Would Be Thieves or Not? You Decide.

This afternoon found me and the family escaping both our messy house and the hot, humid disgustingness that is Indiana in the summer by shopping at a local strip mall.

First we went to Old Navy, where we stocked up on some summer essentials for all of us. Then we went to TJ Maxx, where I found a bathing suit that at least didn't disgust me. And then? We went to Petsmart, where we threw our loot, along with our diaper bag, in a cart and proceeded to wander around the store.

I tell you all this not to bore you, but to give you the background information you need to evaluate the story I'm about to share.

To distract Tori from an impending temper tantrum caused by the removal of a dirty dog toy from her mouth, I pulled her from the basket of the cart and crossed to where the parakeets live in their big plastic jail.

The exotically-colored birds that chirped and flitted about the cage entranced Tori. So much so that I ventured even further from our cart (although still keeping it in plain sight) to help her get closer to them.

She squealed and clapped her hands in delight, drawing the usual charmed smiles from passers-by and besotted beams from us, her parents.

That's when I saw them.

A couple grabbed our cart and started heading for the exit.

I handed Tori over to Brian and went after them.

"Excuse me, that's ours!"

No response.

"Excuse me?"

They kept walking.

Finally, I caught up with them - just as they reached the front of the store.

"Excuse me, miss, you have the wrong cart," I said, smiling.

For a moment, she still seemed not to see me, and then she blinked.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. It's been a long day. We must have grabbed the wrong one..."

And they melted away.

I reclaimed our cart and headed back to Brian, thinking nothing of it.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"Oh, that couple...I guess they just grabbed the wrong cart."

"I don't think so. I think they were trying to steal our stuff."

"Don't be silly. Why would anyone want to steal a diaper bag?"

"They didn't have a cart of their own. Look."

I looked where he was pointing and saw the couple checking out with one small bag of cheap dog food.

"Well, maybe they already put it away," I said, feeling a little shaken.

"Somehow I doubt it."

We dropped the subject after that, but it's still bothering me. I like to think people are generally good (despite all the evidence to the contrary). I'd like to believe that that couple made an honest mistake. I really hope my husband is wrong.

But maybe I'm just naive. What do you guys think?

True Love: The Dessert Edition.

"I wish my mom was here. I'm craving her lasagna," I sighed.
Looking up from the video he was cackling over on the iPod, he said, "I could make you lasagna."

"You could, except we have no noodles, pasta sauce or cheese. Besides, lasagna takes forever. It'd be like midnight before we ate."


"I take it you're not up for a romantic candlelit dinner...in bed?"

I just glared at him.

"Well, never fear. Lasagna you want, and lasagna you shall have. Now go upstairs and take a nap while I figure out dinner."

I was just exhausted enough to do what I was told. And when I awoke, the unmistakable smell of garlic bread and lasagna wafted through the house. Rubbing my eyes, I stumbled downstairs, just in time to see him scraping food out of a takeout container.

"Ta da! I give you the Olive Garden's finest. Garlic bread, salad, lasagna...even dessert!"

"You even got dessert? I knew I married you for a reason."

We carried our Italian feast over to the couch, turned on season one of Better Off Ted, and dug in.

Three episodes later, I sighed contentedly. "You know what would make this even better?"

"What?"

"That tiramisu you brought home...buried in a mound of whipped cream."

"Doh! I didn't get whipped cream. But..."

He scurried off to the kitchen, deep in thought. A few crashes of the cupboard and bangs of the refrigerator later, I peeked over the couch to see him pouring Tori's whole milk in a steel bowl.

"What are you doing?"

"Making whipped cream."

"But you need heavy cream for that, don't you?"

"Nope.At least, I don't think so..."

With that he turned the electric mixer on and began beating the milk to death. For a long time, nothing happened. Then it began to froth, and froth, and froth some more. Before long, we had an entire mixing bowl overflowing with faux whipped cream.

As my tiramisu disappeared under a massive mound of whipped cream, he said, "You know, there's a lesson here."

"What's that?"

"Never doubt your husband."

And you know what? For once, I couldn't argue with him.

Not Quite the Birthday We Had Planned.

As you all know, Tori turned one on Saturday. We had planned to make it quite the event. The celebration we had put together involved a seven hour car ride, the presence of most of our nearest and dearest, lots and lots of presents and a cake made from scratch by her grandma's loving hands.

But you know that thing they say about life? About how it's what happens when you're making other plans? Yeah. Well, life happened this weekend.

Friday dawned, warm and sunny. But instead of getting the early start we had envisioned, Brian had to go to work for a couple of hours. In the meantime, I was supposed to pack up the car and be ready to go the minute he got home at 10 a.m.

Tori had other plans, and when the appointed hour came, I was anything but ready. But that was okay, because Brian was nowhere in sight. 10:30 came and went. Then 10:45. By the time Brian finally called, my face was beet red from the steam I had built up inside.

Steam I was prepared to let loose in a scathing harangue when I picked up the phone. But before I could start, Brian said, "Guess what? I just got in an accident."

Turns out, his car was in the middle of a three car pileup. Everyone was okay, but by the time we got everything straightened out, it was far too late to head to Michigan.

I had just resigned myself to celebrating her first birthday alone, with just the three of us, when my mom called. No way no how was she missing her granddaughter's first birthday. So instead, she informed me, they would come to us.

The hour was 5:30 p.m. My house was a disaster. We had no food. And Tori? Well Tori had no presents. Or cake. Or anything necessary to celebrate a birthday.

Needless to say, some miracles needed to happen. And quickly.

Thanks to Walmart (yes, it is the seat of the evil empire. but sometimes it's awfully handy), we remedied the present-less, cake-less situation, and filled a cart up with food. I even bought an awesome cake mold to make a giant cupcake.

When Friday ended, I was feeling pretty good.

Then, on Saturday, I woke up with a migraine.

Tori woke up with a new tooth coming through.

I forgot to grease the  pan, so my beautiful cake was ruined.

Tori threw up all over the cute little dress I had picked out for her to wear.

Then the cat threw up on a pile of clean laundry.

Then the toilet brush turned up missing.

There were tears. A lot of tears. And Brian was in no mood to deal with any of us.

It had the makings of a disaster.

But, somehow, everything got done. The house, while still not quite spotless, became presentable.

The second cake (not in the cute pan), looked edible.

And my parents arrived with kisses and hugs for everybody, and a boatload of presents.

Smiles were found. Until...

Brian realized he had forgotten the meat for the hamburgers at the store. There was no dinner.

But you know what? That's why God invented takeout.

Tori had Olive Garden for her first birthday dinner. Then she opened a few of her presents, even playing with them for a while before turning to the boxes they came in.

Happy Birthday was sung (although Tori screamed through the whole thing). And cake was eaten with great relish by young and old alike (no one seemed to notice it lacked the adorable shape of a giant cupcake).

Oh, and I got my champagne.

All in all, it turned out to be a very good first birthday party, even if it wasn't what we had planned. But that's life for you. It always seems to work out in the end.

Hopefully I'll remember that when the birthday insanity hits next year.

Date Night Resurrected.

Last week marked Tori's eight month birthday. It also marked the eight month anniversary of our last real date night (you know, the kind where you actually leave the house). And eight months of at-home date nights? Adds up to a lot of takeout.

So, we decided the time had come to take the plunge and re-enter the outside world as a couple.

To make it happen, we arranged for our daycare provider's teenage daughter to watch her. But since our dog is somewhat anti-social (and once nipped one of their kids), instead of the babysitter coming to us, Tori stayed with the babysitter.

No big deal...just a little unorthodox.

With Tori taken care of, we took ourselves out for a nice dinner. At the kind of restaurant where there are cloth napkins, wine glasses and real silverware. I had filet mignon. He had rack of lamb. But the main topic of conversation? Was Tori, and how weird it felt not to have Tori around.

We had gone to dinner straight after work, so it was strangely early when we were finished. We could have gone downtown to hit the bar for a while, but...it's Christmastime. And shopping with a baby? Sucks.

So we went shopping instead. That's right. Our first date night in eight months found us at the mall. Exciting, huh?

We finished off the evening at my favorite place in the whole world - the bookstore. A place I hadn't been in, you guessed it, eight months. I went a little crazy. In fact, at one point I had eight books in my arms, fully intending to plop myself down at a table and browse to my heart's content.

But just as I was getting comfortable, Brian started looking antsy.

"It's getting late. Do you think maybe we should get going?"

Secretly glad that he was the one to say it first, I just nodded. We paid for my much pared down pile of paperback goodness and headed to the car.

The time? 9:15 p.m.

Yeah. We're a little rusty. But hey, it's a start!

Somebody Smack Me: My Brain's Gone AWOL.

This time last year, I was about twenty weeks pregnant.

Twenty weeks pregnant and already looking like I was about to pop. Twenty weeks pregnant and already not sleeping. Twenty weeks pregnant and already suffering from near constant back pain.

Twenty weeks pregnant and already ready to be done with the whole thing.

But today? Today I'm kind of missing being pregnant.


I know. That's insane, right?

It's just that the whole pregnancy thing was so exciting. Everything was new. Everything was wondrous. The little girl, she was just starting to make her presence known. In fact, I had just found out she was a little girl.

We were busy picking out names. Trying to decide how to decorate her bedroom. I was eating all the ice cream I wanted, and not feeling even a tiny bit guilty for not working out.

Everywhere I went, people smiled at me. They told me I looked cute (even when I hadn't washed my hair, brushed my teeth or put on a lick of makeup). They squealed, and giggled, and oohed and ahhed.

Everything I did, I thought to myself, "this will be the last time I...go Christmas shopping before I'm a mom. Stuff my face with turkey before I'm a mom. Celebrate the New Year before I'm a mom."

See what I mean? Everything was just a little...more.

Now, of course, I'm a mom. A mom who's still carrying an extra twenty pounds, is always tired and can never seem to get anywhere close to the bottom of her To Do list.

I'm not a star anymore. I'm not exciting anymore. I'm just...me.

And life? Has gone back to being just life.

Don't get me wrong. I love me my Tori, and I thank my lucky stars that I've been blessed with her presence in my life.

But sometimes? I miss being pregnant. 

Writer's Workshop: Anything But That!

It's time for Mama Kat's Writing Workshop again. This week's prompt? Describe the most creative punishment you ever ever experienced.

I was a good kid...most of the time. But I had my moments. I fought with my brother, talked back to my parents—all the usual stuff. On one particularly memorable occasion, my brother and I took hot wheels cars off someone's porch.

That resulted in one hell of a spanking.

Yep, back in the day, it was still okay to spank. I also spent my fair share of time staring at the wall in the kitchen, stuck in the dreaded time out. I even got grounded a time or three (hundred).

Still, all those punishments were quickly recovered from. Sure, I cried when I got spanked. Pouted when I got put in the corner. Threw a hissy fit when I got grounded. But through it all, there was one thing I could count on to comfort me.

My books.

To say I was a bookworm would be an understatement. I always had a book in my hand. I ate with a book. Slept with a book. Even walked around with my nose firmly stuck in a book (not a real good idea when you're as big of a klutz as I am).

So what did my parents do when they really wanted to punish me? They took away my books.

I was in fifth grade. I hated my teacher and was doing really poorly in school—culminating in my first  "D" on a report card. My parents were beyond frustrated with me.

So they forbade me to read until my grades improved. They confiscated my library card, packed up the books in my room and even denied me access to the boring old books in our bookcases.

It was torture.

I don't remember exactly how long it lasted (I'd call my mom and ask, but she always seems vaguely embarrassed when it comes up). But I'm sure I was a pain in the ass for the entire length of the punishment.

I didn't know what to do with myself. I had far too much spare time on my hands. Time that was usually spent in the alternate (sometimes preferred) universe that books opened up for me.

Did I mention it was torture?

But it worked. I did my homework. My attitude improved. And soon, so did my grades. When next I brought home a report card, there was nary a D in sight.

Thankfully, my books were returned. I welcomed them like long lost friends—there may even have been a few tears.

And you know what? I never got a bad grade again. From then on, my report cards were chock full of A's and B's. I wasn't about to risk losing my best friends again.

So I guess it was the most effective punishment my parents ever came up with. Here's hoping I can be half as creative when the situation arises (and I'm sure it will).

Now head on over to Mama Kat's and see what the other entrants have to say!

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Doctor?

I hardly slept last night. Why? Well, one, because Tori's teething (still). But even if she had slept like an angel, I would have tossed and turned. That's what a looming visit to the pediatrician does to me.

I'm not sure why, but in my mind, the petite, mild-mannered fiftyish woman who actually cares for my daughter becomes a giant-sized, fire-breathing, ultra-judgmental Doctor from Hell in the days leading up to her appointment.

Too many comments of, "boy, your baby's a chunk," had me worried she'd tell me my baby was obese and that she'd have to advise my health insurance to cancel her policy.

The freshly scabbed over scratch on Tori's nose? Would become a sure sign of child abuse in my doctor's mind, and not merely a hint that I'm still afraid to trim her nails.

The mild diaper rash would also seem to be a symbol of neglect—and not just the result of vegetable-fueled bowel movements.

Heck, I even had myself half convinced that somehow, she would know I'd fallen with Tori in my arms, and would accuse me of trying to kill my baby.

Okay, maybe that last one's a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the point. My brain took a trip to Crazy Town last night, and didn't want to leave at closing time.

Needless to say, I was a wreck when morning finally arrived. Which meant that things didn't go too smoothly around here. There was no spoon throwing, but only because Tori wouldn't eat. At all. And no sooner did I get her dressed in her cute, man am I a good mommy doctor appropriate outfit  she, ahem, ejected the carrots from the night before...aaaaall the way up her back.

Emergency bath, anyone?

By the time all was said and done, I had about, oh, three minutes to get myself ready? Yeah. Not the best way to make a good impression when already you're nervous. (SIDE NOTE: I am so glad I don't have short hair. Short hair requires actual fixing in the morning—beyond a pony tail holder. How do you guys do it?).

We were late before we walked out the door (standard operating procedure around here). That, of course, made me worried that for the first time, the doctor would be running early, and we'd be turned away with some disdainful comment.

Which was ridiculous. We waited a good thirty minutes...sitting across from a Stepford Wife. The woman, although seeming to be a SAHM, was perfectly turned out (at 9 a.m.). Her shirt was ironed, her shoes were stilettos (okay, not really, but they were heels. And way more fashionable than my holey gym shoes)...she even had lipstick on. Her children, of course, also behaved angelically.

I spent the agonizingly slow minutes staring at her, wondering how one gets to that hyper-organized place, and did I have a chance in hell of ever getting there (the answer, I'll just tell you right now, is no).

So, by the time our names were finally called, I was wallowing in a puddle of inferiority in downtown Crazy Town.

And that's where my story loses steam.

Because, you see, once we got called back, everything went perfectly. The slavering demon in my mind transformed back into the cheerful doctor we know and love. She called Tori perfect. Cheered because she'd grown four inches (she's tall for her age now, folks). And while Tori's weight is still in the 90th percentile, the doc didn't even bat an eye.

Oh, and the whole feeding thing? Not a big deal. Apparently, as long as we keep trying, all is well. She echoed what many of you told me—that  Tori eventually will get hungry. And then she'll eat. Makes sense, right? Of course it does.

So I escaped without "Bad Mom" getting stamped on my head. Even better? I managed to escape from Crazy Town. I'd like to say it'll never happen again, but that would be a lie. I'm sure that when her next appointment approaches, the slavering demon will knock on my door.

That would be one of the many downsides of having a vivid imagination.

The Inevitable Fall.

Gravity has never been my friend.

I have tripped over dogs, toys and people. Fallen down stairs, over curbs and through doorways. I've broken my elbow, sprained my ankle and on one particularly memorable occasion, both broken and dislocated my knee.

I've spent more than my fair share of time in the ER. I've been escorted there by family, driven by coworkers, and, in the Case of the Broken Dislocated Knee, arrived by ambulance. I've had so many X-rays that I'm beginning to fear I might eventually suffer from radiation poisoning.

There are almost always bruises on some part of my anatomy. I bump into counters. Run smack into walls. Try to walk through large, heavy things, like cement blocks. There is nothing and nowhere that is adequately protected from my supreme gracelessness.

If klutziness were a superpower, I would be the undisputed Queen of Klutzes.

So it's never been a question of if  I would fall with my daughter in my arms, but when. The answer? October 10, 2009. That's right. She made it a whole six months and one week without having her life endangered by her well-meaning mother.

You know what's even better? I fell up the stairs. That's right, up. That takes talent, people.

It was 8:30 a.m., and it'd already been a bad morning. I had already slipped on a stray piece of tulle (someday I'll learn to pick up after myself). I'd stepped squarely in a pile of cold cat vomit. Tori had spit floods of regurgitated formula right down my shirt. And to top it all off, she peed on the carpet while I was wiping her poop off the yoga mat we use to change her.

Like I said, it was a bad morning.

We were on our way up to the bathroom to clean up her latest bout of explosiveness when it happened. One minute, I was climbing up the stairs, telling Tori that I really hoped this would be her only bath of the day. The next, my toe was hooked inside the leg of my pajama pants (I told you I'm Super Talented), and I was flying toward the floor, baby held squarely in front of me.

For one terrified instant, I thought I was about to land on her, squishing the life from her fragile body. Fortunately, the powers that be lent me the ability to twist myself into a pretzel so that I landed half on my side, with Tori safely clutched to my chest.

I patted her down, making sure she was okay (she was fine. surprised, but fine).  Then I leaned up against the wall and did my usual post-fall inventory. Nothing was broken, but my back hurt. As did my poor, much abused knee.

That's when I burst into tears.

Not just because I was in pain, or because I'd have to spend my birthday hopped up on pain killers, but because I knew that this might have been the first time I put my child's life in danger, but it was by no means the last.

Tori better hurry up and learn to walk. Because my arms? Are not a safe place to be.

The Weekend's Puzzle: How to Pack for a Road Trip with an Infant.

We just returned from a trip to the Homeland.  Usually, when I know I’m heading up to Michigan, I start thinking about what to pack a couple of days beforehand, but realistically? Clothes and toiletries get thrown in a bag about 30 minutes before we leave.

But now? Now there’s Victoria. I never realized how much stuff she needs until I started putting together a To Do (or to pack) list.

She needs clothes, of course. She also needs bottles. And bottle liners. And nipples. And formula. And rice cereal. Oh, and bibs (she’s a champion drooler/spitter). Which means she also needs burp cloths.

So, now we’ve got her clothed and fed. Which means she’s going to pee and poop. Better add diapers, wipes and a changing pad to the list.

Given the explosive poop she’s so good at expelling, she’s also going to need a bath. So now we’ve got a bag of towels, wash cloths, soap and bath toys to add to the pile.

She also needs a place to sleep. Luckily, my parents went ahead and bought a crib for her. But when we’re home, we’re out and about. A lot. And she naps rather frequently. So the Pack n’ Play still needed a spot in the car.

By the time we got to the entertaining-the-baby part of the list, my luggage pile was chest high. And have I mentioned that we took our 60-pound spoiled brat of a mutt, too?

Yeah. So we also had to find room for his food. And toys. And blanket (which is actually a queen-sized comforter).

Plus all our stuff—and we bring a lot of stuff (although my shoe inventory got cut drastically).

I’ll bet you’re thinking I have a big car, right? I thought so too, when I bought it. But it’s not really. A Dodge Caliber is only big when compared to a two-door midget car like my Beetle, or the del sol that came before it.

So fitting everything in the car was a bit of a trick (one that had my hubby swearing). But, at long last, we did make it all fit...and even had room for her car seat. Sure, I spent the entire eight hour trip with my knees in my chest because my seat was pulled so far forward, but who's counting?

I'm thinking our trip home for the holidays might require the rental of a van. A big one.

The Day The World Changed (a.k.a. Tori's Birthday).

It occurred to me just the other day that I never wrote about the day I gave birth (at least, not in much detail). Since one of my reasons for writing this blog is to have a record of Tori's formative years, that seemed like a glaring omission. So follow along as we go back in time...

We were a half hour late getting to the hospital. This isn't exactly surprising - we're always late. But I had really tried to get us out of the house on time, so I was annoyed. And nervous. And, truth be told, more than a little crabby (I get that way when I'm nervous).

At any rate, by the time we got there, our "nurse" for the day was anxiously waiting for us. I put that in quote marks because he was actually a nursing student, was only on the Mom/Baby ward for the day, and had no idea what the hell he was doing. Sure, I could have refused to allow a student to take care of me, but I have a hard time saying no. It always makes me feel bad.  And, anyway, it gave me yet another reason to be annoyed (greatly preferable to crap-my-pants terrified).

He rushed me through the intake process, saying really helpful things, like, "seriously?" and "wow," and made me change into a hospital gown. That's when they started coming at me with needles. First, someone had to draw a bunch of blood. And then, just in case that wasn't bad enough, I had to have an IV put in.

I hate needles. Hate, Hate, HATE needles. And the woman in charge of the IV couldn't find a good vein to put it in. By the time she was done, I was almost in tears. But, finally, it was in, and they all left, leaving Brian and I to silently stew.

That's when I got strangely calm. For days, I'd been freaking out about the idea of having a C-section. It was absolutely the last thing I wanted. I was scared to death of being cut open. But at that moment, with the IV dripping into my vein, I felt...peaceful.

That calm lasted even after they wheeled us out of the room to wait outside the O.R. I remember cracking jokes with the nurse. Getting periodic updates from the staff as to the ETA of the doctor (he was stuck in another surgery). And continually asking for more blanket (it was freezing).

Suddenly, it was go time, and they wheeled me into surgery.

After that, I just have flashes.

Sitting slumped in front of another nurse, trying not to wince as they stuck the needle for the anesthetic in my back (it hurt. a lot).

Getting my arms strapped to the table (what did they think I was going to do, smack someone?)

Having the anesthesiologist tell me that even though I didn't feel like I was breathing (a freaky feeling if there ever was one), I most certainly was.

Then the doc poked me with something sharp, and when I couldn't feel it, said we were ready to go.

What seemed like seconds later, I heard the doc say, "there she is," and I heard a baby crying. My baby.

I turned to Bri and said, "we have a little girl," and burst into tears. But he was already bustling over to the table where they were checking her out, to take her very first pictures.

The sewing-me-up part seemed to take forever, especially since I just wanted to be able to hold Tori. Finally, they wheeled us in to recovery, and handed me my baby. Unfortunately, my arms were still half numb, so the very first time I touched her, I almost poked her eye out.

I wish I could tell you it was love at first sight, but honestly? It didn't seem real. I couldn't quite wrap my head around the notion that this was, indeed, my baby.  I was so drugged, and tired, and nauseous, that I just wanted to sleep for a little while.

The overwhelming, soul changing surge of love came later.

To Be Continued...

There's More to Life Than a Clean House.

I live in fear of the casual drop-in. You know, the people who were “in the neighborhood.” So they thought they’d just “stop by.” Without calling first. Or providing any kind of warning whatsoever.

Why? Because if I’m not expecting company, my house is most likely fairly messy. Embarrassingly dirty, even. Okay, more like a total sty. Mail lives in piles by the door. Burp cloths and dirty clothes find semi-permanent homes on the floor. Dishes get stacked in the sink. And don't get me started on the obscene height of our in-need-of-folding/hanging clean laundry pile.

Most of the time, it doesn't bother me. I'm a slob, always have been, and always will be (and so is my husband, although he denies it).

I just can't be bothered to slave over the house when no one's going to see it. There are too many other things I'd rather be doing. Like sleeping. Or playing with Tori. Or chatting with my husband. Or fussing in the garden. Or reading a book. Or clipping my toenails. Or getting a root canal.

Sure, I go through phases (usually when I'm PMSing) when I insist on the house being sparkling clean. But as soon as the mood passes, the spotless kitchen counters disappear too.

I thought that after Tori arrived, I'd change my ways. Not so much. Now I'm told that once she starts crawling, I'll have to pick up more. But I think she's destined to plow her way through our usual muck.

In fact, we're kind of hoping she turns into a neat freak as an act of rebellion. It might be the only chance we have of ever having a clean house!

Yep, She's a Page, Alright.

To say that my husband's family loves to eat is a gross understatement. I've never seen a family that likes to eat as much as they do. In fact, we jokingly call our get togethers The Search for More Food.

As soon as breakfast is over, lunch plans are made. And the discussion at lunch? Often revolves around dinner. Then, no matter how ridiculously huge our supper was, the call goes out for dessert.

Portions are big.

Seconds are almost mandatory.

Diets? It's best not to mention a diet.

Now, this isn't a bad thing. It's kinda fun. I like eating that way for a while, knowing that when the party breaks up, I can safely go without meals for a few days.

But there are limits. Just this past weekend, my in-laws were in town and we  had dinner at this restaurant that was featuring a buffet. An all-you-can-eat buffet.

So, of course we all ordered that.

Folks, it was awful. Easily one of the worst meals I have ever eaten in my life. I picked at my plate, filling up on green beans (which were the only tasty item on the buffet).

But the rest of the family? Went back for seconds and even thirds, moaning about how horrible the food was the entire time. But still, it was there, and it was all-you-can-eat, so they were determined to get their money's worth.

I was flabbergasted. And amused. And wondering how they could find the room (it was sitting like a rock in my stomach).

But you know what? I think it's genetic. My daughter loooooves to eat. In fact, she likes her bottle so much, she screams when you burp her. Because, you know, you've got to take the bottle away first.

This is her, throwing a temper tantrum to end all temper tantrums mid-burp. But as soon as I put her back down and re-insert the bottle, the tears disappear without a trace, and the screams are replaced by coos.

So there's no doubt that she's her father's daughter. I only hope that I can convince her that when the food's bad, it's perfectly alright to leave some on your plate (that way, there's more room for ice cream).

A Baby Forever?

How many times have you heard a parent say, "if only my baby would stay this small." Or, "they just grow up too fast." Or, "I wish he'd stay a baby longer."

Well, for one family, that wish came true. ABC News recently profiled the Greenberg family - a family with a sixteen year old daughter who still looks and acts (and is, for all intensive purposes) an infant.

That's right. At sixteen, she's still the size of a toddler. Still wears diapers.  Still can't talk. She's hardly aging at all.

I can't speak for other moms, but as far as I'm concerned, as much as I love Victoria's babyness, I sure wouldn't want her to stay that way forever. I mean really. Sixteen years of changing diapers with no end in sight? No thank you.

They'll never get to have a real conversation with her. Or get to help her with her homework. Or cheer her on at a softball game. Nope, they're being cheated out of all the pleasure (and the pain) of watching a child grow up.

They'll be in their 80s, buying Pampers at the store, spooning out baby food and using her stroller as a walker.  I'm sure they love her, and wouldn't trade her for anything, but I think that's just sad.

I guess it's just another illustration of that trite old saying - be careful what you wish for. You might get it.