which I threw in the trash.) The doll came with a toy bottle and a rattle. We handed the baby doll to Drake and he lunged for the bottle, then put it immediately to the baby’s mouth. We didn’t show him, I swear. Is it innate, or just painfully obvious?

But, back to the originally intended topic of this post. I try not to buy toys for Drake. Obviously, sometimes I do not succeed. He has friends and relatives that have been very kind to him, and he really seems fine with the toys that he has. Occasionally, I feel as if I should be buying him developmental toys, or fun toys, or arts and music toys. I fret that perhaps he isn’t learning because we don’t have what he needs.

And then, he starts to play with the empty mustard bottle. And won’t let it go. And wants to sleep with it. Later, he takes the mini-loaf pans out of the cupboard and stacks and unstacks them.

He will find what he needs, when he needs it. And it does not have to cost money and be colorful and have batteries.

But a mustard bottle?

Oh, for the love of Mike.

I saw a blurb in the February issue of Lucky magazine about a product I just had to try: California Baby’s Overtired and Cranky Spritz. According to Lucky, it’s a perfect pick-me-up for both babies and grown ups during that dead zone in the afternoon between 3 and 5 p.m. I guiltily plunked down $12 because even the possibility of relief during the dead zone was too much to resist.

Verdict? Well, it doesn’t make me crankier. I think the phsyical shock of getting something cold and wet spritzed on the back of the neck might be what derails fatigue and crankiness as much as the fragrance itself. It may not be so much a calming thing as a distracting counter-irritant. Is it worth $12? Probably not.

I’ve been tagged by Duff at GirlReaction. She and I seem to have synchronous tastes in music and books, so we raid each others’ blogs for ideas. I’m lately feeling woefully out of touch, though not as much as my husband G. Grod, who demanded to know who the hell Bright Eyes was when I brought home his CDs earier this week after FINALLY finding them at Target.

1. Total amount of music files on your computer:
Uh, no idea. I rarely listen to music on the computer. I’m a luddite that way.

2. The last CD you bought was:
I bought three: the two new Bright Eyes I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning and Digital Ash in a Digital Urn and the new Ani DiFranco, Knuckle Down. I’m hoping I can find a clear melody or bass line on this latest Ani album; her last couple albums have a lot of free-form lyrics–they haven’t enthralled me.

3. What is the song you last listened to before reading this message?
“Are You Lonely Tonight” by Elvis, on the new MPR station 89.3 The Current, which I feel guilty about loving, since it came into being when MPR gobbled up the little St. Olaf classical station.

4. Write down 5 songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you:
“Snuggle Puppy” by Boynton/Ford from Philadelphia Chickens (a panacea for our son Drake)
“Closer to Fine”, Indigo Girls (a panacea for me)
“Solsbury Hill”, Peter Gabriel (see above)
“Have a Little Faith in Me”, John Hiatt (the first song at G. Grod’s and my wedding; reminds me to be nicer to him. I need frequent reminders. I can be rather grouchy.)
“The Immigrant Song”, Led Zeppelin, because I’m trying to teach Drake to sing the opening. So far he’s got the first two notes, out of four.

5. Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?

M. Giant at Velcrometer, because he’s funny.
Blogenheimer, because he’s the reason we own all our Firewater CDs.
Becca, because her iPod got stolen and perhaps this will send good musical juju her way.

And I don’t know if it counts since he’ll probably post here, but also my husband G. Grod, because I don’t know what he’ll answer.

Here’s why the movie Constantine is going to suck.

1. Movies based on comics almost always suck. Recent notable exception: Spider Man 2. It helps if it’s made by a fanboy.

2. Keanu is seriously miscast for several reasons. The character of John Constantine is smart, blond, and English. He’s also in his early forties. Keanu is too young, stupid, American and brunette to play this part. Keanu only works in movies where he’s playing a NVB (not very bright) character: Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, Speed, the Matrices. You know who would’ve been great as Constantine, though now he’s perhaps a bit long in the tooth? Sting.

If the premise of Constantine sounds interesting to you then get to your nearest comic shop and pick up a copy of the GN (graphic novel) Hellblazer: Original Sins, by Jamie Delano et al. If you like it, then pick up some of the other Hellblazer GNs by Garth Ennis. Various authors have done awful things to the Constantine character over the years (as in the current Books of Magic series, which aggravates me) but these early collections are quite good.

I forgot one thing I did while I had my getaway last weekend, and it was to browse in a well-stocked book and music store. I went book by book through the young adult section and then traipsed around the whole store looking up books that had been on my list for a while and seeing if they had them (almost without exception, yes) and if they looked cool enough to stay on my list (also mostly yes.) I had time both before and after the movie to do this. It was so much fun to browse with no time limit, with no one waiting for me. I managed not to buy any books, but I was persuaded to buy two CDs from my list, since one was on sale and the other was relatively inexpensive, and I played them both once I got to my hotel room: Tift Merritt, Tambourine and Neko Case, The Tigers Have Spoken. So far, I’m pleased with both purchases.

My Chrismas gift from my thoughtful husband was an overnight at a nearby hotel. I left during Drake’s nap on Friday and returned 24 hours later. The short trip couldn’t completely reverse the upheaving effects of a tough week that was short on sleep, but it certainly helped, and was a lovely little interlude before jumping back into the fray.

I had a plan before I left, and it was to focus on things that are tough/impossible to do with Drake around. I took a lot of reading material, then picked out a movie to see and a closeby restaurant for dinner.

I saw In Good Company, a quiet little flick that was balm for my ruffled soul. It wasn’t high art, but it was charming, and smart in a subtle way. The ending didn’t feel surprising, but looking back on the movie, I thought it was easy to chart more predictable paths for it that would have left me at the end saying, “That’s stupid,” or “That’s obvious.” The movie adroitly sidestepped several trite possibilities and instead ended on a note that felt sweet and satisfying. I felt somewhat restored after the movie, as I did when I heard the uplifting notes of Peter Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill” on its soundtrack.

At dinner, then breakfast the next morning, I was deliberate in my choices of what to eat and my pace in eating. I also did not read or do anything else but eat. It was truly a luxury to eat what I wanted and at my own speed, which is slow.

I revelled similarly in the luxury of having several hours in which to read. I brought a novel, a collection of short stories and essays, several comic books and a couple graphic novels. I felt like I had the literary equivalent of tapas. Continuing this multiplicitous reading has left me a bit at odds, as I wrote about yesterday, but for a short period of time it was quite heady.

I had hoped for a stupendous greeting from Drake upon my return, but it was not to be. He woke from his nap, as he often does, in good spirits but raring to get back on the ground and get moving. I’m not sure he even noticed that I’d been gone.

One thing marred the overnight. Even in a very quiet hotel, I had trouble sleeping. The last time I went away, I also was not able to sleep, so this time I’d taken the precaution of taking a sleeping pill. Alas, even on drugs, no dice. I think that the last 17 months of oft-interrupted sleep have permanently damaged my ability to sleep deeply. Even with restless sleep, though, I still returned home in better, calmer spirits.

Or, as my husband G. Grod would be quick to note, crazier than usual. I’m reading multiple books right now, and I’m having a hard time of it. I can’t tell if I’m feeling fuzzy and fragmented as an effect of being in the midst of multiple readings, or if I’ve broken my usual hard and fast rule against multiple books because I’ve been feeling out of focus.

No matter. Either way, as cause or effect, I am not an advocate of being in the midst of multiple books. I hate multi-tasking. Thus it is good that I no longer have a corporate job, and bad that I’m a mom because it’s very, very hard to just do one thing at a time while caring for my toddler, Drake.

I formed my hard and fast rule some time ago, when I realized that reading more than one book at a time just made each one harder to follow, and slower to finish. So it’s been one book at a time for some time now.

I’m gearing up for a writers conference, though, and I’m also trying to put some finishing edits on novel #1. So I put the novel I was reading–Tam Lin by Pamela Dean–aside so I could read something more relevant to the tasks at hand. I then picked up The Best American Non-Required Reading 2002, edited by Michael Cart and Dave Eggers. I also started on the articles from the most recent edition of the Children’s Writers and Illustrators Market. In the midst of these I’ve been reading a lot of different comics (Fables, Books of Magic, 100 Bullets, Gotham Central, Y the Last Man, Ex Machina, Girl Genius, Planetary….) My head is spinning with fact and fiction, and I’m wondering about the easiest way to get off this merry-go-round yet still do the reading I need to do.

It’s probably not reading more comics. But I think that’s what I’m going to do anyway. Perhaps it’s my subsconscious telling me I’m not getting my daily recommended allowance of fiction by reading the Cart/Eggers collection and the Writer’s Market. See what happens when I don’t get fiction? It’s not pretty.

My husband is the football fan in our house, not me. Yet even I got sucked into the playoff frenzy of the past weeks, and spent a good chunk of the past two Sundays watching football. I was sorry to see first Indianapolis and then Pittsburgh fall to the Patriots, but beyond thrilled that the Eagles finally won the NFC championship, after losing honorably three years ago and choking the past two years. I thought it was fun to watch the Patriots in ‘01, when they were an underdog team and seemed to have god-touched good fortune as they went all the way. I’m not sure the Patriots can be stopped, but I hope the birds can give them a worthy challenge at the Super Bowl.

I’ve seen a handful of cooking shows over the years but only America’s Test Kitchen has warranted my ongoing time. In the past, at least, the show has featured practical recipes that are reasonable to make at home. It also has good segments on product tastings and gadget testings.

A recent episode included pan-roasted lobster, though, and it left me rather disturbed. It was not a recipe I was interested in watching being made, or ever making myself, and I found the repeated twitching of the lobster, in spite of cook Julia Collin’s assertions that it was “perfectly normal,” perfectly awful.

I’m not a vegetarian, but I limit my consumption of fish and meat, and seek out organic and kosher meats and fish because the animals are raised and killed more humanely. Blogenheimer recently linked to David Foster Wallace’s article for Gourmet magazine, in which he queries �Is it all right to boil a sentient creature alive just for our gustatory pleasure?� After watching that episode of America’s Test Kitchen, I feel pretty certain the answer is no.

On a more positive note, I was surprised during the episode by an animated segment on flambe, and highly entertained by it. The old science segments from the show were quite dull. The new animated one was not only interesting, but clever and informative. The animation was by Odd Todd. I hope that the show moves away from obscure recipes and on-air lobster butchering, and includes more animated cooking techniques. Otherwise my tv roster may get just a little bit shorter.

I was mistaken the other day when I said that My So-Called Life was my favorite show, ever. It was certainly one of them, but head to head, I think I’d have to say that another great cancelled show trumps it in my memory. EZ Streets ran for fewer episodes than My So-Called Life, but it packed quite a punch. The shows great cast included Ken Olin, Debra Farentino and Joe Pantoliano, and featured a haunting soundtrack by Loreena McKennitt. It was complicated and dark, and it got cancelled way too early. In Neil Gaiman’s comic series Sandman, Morpheus’ library included books that had only been dreamt of by their creators. I sometimes fancy that a complete collection of EZ Streets episodes would be in the AV section of Dream’s library.

There are other shows that I mourn on occasion: Action, Freaks and Geeks, Undeclared, The Job. I’m just hoping that two of my current favorites–life as we know it and Veronica Mars–don’t join that list this season.

I read about the demise of Washington DC’s former alternative station WHFS last week on two different weblogs: Rage Diaries and 1st Lede Writethru. Lisa and Vince, like me, mourn what once was a very cool radio station. One of the comments at the Rage Diaries, though, made me feel somewhat better. My memory of ‘HFS as cool was from the past; over the years it apparently went mainstream, eventually even playing Britney.

I associate ‘HFS with my senior year in college. I had lived a very insular college life, sticking close to campus. Through my job I met kids from other schools, who listened to different music, read different books, and knew more about the city than I did. Prior to ‘HFS, I listened mostly to classic rock and my cd collection included things like AC/DC and Guns n Roses. After ‘HFS, my music horizons broadened to include Indigo Girls, Sinead O’Connor, They Might be Giants, World Party, John Hiatt, and others, many of which are still in my cd collection today. (I must admit that Lisa’s list at her entry on The Rage Diaries sounds much cooler than does mine, but I’m not tweaking mine to sound cooler. It is what it is.)

I’m more sad for the deterioration of WHFS than I am for the loss of whatever it had become, which doesn’t sound like that much of a loss. I’m hardly surprised though. Over the years I’ve listened to two other stations change and die, and I’ve almost stopped listening to radio.

The first was WDRE in Philadelphia. ‘DRE underwent a lot of changes, but in the mid ’90s it hit a really fun stride with good music and good staff. I especially liked the morning show with Sarah, Vinnie and Spike. DRE got sold, though. Some staff went to its main competitor, Y100. Sarah and Vinnie went to Radio Alice-KLLC in San Francisco.

Then I moved to Minnesota. I really liked 105, even though I came years after its most cool time as REV 105. The music was OK and I really liked the morning show with Brian Oke and Mary Lucia. Then, one morning I was driving to work and they were gone. I have hardly listened to radio since, though I do occasionally tune into Radio K.

Two spots of radio hope are on the horizon in Minnesota, though one of them has mixed elements. St. Olaf’s classical station 89.3 was bought by MPR and is launching as an alt-ish, younger skewing station. Staff members include Mary Lucia and Mark Wheat, the latter formerly of Radio K, and both of whom are great local talent. The bad news, though, is that many of my musical friends are mourning the loss of the St. Olaf station, which was the MPR classical station’s main competition. So MPR is going out and buying up the competition station and turning it to another format. Who do they think they are, Clear Channel?

Why no, in fact, in a strange reversal, the local Clear Channel station is offering financial assistance to the small public jazz station that is the main competition for the Clear Channel jazz station, and helping it to meet its financial goals and stay alive, says the Star Tribune. (You must register to view it.) Representatives of MPR, when asked why they hadn’t done the same for the struggling station, said they were too busy with the launch of 89.3.

So MPR is evil, and Clear Channel is good. Black is white and up is down. Things in radio, at least here in Minnesota, might be getting more interesting.

Claire Danes is the most likely reason for the demise of what perhaps was my favorite show ever, My So-Called Life. MSCL ran ten years ago for nineteen episodes, over every one of which cancellation loomed, until ABC finally pulled the plug. The scuttlebutt, then and still, is that Danes and her parents met with the folks from ABC and said that she wasn’t committed to the show any more and wanted to focus on movies.

Nowadays, Danes cries foul and says that she hardly thinks it’s fair that her fifteen-year-old self has to shoulder the blame for the show’s cancellation. It’s understandable that a young star getting rave reviews would want out of a show that was on such shaky ground when the movies beckoned. Ten years later, though, MSCL is still fondly remembered by many, and widely regarded as one of the best teen shows of all time, with strong writing and a stronger cast.

My So-Called Life got a bit precious at times; it wasn’t perfect. But I can’t help but wish that both ABC and Danes could have had to foresight to see what a gem it was and give it the support it deserved. Several shows since have mimiced it, almost always for the worse: Relativity, Cupid, Once and Again, Roswell. The latest homage is ABC’s life as we know it. It is also receiving bad ratings, though it has recovered from a shaky critical start to its present state, which I think gives MSCL the strongest run for the money yet. I think ABC is giving life as we know it a longer time to develop because they learned from the MSCL mistake.

It’s interesting to see how Claire Danes’ career has gone, and ironic that perhaps she should have stayed with a great TV show instead of going on to mediocre movies, the best of which were almost a decade ago–Little Women and Baz Lurhman’s Romeo + Juliet–and even they weren’t great films. More recently she’s done Stage Beauty, an art house film with boyfriend Billy Crudup, that met with mixed reviews. Both Danes and Crudup were voice talent on the quite good but financially unsuccessful Princess Mononoke. According to sources like US magazine, Danes and Crudup became a public item just as Crudup’s ex, Mary Louise Parker, gave birth to his child.

Ten years ago, I loved Danes’ show, thought she had great talent and hoped that she’d have a successful career. At about the same time, David Caruso was pulling the same kind of move over at NYPD Blue. He’s received phenomenal reviews for his first season. Instead of sticking with the show that made him a star, he left immediately for the movies. He tanked in duds like Jade and now growls his predictable schtick on one of the CSI spin offs. I don’t blame Danes and Caruso for wanting to move on, but I do wonder if their potential would have fizzled so spectacularly if they’d stayed put and given their respective shows the respect they both merited.

And I don’t just mean outside where we’re experiencing a relative heat wave; it’s almost 20 degrees Fahrenheit. Drake was up and down constantly last night between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m., finally sleeping in to the ripe old hour of 6:30 a.m. The last week has been one of escalating white-knucklehood, as he gets more fussy, more screamy, and more difficult to care for each day. I don’t know who I should thank that the onset of his increasing fussiness coincided exactly with me getting a set of stitches in my lower back, but someone, somewhere seems to have a nasty sense of humor.

I stupidly thought that having a baby would be hard at first, but would get easier over time as the baby slept longer and as we got the hang of being parents. There has been no linear progression, but rather ups and downs, forwards and backs. It feels like every time we slog through a rough patch–teeth, illness, travel, what have you–it’s followed by about four days of good times. These four days are heaven. Drake is in a good mood, he sleeps well, he eats well, he is fun to be around. Four days are just long enough to begin to shed the memory of whatever the last rough patch was, and to have a small germ of hope sprout that, hey, maybe this parenthood thing is pretty good after all.

Then, WHAM, we’re right back into shrill screams, arching tantrums, and sleep hell for everybody. It’s happened several times lately that G. Grod will be holding Drake and I’ll move near for a hug and Drake will push me away, annoyed. It’s not enough that he’s not cuddly, but he actively rebuffs me.

I’m not sure, but isn’t “dribs of hope alternated with weeks of difficulty” a well-recognized torture pattern?

Conventional wisdom varies on how often one should replace a tube of mascara. Some generous sources say a year, but others recommend every six months, or even every four. Such frequent replacement can mean that mascara is an expensive part of a beauty regimen.

My previous favorite mascara was Bobbi Brown’s Thickening Formula, which was discontinued and replaced with a combined lengthening/thickening formula called Everything Mascara. I bought a tube last spring. I didn’t like it as much as its Thickening predecessor, but it had a good brush and a not very wet formula that didn’t clump much. It had two strikes against it, though. It was hard to remove, even with the normally very efficient MAC eye makeup remover, and it wasn’t cheap. At $19 a tube, I didn’t love it enough to replace it even twice a year, much less three times. And so I embarked on a search for a decent, reasonably priced drugstore formula.

Most magazines and makeup artists tout Maybelline’s Great Lash regular formula as the best (and one of the cheapest) drugstore mascaras. I tried it a few years ago and didn’t like the brush and got a lot of clumps. I didn’t see the need to test it again.

I did some online research and found some good reviews of products by Maybelline, L’Oreal and Almay. Picking out just one was daunting, though. Each formula comes in multiple colors and waterproof or not. Each brand had about a half dozen different formulas, so there were at least fifty different tubes among which I had to choose. After about ten minutes of deliberation, I chose Maybelline’s Lash Discovery in blackish brown, non-waterproof. It’s both a thickening and a lengthening formula and has a tiny brush. The brush is easy to maneuver, requiring fewer strokes, using less product and lessening clumps. It’s a very good basic mascara and I’ll buy it again. It cost about $6.50, so I could replace it every four months and pay just a bit more than I did for one tube of the Bobbi Brown.

I’d seen the Hanky Panky #4811 touted in several places as that most unlikely of products, an attractive lace thong that is not uncomfortable. I picked one up recently, and it doesn’t disappoint. The 4811 looks good and doesn’t feel bad. Sorry, but I’m not quite sure I can make the leap to the statement that it’s comfortable. For me, the best I can say is that I mostly forget that I’m wearing it.

Some of you may wonder why women put up with any discomfort at all from our undergarments. But for even moderately low-rise pants–which are pretty much all that is out there over the last few years–a low-rise undergarment is de-rigeur. Yes, one can go commando. I prefer to try to get a couple wears out of an item before laundering it, though, and I feel better about this when I’m wearing underpants. One can wear bikinis, but VPL (visible pantie line) makes everybody feel like a victim. Thongs eliminate VPL, don’t ride up over the waistline (unless encouraged to do so, and I think most of us were thankful to see the quick end to that tarty little trend), and allow me not to feel too skanky about wearing a pair of jeans more than once.

Stuff for babies is a fast-growing and profitable market. Note how Babiesrus is one of the few big-box retailers to have survived the Wal-Mart and Target growth-fest, while its parent company Toysrus bit the dust. There’s a lot of stuff out there, and it all costs a lot of money. Some of it is good, some of it is mostly harmless, and some of it can make a poor, sleep-deprived parent feel even stupider. Buying needless baby junk is a nasty bit of business. Not only are you wasting time to shop, but also scarce money and finally, once you get the thing, even scarcer space.

We’re recently retired an item, and I’m feeling pretty strongly that we probably could have gotten along without it just fine. It’s his high chair. We’ve had to retire it because the straps have gotten too tight and because he can detach the tray himself and send it and all the food on it flying. As I was readying it for retirement, though, I became very aware of how hard it was to clean, and how many features it had (multiple heights, recline) that we’d never bothered to use.

Instead, we’ve moved our toddler Drake to a booster seat, which attaches to any regular chair. It is small, portable and easy to clean. Best of all, Drake cannot detach the tray himself.

The high chair was big, unwieldy, hard to clean and able to be defeated by toddler tricksiness. It cost about $60 and we only got about ten months of use out of it.

The booster seat is small, adaptable, can be taken to restaurants, and is still immune to Drake’s machinations. It cost about $25.

If I had it to do over again, I’d skip the high chair completely. They’ve over-supplied it with features and upped its price past the point of utility. The booster seat is the way to go.

This morning when my husband G. Grod and I went in to get our toddler son Drake out of his crib, we were met by an unpleasant smell. Drake was sitting calmly in his crib, and had been awake for some time, babbling happily to himself while G. Grod and I had finished our coffees. Perhaps this morning wasn’t the best one to delay going to get him, though, because our attention was soon drawn to the wet stain on the sheet, and his lovies (loveys?) Duckie and Mouton. We’d been calmly finishing our coffee while Drake sat wallowing in his own filth.

I keep waiting for the authorities to show up at the door, shake their heads, grab Drake and hustle him into a waiting dark car, and say, “You know, they really should make people like you get tested in order to be parents.”

A flurry of excitement ensued. G. Grod hustled the bedding and lovies (loveys?) to the laundry room in the hope that we could get the latter washed and dried by naptime, while I got a bath running for a very confused Drake. In addition to routine-breaking morning bath, we let him have a post-bath naked time, for which he rewarded us by peeing several times. Sigh.

Drake’s screams have increased in frequency over the past week, and there is a new, shriller edge to them than before. His appetite, especially at night, is off. His naps are shorter and he wakes unhappy. He has been waking frequently at night and has been difficult to calm. In addition to this morning’s, he’s had several very messy, poopy diapers in the last few days. While it’s tough to get a good look in his mouth, I think his gums look to be bulging; his incisors may be on the way in.

I find teething, like so much of the rest of parenthood, to be maddeningly vague. It is not something that follows a linear, obvious progression. He hasn’t been drooling or biting things lately. He did those about a month or two ago, well after his last set of teeth came in. His recent messy diapers could be teething related, but they could be a virus. Often, he’s continued to act fussy and irritable even after the teeth have punched through the gums. And, since he continues not to talk, (oh, all right, he can occasionally say touchdown or moo, but those aren’t really helpful in a discussion of whether it hurts and where) we continue to have to follow the multiple-guess method of childcare.

This afternoon he barely ate anything for lunch (he even refused PUDDING!) and was twitchy and screamy. So before his nap and based on my best guess that he’s in pain, I gave him some ibuprofen. (I feel like I’m on the medical show House: “I don’t know what he’s got, but his symptoms point to this, so I’m going to give him meds as if he definitely has what I think he has.”) And voila, he went right to sleep after I calmed his screaming fit, and has been sleeping now for perhaps an hour and a half.

I feel very foolish because it was just last week that G. Grod and I were stupid enough to say aloud, Wow, he’s really been sleeping and napping well, hasn’t he?

Cue the ironic, hollow and bitter laughter.