Here’s my wordless Wednesday. His cuteness renders me speechless quite often.

Does Amos watch too much TV? I suppose it’s a rhetorical question. The American Academy of Pediatrics says babies under 2 should get no screen time at all. Ha! We love some Sesame Street in the morning while Amos munches through breakfast. In the evenings when my husband gets home with Amos, the TV goes back on with a Muppets DVD so Rodney can get dinner ready. And if we need Amos to stay still so we can get his shoes on or brush his teeth, we turn on Barney or the Wiggles and wait for his eyes to glaze over.

I’ve read some research lately that says that although the ABCs and 123s videos aren’t teaching him anything (really? dang!), they’re probably not hurting too much. I really hope that’s true. If anyone out there wants to chime in to either chastise me for my lame parenting or offer tips on distracting children in non-electronic ways, bring it.

Time for another installment of “My husband is cooler than I am.” This morning he woke up super early, must have been around 5-ish, to make a quiche. Yes, that’s awesome and completely qualifies him for all kinds of accolades, but there’s more.

Apparently he’d spent those wee morning hours trolling the internet for recordings of Hall and Oates (why? not sure) when he came across this little gem.

UKELELE MADNESS

He was immediately smitten by the dorky ukelele-playing crooner. This became obvious when he seemed really excited to show me the youtube video as soon as I got up. It seems he’s developed a serious crush, and I’m okay with that. This girl is indeed very cool and talented. And I like that Rodney is original enough not to pine over Angelina Jolie or Heidi Klum or any of the other usual suspects.

On Sunday night, after everyone else in our house was tucked in bed, I got out the cookie sheets. Fall always brings on the urge to get the oven cranking, and I’d been wanting to take some sweets in to Amos’ teachers anyway. The first batch came out perfect, crisp on the edges and soft in the middle. Irresistable. I limited myself to one, which I thought was amazing restraint, even though the cookies were each the size of a softball and I did bury it under a fat scoop of vanilla ice cream. The next day I delivered most of the cookies to their deserving recipients, leaving only three in the lovely glass cake stand. Give me a ten for presentation, because those cookies looked romantic and delicious, right out of a Martha Stewart photo shoot.

All day Monday I pined for those cookies. My normal everyday fantasies of snuggling with Amos and kissing his belly were pushed aside by visions of a bowl of freshly microwaved cookies with ice cream melting over them. By the time I got home from work, I was wild-eyed, jonesing for the fix. Amos and Rodney had been snacking, and there was only one cookie left. I started getting nervous but decided to wait until after dinner. I’m a parent now, I have to model good nutrition, right?

But then it all went awry. Dinner eaten, I was just sliding my cookie into the microwave when WHACK!, Amos suffered one of his minor head injuries. I comforted him the best I could, keeping one eye on the microwave. Twenty seconds passed, the microwave dinged, Amos kept crying. Drats! The minutes dragged by painfully, Amos whining despite my desperate measures to make him happy. Barney was playing on TV. The play dough was out on the coffee table. Pacifiers came out of their hiding places and were offered up, free for the taking. The head injury was forgotten, but toddlers need attention, you know. And he wanted all of mine.

But I couldn’t give it to him. My cookie! My cookie was getting cooler by the second, sitting there in the microwave, vulnerable to attack. What if Rodney discovered it? He was in the kitchen cleaning up the dinner dishes, so he could easily happen upon it, all warm and come hither. Finally, I broke.

“Rodney, I’ll give you $50 if you’ll take Amos for a minute so I can eat my cookie!” He looked kind of shocked, but it was a good offer and he took it. And I was a much better mama afterwards.

This is an annoying question, but is it irrational to avoid school carnivals because of fears of the germs floating around everywhere? Because I’ve done that twice in the last month. I couldn’t bring myself to sign up to volunteer for Amos’ school carnival because I didn’t want to spend a Saturday away from my little boy and I was too worried to bring him along. And now a friend invited Amos and me to her school carnival. It’s at a fancy school and there will probably be cheese trays and heirloom apple cider and flame-juggling cirque d’soleil dancers and all other kinds of highbrow entertainment.  I was way too chicken to tell my friend why I didn’t want to go; I just suggested a lady lunch instead. Maybe this is lame. I keep telling myself everything will be different once Amos gets his second swine flu shot.

Amos goes to an awesome day care at a public school, so he was very lucky to get his first dose of the swine flu shot yesterday. Yes! The nurse who gave it to him was ready for the big kids, but wasn’t really prepared for little squirmy patients and had a hard time. When she finished I noticed a tiny drop of the serum on his leg that didn’t make it under the skin, I suppose because Amos was flailing around so much, so of course I’ll fret about that tiny dab of lost immunity until Amos gets his second shot in 3 weeks. But we’re super lucky to at least be on the road to good health.

Before we went for his shot I called another mom I know whose daughter got the shot the day before. She reported no ill effects. Amos didn’t turn purple or anything, but we had some really grouchy moments yesterday evening, probably because the shot site was sore. Also because he’s teething, but babies are always teething, aren’t they? The pain persuaded Amos to string together his first three-word sentence, uttered through tears as he pointed at the loony toons band-aid on his thigh: “That’s a boooo-boooooooo!”

The vaccine clinic itself seemed to go relatively smoothly, although the state health department workers stationed in the school gym got a bit flustered sometimes by the teeming pack of elementary students who’d been cooped up inside by the rain for nearly three weeks. Curtains blocked the line of people waiting for their vaccines from the people being vaccinated, but plenty of yelps and cries floated over the curtains.

One of the health department guys, apparently not on top of his game, tried to send Amos to the line for the nose spray form of the swine flu vaccine. I was glad I’d done my homework and knew that was wrong, he needed a shot. So I suppose my only advice if you’re taking your darlings out to one of these mass clinics is that it will be mayhem and there’s a chance the good health department people will be distracted, so know what kind of vaccine you’re supposed to get. But it’s really not so bad, and you’ll feel better once it’s out of the way.

In keeping with whirli’s Halloween theme:

We were headed to see David Sedaris Sunday night, and my husband said the most on-the-money thing I’ve heard in a long time. We were pulling into the crowded parking lot, trying to scope out a spot among the swarming crowds, and Rodney said, “We could just go to a hotel for a couple hours and take a nap instead.” That is totally the father of an almost-2-year-old talking. But we’d paid $100 bucks for the tickets, so we stuck it out. Totally worth it. I’d gotten the impression from some interviews on the radio recently that David Sedaris might be something of a snobby ass hat, but it turns out he’s not at all. In fact, I love him all the more now.

And while we’re on the subject, here’s another goofy thing my husband said. We were talking about Halloween and he was urging me to go as Gallagher.

gallagher!

Remember that skinny comedian with super frizzy long hair who always wore striped shirts and suspenders and smashed watermelons with mallets? Sadly, I look just like him from the waist up, minus the mustache (on most days). But I told rodney I wasn’t dressing up, sorry, I just wasn’t into it. He tried again, suggesting I could go as a sexy nurse. “I hate it when girls get all tramped out for Halloween. It’s desperate and slutty,” I said. He was all, “We don’t have to leave the house.” Ha! I liked the hotel nap idea better.

My right eye is swollen and tender and a bit bluish tonight, and I have this fancy frilly dog to blame:

It wasn’t this dog in particular, mine was a bit more gray, but I do think it was an afghan hound. It happened just as I was strolling down the street on a 10-minute mommy escape to get some fresh air and stretch my legs. My husband and son were happily playing at the park (the dreaded park, of COURSE something bad was going to happen!) and I was psyched to be enjoying the pretty river views and swank houses on Palisades. All was well until this strikingly thin, silky, very tall dog trotted up, his owner behind him on the leash. Unlike me in my ratty yoga pants and sweaty T shirt, this dog fit right in on the fancy block. It looked all Frenchy and sophisticated, like it should be wearing a beret and sitting in the passenger seat of a convertible. I asked if I could pet him and the very gracious owner said yes. The owner even said the dog liked me, she could tell. Then WHAM! Before I knew what was happening, that damn frenchy mutt popped me right in the eye with its snooty snout. It was all very awkward for a moment while I tried to regain my vision and the owner apologized repeatedly. The dog just stood there with a look on  its face like “I didn’t do anything. What did I do?” As I walked back toward the park, the throbbing started and my cheek swelled up into my range of vision. So much for that peaceful little slice of me time. What a bust! I suppose the lesson is that it’s true, you really shouldn’t ever pet dogs you don’t know. Even if they look well-mannered and sophisticated and European.

When I graduated from college, my dad’s gift was $5,000 toward the purchase of a car. This was back in 1997, when that amount would pay for almost half of a shiny new Honda civic, the go-to wheels for young but sensible professional gals steering their way into the land of grown-ups. I had to go with the 2-door, which was a little disappointing. My adorably tiny reporter’s salary at my first newspaper job would simply not support the luxury of easy ingress and egress. But I loved my little Honda dearly. Well, until less than a year later, when I breezed right through a red light and smacked into a highly irritated lady in her new sports car. No real injuries, but both cars were totalled. Oops.

I went out and got an exact replica of my first Honda and carried on, teetering under the weight of my well-deserved higher insurance premiums and heftier car payments. The car went with me from North Carolina on my 2-year stint in snowy Pennsylania, and it delivered me and my yowling cat through the 18-hour-long retreat from the cold North so I could take a job in Arkansas, of all places.

But it’s time to face the fact that my trusty companion is wearing out. Both door handles have broken off, so it takes a little know-how and longish fingernails to pop the doors open. The front bumper is cracked through from the time I slid off the road during that biblical ice storm my first winter in Little Rock. The stuffing is raining down from the ceiling, and if you didn’t know the trick, you would need a magical snap from Aurthur Fonzarelli to get the hood to pop. Forget stopping in at the Sonic drive-through; the driver’s side window is frozen at the 3/4 mark. Of course, this makes driving in the rain very uncomfortable. I like the think I’ve weathered the years a bit better than the car, but then I look in the mirror and admit it’s a draw.

So we’re officially on the market for a new (used) car, but I’m not quite settled on what to get. OK, so I’m not the young, serious professional just starting out anymore. But a minivan, with all those fantastic cupholders and cargo space, doesn’t seem quite right, either. Maybe that’s only because I’m not hip enough to pull it off with any sort of  irony whatsoever. It would be a little too comfortable, like wearing sweatpants to Sunday brunch. I’m thinking something like a Honda CRV, something that says “I’m a mom, but I’m still sporty and fun!” Or possibly a zippy little mazda that announces, “I’m quick and practical and only a little short on cash.” I dunno. We’ll see. This could be a slow process, but we have to get it taken care of before we start risking that Amos’ first memory will be of being humiliated by his mom’s sad old hoopdy.