You Can Always Count on Babies 'R' Us

It's good to know that when your precious baby's crib, the one you picked out with lots of arguing love, is recalled, you can count on the big baby chain store to help you out. Because they know how hard it is on you. They know what it's like to have a child. That's their business, after all.

It's good to know they've got your back when one of the lines they carry recalls cribs multiple times. "Just bring in the reciept for your new crib and the voucher and we'll reimburse you," they say. Great! Thanks, Babies 'R' Us, for really caring about us: your customer and my baby.

It's good to know they realize what it's like for a mom to plan her entire day around naptimes and a single errand. Hello, they are called Babies 'R' Us for a reason.

So, I happily showered instead of running this morning and got things ready to go get the money back for the crap crib they sold us. Armed with my receipt and the original order form of the second crib, I stood in line holding a squirming toddler (and trying to teach him to say fan over and over and over again) for 20 minutes.

My fault. I didn't think the line would be so long, so I didn't put him in the stroller.

I felt confident about this transaction even though past attempts to return merchandise here has been followed by me cussing at the cashier and storming out less than successful. But, "Just bring in the receipt and the voucher" was still ringing in my ears.

Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell the voucher mantra to the woman who actually works at the cash register.

"Um. Do you have the sheet from when you picked up the crib?"

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up like Kate's pin cushion 'do. "What? I don't know. I have the receipt." I jabbed my finger at the three receipts and two sheets that had been waiting patiently in a safe place for this day.

"Doesn't matter. You need the proof of pick-up."

My nostrils flared and my blood pressure spiked. "But, that doesn't make any sense. I have the reciept that shows I paid for it."

She shrugged. "Well, we can't look it up without it."

"What? Again, I have the receipt here with the actual order form."

She shrugged.

Began cussing and storming out here. (I got some pretty awesome looks from other parents who were holding their children. But, I was so mad, I felt hot angry tears about to burst out of my eyes like lasers.)

So, I know I should've gone back in and asked to speak with a manager, but I was so worked up, I was afraid I would embarrass myself and scar my son for life. I could feel what was on the tip of my tongue and I didn't want to let it out.

But why does it have to be so hard to get my money back for something that is not my fault? Why, Babies 'R' Us? I thought you cared about babies. We're in a recession, here. Did you know that? I can't afford to buy TWO effing cribs from you! I want my money back!

See you on Tuesday.

To be continued...

Twilight in Toddlerland

What is it with toddlers and evenings?

The little green digital clock on the microwave switches over to 5:00 and my normally easy going and jolly one-year-old becomes a chaotic mess of emotions. He's tired, but it's too early for bed. He's hungry, but he throws the graham crackers on the floor. Then, he whines, "Curcur?"

He falls. He bumps. He thumps. He cries. He squeals. He runs. He falls.

Tonight, he spent 10 minutes screeching and chasing the boxers around the kitchen island with a turkey baster. Seconds after that, he was sitting on the floor with his face red and scrunched while giant teardrops pooled above his soft pink cheeks. Where was the transition?

Of course, this happens during the time of day when people who don't have children normal people make dinner. Not us. We're at the park.

Thank god for the park.

SAHM Day

I work part-time. Don't know if I've ever mentioned that.

*wink*

Sometimes, the middle of the week gets hectic and I get caught up in the schedule, which means the only places I take T Junior to are errands (i.e. Walmart or Safeway). Sometimes, we're so busy just getting through Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, we don't get time for fun kid activities.

Sometimes, I have to just stop what I'm doing, lay down on the floor and let T Junior pretend to wrestle with me, so we at least have some real mom-son play time. I squeal. He squeals. And, I vow to do this more often.

Sometimes, I wish I was a Stay-At-Home-Mom. Full time.

Don't get me wrong. I love being a copywriter. I love my job. And, I love that it's only twice a week. It's perfect. I'm lucky.

But it's still making lunch the night before. Not getting to see T Junior in the morning. Being gone all day. Coming home to a sink full of dishes and T Junior's stale uneaten Eggo on a plastic plate. Rushing to get some exercise. Hurrying dinner.

I am in-between. Part working mom. Part SAHM. I struggle to find a happy medium.

But today was all SAHM.

After breakfast, I tried to keep T Junior awake in his carseat while we drove to a nearby farm for a play date. Somehow, I was early. In fact, the farm hadn't even set out it's parking signs yet.

I drove down a dirt driveway that wound past what I didn't recognize as a pasture. I got a little nervous as I bumped by a tilted, rusted trailer and a wooden a-frame ladder displaying accomplishments: rows and rows of empty blue Bush Light cans. I was turning around behind the homeowner's carport (which was protecting an unidentifiable shell of a car up on cement blocks), when I noticed that a very angry looking pale, scruffy man with a mostly unbottoned khaki shirt was walking toward me with purpose.

"What the hell is goin' on here?" He threw his arms up in the air.

The passenger side window was already down in our midnight blue Odyssey. "I'm so sorry, sir. I'm very lost." (I did my best to sound very pathetic and upset.) "Really, sir. I'm so, so sorry. I'm trying to go to the farm. Do you know where the parking is?"

He kept walking around his driveway. He looked panicked. (Now that I think about it, I wonder if he was hiding something back there. Yikes.) But he answered. "In their pasture."

"Thank you, sir. Right up there? Okay. Thank you. Again, so sorry."

But now I was stuck because another early mom (that'll teach us) had followed me in her sedan thinking I knew where I was going, and she was blocking my exit.

The man looked like he couldn't believe these two idiots.

Parking situation aside, the farm was great. There were horses, rabbits, chickens, ducks and a peacock who seemed quite docile in his cage (I've always been a little scared of them since one tried to attack my sister when she was little). And, there were goats and a little pony and donkey that we could pet.

Plus, there were tractors. Kids John Deere tractors. You know, the kind that kids can "pretend" to drive with faux gas pedals, steering wheels and everything. T Junior spent a good portion toddling after the older children as they drove them all around the big lawn at the farm.

Afterward, we had lunch with our playdatees (is that a word?) and played at a Gymboree class. Then, I had to keep T Junior awake again on the car ride home so he could get a good nap in his own bed.

I didn't get him in the BOB for a run until almost 4 and then we still had to go to the grocery store. Finally, we returned, I plopped him in his highchair, gave him some of my Jimmy Mac's Roadhouse leftovers from the other night, and I put groceries away while he ate. Clean up. Bath. Books. Bed. Feed dogs. Dishes. Laundry. Eat. Blog.

Do I work tomorrow?

I need to rest.

Independence Day

T Junior is officially walking. He hardly crawled at all today.

My mom is visiting with her friend B. and this afternoon we went to Snoqualmie Falls, and then to the railway museum downtown because T Junior loves choo-choos.

This is where he decided he doesn't need to hold my hand anymore. He's a big boy now and wants to do it all by himself.

I won't pretend I'm not sad. In fact, I feel a little anxious about it. I'm also bummed that Mr. T is in Alaska and missed the transition. Boy, is he going to be surprised.

Words Up

A while ago, I wrote a blog post about the words T Junior was saying. He's got some new ones.

Actually, he's got a lot of new ones. I can't even remember them all. But, my favorite is bagpipes. What one-year-old says bagpipes? I guess one whose dada is learning to play them.

Mr. T thinks it's so cool, of course, that he can say this.

Other words include:

• Go Coo! (Go Cougs!)
• Menon (Melon)
• Ower (Shower)
• Potty
• Buee (Boy)
• Guck (Truck)
• Ites (Lights)
• Ock (Sock)
• Raff (Giraffe)
• Ephant (Elephant)
• Bee
• Cloff (Cloth)
• Bovel (Shovel)
• Moon
• Mom (That's what he calls me most of the time. Not a cute "mama" or "mommy." Mom.)

But he can pretty much repeat anything you say, like when you let the f-bomb slip while you're half-blind cutting onions. You gotta be careful around here.

Date Night

I unzip my baggy charcoal hoodie and pull off my white tank top. I lob them into the laundry basket in the master bathroom and then walk in to my closet.

What should I wear?

I decide on a black short-sleeve knit top with a low-scooping neckline that dresses up my trouser jeans and shows off my jewelry. I'll wear my red flats. I smooth my hair with the round bristle brush, then open my makeup drawer.

What color lipstick? Dark pink or light and shimmery?

The little plastic tubes and brushes click together as I sift through them for a thin twist-up lip pencil by Lancome, and I trace my mouth with berry. Then I scribble in the rest of the area and top it off with a glossy stick. Next, I re-curl my eyelashes and swipe on fresh blush.

I dig for a dusty glass bottle in a basket on the bathroom counter, spray it's almond scent into the air and walk through the mist.

I check my beauty status in the mirror. My stomach bubbles. I'm nervous and not nervous.

Who is that? Is that my mother?

Already written down the numbers and walked through the routine. Taking off mommy rags and putting on wife clothes. Dad makes small talk with the sitter. We eat Kraft mac 'n' cheese and hot dogs.

Football Season

T Junior will shout, "Go Coo!" (go Cougs) whenever he sees the WSU logo, but as soon as I try to get him to do it in front of someone else, he looks at me like I have bugs crawling out of my ears.

The other day, I finally gave him the plush Washington State Cougars football that's been sitting up high in his room because whenever he would see it, he'd hollar "Go Coo!"

Now it's his favorite toy. He loves to roll over it. And, he yells "Cash!" (catch) when he throws it out in front of himself.

Two nights ago, we were going through our bedtime routine. I just finished singing him a soothing verse of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star and was putting him in his crib when he spotted the ball and started squealing, "Go Coo! Go Coo!"

He's napping with it now...