I’ve started dreading our trips to the park. Amos insists on climbing up to the highest slide by himself and drinking out of the water fountain even during swine flu season. Sometimes he puts gravel in his mouth, just for the fun of watching me freak out over it. And then there are the social pitfalls always awaiting us there.

When we got to the park Monday evening, Amos went straight for another little boy’s soccer ball. The boy, maybe 4 years old, started yelling to his mom that the baby shouldn’t play with the ball because he didn’t know how to play soccer and couldn’t learn how to play. How mean! I know this is just the beginning of all the playground politics Amos will have to endure, but isn’t he a little young? I tried to interest Amos in his own soccer ball that we’d brought, but it wasn’t orange and silver and shiny like the other one so he showed no interest. The 4-year-old’s disparaging remarks continued. “But mom, he’s using his hands! He doesn’t know how to play!” I wanted to flick that little brat’s ear.

I tried to diffuse the situation by heading over to the basketball court, where our favorite little park-goer, a beautiful 3-year-old girl with curly hair, was sitting with her mom and coloring with sidewalk chalk. They very kindly offered to share with Amos. But then one of our favorite little girl’s friends came over and started crying anytime Amos got near the bucket of chalk. Amos must have decided he’d had enough of the crying, or maybe he was just getting bored. He picked up the bucket and dashed away with a gleeful grin on his face. I could hear the little girl crying harder as I chased Amos through the grass, stopping every few feet to pick up the chunks of chalk that were flying out behind Amos. It was like a high-speed Hansel and Gretel kind of thing. I’d thought the kid who didn’t want to share his soccer ball was bad, but now it was my baby who was stealing other kids’ chalk and making a little girl cry. I’m sure the victims of our crime wanted to flick my own little brat’s ear.

Amos finally slowed down enough for me to catch him, at which time I did my best to interest him in the small slides appropriate for kids his age. He wasn’t really into it and kept making desperate lunges for the skyscraper slide that gives me palpitations. Five minutes later I was headed to the car, a soccer ball under one arm and a screaming toddler under the other. That’s how it ends sometimes, and it takes a juicy cup and a handful of cheese puffs to make the world right again. It’s a beautiful day out, perfect for park-going, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to take it on.

At the place where I work we have a lot of tour bus groups coming through, and it seems like perhaps 50 percent of them are made up of older ladies bedecked in purple from shoulders to ankles and wearing bright red hats. The red hat phenomenon is somewhat mysterious to me. Where do they buy the hats? Is there a national red hat league they belong to, or is it an informal, more local thing? Luckily I have a few decades before I need to seriously explore the answers to these questions. 

A co-worker and I were watching the purple herd move through the courtyard earlier, talking about how cute they looked. 

“I’m happy they have fun stuff to do together,” she said.

“I’m happy they all have gigantic hats,” I said.

“I’m really happy they’re not driving,” the co-worker said.

Ladies, this is our future, and I think it’s pretty great. Why not rock a red straw hat if it means you can skip the hot rollers for the day? Forget risking life and limb wheeling the Caddie around town, let’s let the bus driver handle things. I’ve long since given up on looking at all hip, so if cozy purple wind suits are going to be the uniform, I’m totally fine with that. Maybe not today, but in 30 years or so? I’ll see y’all on the Greyhound bus. We’re going to Tunica!

Clearly I should have been more psyched when my husband suggested that we maybe ought to go to the Faulkner County Fair last weekend. I didn’t know what to expect, but the crowds and expense of the state fair in Little Rock were probably what was making me skeptical. That was dumb though, because the Faulkner County Fair is a billion times better than the state fair. That’s right, I said it. It’s a billion times better. For one thing, it’s FREE to get in. Second, it’s a totally manageable size, even if you’re hauling a toddler around. They have plenty of rides and plenty of animals, too. And grown-up tap dancers! Third and most importantly, you can park right there next to the entrance without having to pay. We had an amazing time. Check it out:

After the fair Amos went to stay with his grandparents, and my husband and I went to a UCA football game with friends. The game wasn’t anything special, but the halftime show ruled. They did a Journey medley and I have to say it was really great, I suppose because I’m old so I knew the words to the songs. They played well and did all kinds of fancy formations, with baton twirlers and flag wavers zipping all around to keep it extra lively. We were surprised and happy to see that the flag wavers were a boy-girl squad. I don’t remember any male flag swishers back in my day, glad the world is becoming a more open-minded place. I guess ever since that dude had a baby, pretty much anything goes. I’m totally all for it.

We really tried to go big this weekend because it’s sort of special one, Amos is starting a brand new daycare Monday. So we basically treated Saturday and Sunday like a mini summer vacation. Sunday was a bit of a dud, we were all pretty tired from the day before so we let Amos watch Shrek 2 in its entirety and pretended that counted as a special treat. Eh.

Anyway, Conway totally ruled this weekend. Who knew?

My friend’s new baby arrived home Sunday, and I waited a few days for the grandparents to clear out before trekking over with a casserole dish. Cidney requested enchiladas, which I dutifully whipped up with only about half as much spice as usual so as not to taint the milk and upset the baby’s tummy. When I got there, I was amazed to see the lawn perfectly mowed and everything looking in order. I wasn’t expecting carnage in the front lawn or anything, but surely there should be some sign of the certain mayhem inside. But nope, the same theme carried on in the living room, where everything was tidy and even the throw pillows on the couch were fluffed and jauntily displayed. The baby was sleeping and Cidney HAD MUFFINS BAKING IN THE OVEN. Her hair was all glossy looking, and she mentioned that we should go have brunch this weekend. She was completely unphased by the newborn in her house.

“I tricked you,” she told me. She totally didn’t need me to bring a casserole at all, she had it all together.

Second babies seem to arrive with much less fanfare and panic than firsts, but from the outside it looks like there are still some tense moments. Apparently third babies are just tiny blips on the radar, sweet little things that fall right into the household routine without much trouble. Cidney reports that the new baby only wakes up once a night.

Seriously? My 20-month-old was up twice last night. Calm mama=calm baby. Not calm mama=sleepless baby. My happy house call really hammered home how much I probably provoke all kinds of anxiety in my son, and it’s totally stressing me out.

Who’s hotter, Gordon from Sesame Street or Mr. Clean? I honestly think it’s a toss-up. Mr. Clean has bigger muscles, plus he’s not afraid to use some elbow grease. But Gordon is just so sensitive! Have you seen him in “Elmo’s Potty Time”? Pretty sweet.

My husband peeled himself out of the bed yesterday after battling strep for a few days, and he sneaked out to run some errands. When Amos and i got up from a nap (a nap! yes!!!), we found this:

That new book I wanted!!!! It was a treat for me for holding down the fort while Rodney convalesced. Hurray! I’ll take a book over flowers any day.

Rodney admitted he called Wordsworth looking for a book called “This One” by Amy Sohn because that’s how I referred to the book in my previous post, and Rodney didn’t notice that the words “this one” were actually a hyperlink to a review of “Park Slope West.” The bookstore people were like, “Nope, she doesn’t have anything out by that title.” He finally figured it out and now I have a fantastic book to read. I will dive in as soon as I finish the two I’m reading now, “Mountains Beyond Mountains” by Tracy Kidder and “The New Kings of Nonfiction” edited by dork/hipster/heartthrob Ira Glass.

I love you, Ira!

Yay! My husband only has strep. The dreaded pandemic hasn’t reached us yet. Amos spent the night away at the grandparents last night anyway so I could scrub and wipe and generally sanitize, because strep is still not very fun. Please don’t come to my house looking for proof of the cleaning spree, it’s already a wreck again. Also, the unmistakeable stench of cat pee is coming from somewhere. Yep, the house is possibly worse off than when the fall cleaning started 24 hours ago. 

This morning after a thorough full-body scrubbing and two or three squirts of sanitizing gel and foam, I went to visit a friend’s new wonderful, gorgeous baby. She’s a C-section baby with a perfect tennis-ball head, which means I didn’t have to lie when I said she was pretty.

If I was smarter and less lazy, I would be JUDITH WARNER.

So it turns out my strapping, 6′2 husband is a lightweight. Sick again. I knew it as soon as I saw him put on his black hoodie after dinner last night and start complaining that it was cold. This is Arkansas, the humidity is 100 percent right now and it was 76 degrees inside our house. That’s tank-top weather. Rodney was immediately banished to the bedroom.

I was planning a blog post giving him mad props for cooking delicious orange shrimp stirfry last night, but now he gets only demerits for sweating and shedding potential swine flu virus into our entrees and not warning us at all. Rodney got worse overnight, and if I was nicer I would have held a cool washcloth to his forehead. Instead I huffed and sniveled and sent him away to the guest room so I could get some sleep. I know it sounds harsh, but someone has to be healthy and well-rested to contend with the baby, you know. I did hurl a bottle of ibuprofen and a can of sprite through the door at him before Amos and I headed out this morning, but any hint of sweetness in that gesture was probably cancelled out when I told him that if he had swine flu he was either going to have to get a hotel room or move into his car.

The rundown of symptoms: chills, fever, headache, body aches, a touch of nausea. He’s going to the doctor at 1:30 p.m. If you see a sweaty, neglected-looking man in a beat-up ‘98 green Civic, steer yourself in the other direction and douse yourself with hand sanitizer for good measure.

Today I was asking one of the web guys at work what the next big thing is as far as social networking goes so I could get out ahead of the curve for once. It seems too late to jump on the Facebook thing, which has been around for years and must surely be on its way out by now. And the adorably named Twitter could maybe be fun, but honestly I’m not really sure I understand what it is. I am a 34-year-old Wilma, and I would be delighted to hammer out my blog posts on granite slabs given the chance. 

This resistance to embrace technology has long been an issue, ever since I turned down my dad’s offer to buy me a computer for college and asked for a basic Brother word-processing machine instead. Even sewing machines scare me, with their rapidly moving parts and potential for mechanical failure. I even bought a rotary lawn mower once to avoid the icky fossil fuels and certain engine troubles, but I quickly admitted defeat. Modern technology has its perks sometimes. So a few years back I jumped on the Friendster craze, even enticing my mom to join up and befriendster my buddies. But MySpace came along and I sat it out. Then Facebook was booming before I’d even gotten a gmail account. I was out of the game.

Amos will be more technologically savvy than me by the time he’s 2 if I don’t get moving, hence the social networking question. The extremely helpful web guy basically told me that Facebook and Twitter are firmly entrenched and there are no next big things looming on the horizon. Except for one thing. “Some of the kids are doing the sexting,” he said. Uh, no thanks.