I Cried Yesterday

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This statement in and of itself isn’t exactly earth shattering – at least not to my husband… I’m actually quite the cry baby when I’m really upset.

But the truth is, I’m not “really upset” very often. I’m one of those even keeled types who needs time to process bad news before reacting to it.

I’m also an excellent companion in an emergency: “Oh dear, it appears that your arm just fell off…why don’t you call 911 while I get some ice…”

No – I’m not one for the drama. And if there is one thing that I NEVER cry about, it’s my children. Oh sure – a stray tear escapes here and there as the result of pride or nostalgia. But never tears of sadness.

I’m just too lucky for that. I have three children while many have none. My children are healthy, they are kind to each other and they are loving to us. And at the end of the day, they are here. I have heard far too many horrible stories about the loss of a child to not appreciate that. Mine are here with me, and I can hug them as much as they’ll let me. For this I am truly grateful. I’m grateful every day for every day I have with them.

But yesterday I cried. About Oliver. And I feel the tears well up again as I type this. Because no matter how grateful I am that he is here, I’m also sad and worried.

I have to reiterate – I NEVER feel sad about Oliver, even though I’m very much aware of his challenges. He is four years old now, but his two year old siblings are quickly catching up with him in communication skills. Oliver has made so much progress over the past couple of years, and I am so, so proud of him. But he’s still so delayed… And I hate to see the puzzled expressions that other people give him.

Even more so, I hate to imagine what that will be like when he’s older. I wish he wasn’t the big brother. I’d like him to have a sibling who could stand up for him on the playground. Because I can’t. Aside from the fact that I can’t always be there – it would just humiliate him to have mommy fighting his battles. I can only hope that his size (he’s HUGE) will work in his favor. If some smart ass bully starts in, Oliver can just sit on him.

But his size isn’t just a joking matter. It’s ANOTHER concern. People think he’s older than just-turned-four. And because of his delays, he is far more like a just-turned-three year old (and one with speech delays at that). I worry about what this will mean for him in the long term. Will people always expect more from him?

But none of this is anything new. What really makes me sad is the fact that he now has a label.

We took him to a developmental pediatrician after meeting with a neurologist who couldn’t make an assessment (other than that Oliver didn’t appear to be mentally impaired, autistic, etc.). I mentioned this in a previous post. He recommended this particular developmental pediatrician and after a bit of a wait, we had our appointment last week.

The doctor did play-based testing that is now very familiar to me and I could see the areas in which he was not “typical.” If not by his actions, by her reactions.

It was after a phone call from her yesterday that I cried.

She gave me the short version of his assessment, but then I got the official report via e-mail and cried again. It said that his “delays and quality of interaction and learning are consistent with a child on the Autistic Spectrum. Qualitatively I would label him as Pervasive Developmental Delay Not Otherwise Specified and meeting the following DSM criteria: delayed communication, delayed social interaction, somewhat restrictive behaviors and symbolic thinking.”

Here’s the thing though – how is ANY of this news to me? I know all of this about him. We’ve been working on it with his preschool teachers. I see it at home every day. He’s just different. Wonderful and amazing and miraculous as he may be – he’s still different.

I’ve written about this before and was very clear about the fact that I don’t care if he’s different. I love him for exactly who he is – quirks and all. So I wasn’t upset to hear more about what I already knew.

I think that the real reason I was so upset by this news was that Oliver was finally given a label. A label that doesn’t say that he’s wonderful and amazing and miraculous. Only that he’s different. A label that changes all of the “what if” questions into “if then” statements.

This is a good thing – to have concrete “if thens”. If Oliver is on the Autism Spectrum, then we have a direction to take with his treatment. If Oliver has an actual diagnosis, then he will qualify for all sorts of special services that we would never be able to afford otherwise. If Oliver has a label, then we can give others an actual reason for why he acts far younger than his age.

But if Oliver has a label, then all of this is real. It won’t resolve itself or go away.

The report says that his label is “qualitatively” based on his behavior. And I know that no matter how much help he gets, he will never “qualitatively” be like other children. This is just the way it will always be.

And while I still wouldn’t change him and I still think he’s wonderful and amazing and miraculous, I am now feeling sad and worried. To some extent this is also the way it will always be. And I suppose I wouldn’t change that either.

My love for Oliver and my appreciation for his fabulous individuality is a constant. One that can’t be affected by any amount of testing or labeling or restraining myself from physically assaulting playground bullies who try to pick on him. It will never change.

I know in my heart that Oliver will be okay. More than okay – I mean how could he not? We’ve already established that he’s wonderful and amazing and miraculous. But sometimes I will be worried. Sometimes I will be sad. And sometimes I will cry.

No matter what though, I know that I will always be proud of him and I will never want to change him. And that is exactly how I know that I will be okay too.

*Note: I actually wrote this yesterday – but was too busy avoiding my feelings and creating new blogs to post it. Hope it’s not too much of a downer. I really am feeling better about things now.

When Is "Youthful" Too Young? (Alternatively Titled, "Friends Don’t Let Middle Aged Friends Wear Daisy Dukes")

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I’ve had to do a little Spring shopping for myself since my work wardrobe has dwindled to some tailored capri pants, a couple of dresses and a very outdated Ann Taylor pants suit (I could be the spokesperson for DC fashion – and I don’t mean that in a good way).

We’re less than wealthy at the moment, therefore I’ve turned to the thriftier shops to augment my sad little wardrobe. So far this has included Target (hey – if I’m already there buying paper towels, I may as well check out the ladies’ fashions), Old Navy (mainly for casual items – snort, because you know, I’m getting all of my formal stuff at Target…) and H&M.

Apparently, the less expensive stores tend to cater to a more “youthful” clientele – so I’ve gotten to see quite a bit of what is current and trendy with girls for whom I would have been too old to to babysit as a teenager.

As a result, I’ve realized that I’m REALLY old.

And I haven’t thought of myself as old before. I’m still in my thirties (with three fun filled years left baby!) and Cindy Crawford has made sure that my crow’s feet are under control… But there is NO WAY that I can pull off some of the “now” looks I’ve been seeing.

So I’ve ended up with a running list in my head of trends that are making me feel like I should be draping myself in Lily Pulitzer and meeting the girls at the country club for bridge. [In my “I’m old” fantasies, I also have more money. Hey – whatever gets you through the day, right?]

Here are the Top Nine:

Rompers: I believe I had a few variations of these in college. Probably from Express. In my opinion, when a “youthful” look has come full circle, it means that I’m now too old for it. NEXT!

Pleated Front Pants: Fifteen to twenty years ago, saying that you had pleats in the front of your pants (that weren’t jeans) would be like saying that you have something called “knees” to help your legs bend. ALL pants had front pleats back then. I’m not sure why…but maybe Meg Ryan could answer that question. Her entire wardrobe in When Harry Met Sally featured now inexplicable fashion trends like slouchy sweaters, vests and felt hats. But I really have no idea why pleated front pants are back in. Is this a hipster thing? Are they ironic? Either way – they are NOT flattering, and my feeling is that if I’m going to wear pleated front pants, I may as well just get it over with and put on some mom jeans.

Embellished Headbands: And DON’T think I’m not crying over this one… I would love to emulate Blair Waldorf with her beautifully feminine accessory of choice. Each one is sigh inducing and many tears have been shed over my far-too-oldness to pull off this look. Other ladies my age might be able to do it – but I’m kind of a plain jane pushing forty who lives in the suburbs. So I’ll have to blow a farewell kiss to that fashion statement. xoxo…

Boho Chic: Isn’t this “out” yet? One would think so since it seems to have been “in” for eons. I can only guess that Mary-Kate Olson, Mischa Barton and Nicole Richie have started a union… ANYWAY. The maxi dress? Makes a woman of my years and casual suburban lifestyle look like an aging hippie. Those flowing peasant blouses? Not only will people ask me if I’m pregnant, their next question will be whether I did in vitro. And have I seen fringe in recent magazines?! If I think about that last one, my head may explode.

Turquoise Eye Makeup: I see these images in magazines and flashback to 1985 when I was applying it with a spatula. This is fine for high fashion, but for every day “fancy,” anyone over the age of 20-mumble-mumble will end up looking like a working girl (and I don’t mean a retro Melanie Griffith). Bottom line: people with crows feet shouldn’t go there.

Strategically Ripped Jeans: Only teenagers wear torn clothing on purpose. Give it up grandma.

Daisy Dukes: You know, you would think this would be obvious…but you would be wrong. Celebrities over the age of should-know-better-by-now are still trying to rock this look. And though I should be fair in noting that the daisy dukes penchant seems to have been usurped by “boyfriend shorts” this year – bad trends do seem to linger. While cut off jeans are perfectly acceptable in environments such as the beach, your own home and the 11th grade, I personally think that in any other context, a woman in daisy dukes may as well just slap on a sandwich board that says “Cougar” and be done with it.

Anything from Forever 21: I KNOW! Wails of protest sound across the blogosphere at comments such as these… But really, the fact that the store is named “Forever 21” makes me feel pathetic to even consider entering. Why is staying 21 forever such a great thing? When I was 21, I was a senior in college, skipping class, cultivating a moon face with over consumption of cheap beer, and tying plaid button down shirts around my waist as a fashion statement. Since I’ve never been in Forever 21, this is an incredibly uninformed opinion. But I’m taking a stand here. I don’t care how inexpensive the trendy clothes are. If I’m going to risk bumping into the same 15 -year olds that I might find at Wet Seal and Claire’s Accessories, then I just won’t go in. It’s a matter of principle…and cellulite.

Skinniness: Okay – this is a good one – practically a public service announcement. So listen up. While, it has nothing to do with retail stores, the notion that too much weight loss adds years is a realization that I came to sometime in my late 20s. When you are “older,” being skinny makes you look “old.” It’s true for everyone. When you lose that youthful baby fat, your face takes on more angles. And if your ass has no fat on it, then neither does your face. Combine this with the normal laugh lines that we all get, and you end up looking ten years older. Who cares if your legs look fantastic in those daisy dukes – your face looks like it belongs to the Crypt Keeper. And you can just forget about plastic surgery being the answer. Everyone can spot a face lift. Okay – maybe I can’t, because I’m naïve like that…but other people can. So you have to decide. What is more important to you? What your ass looks like in inappropriate shorts or what your face looks like when you smile at someone you want to find you beautiful? It’s your choice – so think long and hard about this one.

That’s the short list. Surely there’s more – but I think that’s enough. I do find it sad that I can’t wear everything I love (I’ll take a brief moment of silence here to grieve missing the Gossip Girl headbands window of opportunity). But I also think I have much to look forward to.

Whatever happened to “growing old gracefully” or “looking great for your age?” Neither of these had anything to do with emulating girls who are only just old enough to legally buy a bottle of wine.

I’ve decided to officially embrace my age – at every age. I am 37 and I look 37. I could look better – but I could also look worse. Most of the time I feel comfortable in my own skin, and I feel comfortable with my style.

Comfort doesn’t have to mean sweat pants and mom jeans, and it doesn’t have to mean giving up creativity in fashion. I love fashion, but that doesn’t mean I love every trend. Some just aren’t me – and some just aren’t appropriate for me any longer. And that’s just fine.

In a few years, I want to look like a very attractive 45-year old. And then I want to look like a lovely middle aged woman with teenage kids. And then I want to look like an elegant mother of the bride or groom.

I can do all of that without grasping at youth that is no longer mine to claim.

They say that being young is a state of mind. I would say it’s also a state of personal maintenance…but more so a state of mind.

Feeling young at heart is a cliché – but it’s also the best and happiest way to live. When you feel young and beautiful in your heart, it shines through all of the fine lines and gray hairs. You may want to pick up a little Miss Clairol, and of course don’t forget Cindy’s fountain of youth… But in the end, the people you actually care about will look in you in the eye, not in the ass.

And no matter what your age, you want to be able to look back at them with clear confidence in the fact that you’re fine just as you are. You should look fondly back at who you were, and eagerly forward to who you will be. It’s part of what makes each age worth a little nostalgia and not worth the humiliation of seeing your new favorite outfit on a girl half your age.

At the end of the day, we’re all in this together. So we should encourage each other to be okay with the aging process. To emulate trendsetters from our own generation. And to actually embrace our age and own it like an Hermès Birkin Bag – a classic that only increases in value over the years.

Don Taunch

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This is not a name (Don Taunch), it’s a sentence. It’s something that I say to George all the time.

Actually – I don’t say “don taunch,” I say “don’t touch.” “Don taunch,” is just George’s pronunciation of the sentiment.

He has an odd little accent, that one… Another example would be how he says “it’s very hot.” It sounds like, “as berra haut.” He kind of reminds me of Frank (pronounced, “Frahnk” of course) from Father of the Bride.

“Don taunch” was a bit of a theme on Saturday.

At about 8 a.m. that morning, I was making eggs for Eleanor (the only Hood child who will eat more than three food items). I let the twins watch and they had little chairs pulled up so they could see. As soon as the eggs were done, Eleanor was at the table waiting to be served. But George stayed to watch me plate the eggs and put the pan in the sink. Or so I thought…

Apparently, he stuck around for other reasons. The minute I was more than two feet away from him putting the pan in the sink, he reached over to touch the burner.

I know – bad mommy – why was I letting him stand at the stove? The truth is, we let them do this all the time since our galley kitchen is about ten feet long (I’m not kidding) and the stove and the sink are separated by two feet of counter space (the ONLY counter space I might add…so the next time one of you wants to complain about how outdated your full sized kitchen is, you can just visualize me telling you to “suck it” – I’m sorry, I know that’s not nice – but I have my moments too).

ANYWAY – George burned his hand. Three first degree blisters to be exact. Here is a visual:

They are on the index finger, the ring finger and the palm directly under the index finger.
Poor little guy. I immediately had him at the sink with cold water running over his hand. Apart from the initial scream of shock and fear, he was pretty stoic about the whole thing, and I wasn’t even sure that he was all that injured. But then I saw the three blisters appear and decided that I should probably have a doctor check it out.

As it goes with most household injuries, this one happened on a weekend and the pediatrician’s office was closed. So I decided to take him to a nearby emergency care center. Overkill? Sure. Ridiculously expensive? Yes. But it was the only off hours care center that opened before 10 a.m.

Chris was out of town for work, but I knew I could leave Oliver and Eleanor with our wonderful neighbors (this is one of the biggest perks of townhouse living – it’s like living with family).

I also knew that Oliver would have a psychotic break if I left him behind.

So Eleanor stayed home while the boys and I set out for what I knew would probably be hours of sitting in chairs before a doctor could look at George’s hand say, “ouch, that must have hurt,” and then slap on a little cream.

And that’s pretty much what happened. Here is a pictoral (for once I had a camera – apparently the stars only align to make this happen when I’m three days past due for a hair wash OR in the ER):

Who ISN’T more brave when they have their blankie wrapped around their shoulders?

Oliver took the presence of the bed quite literally.

“Don taunch!”

Time passes quickly when you are playing with trains (not so much when you are watching people play with trains…)

Oh George…will your hair ever look normal again?

Just enough room for two.

All we need is a TV…and maybe some snacks.

Yeah – Oliver really liked that bed.

Look at that bandage! All for three little blisters… Don’t even ask me about the purple toothbrush. My kids are always clutching bizarre things like this.

Epilogue:

George played outside for hours without getting his bandage dirty. He’s a fussy little guy.

I took all three kids to Target later to pick up bandaids and Tylenol since we had NONE left in the house. I am one of the most ill prepared mothers you will ever meet. It isn’t at all unusual to see me rifling through the dirty laundry for a semi-clean pair of pants for one of my children on any given Monday morning.

The twins fell asleep in the car on the way home which meant that they actually took a nap (something that no longer happens since we got rid of their cribs).

Oliver and I used this nap time to run around on the front lawn in Kung Fu Panda underwear and try to elicit some interest in sidewalk chalk (that would be Oliver in the underwear and me making unsuccessful attempts at “normal” playtime activities).

I removed George’s bandage after dinner since it was a little damp, and we tried out some bandaids. He selected the Diego ones, and we had to sing the theme song for EACH bandaid application (“DiEEEEgo…DiEEEEgo…GO Diego GO!“) This also included the five bandaids that had nothing to do with his burns.

George pulled off the bandaids within five minutes and I gave him a long talk about being careful with the blisters. “DON TAUNCH!”

Water Nymph or Womb Style?

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Is it me – or is this the strangest catalog cover you have ever seen?


Now don’t get me wrong – I LOVE Anthropologie. Of course I do – I’ve actually written about their catalogs and all of the clothes that I wish I could buy (here and here if you’re interested). And I’ve always admired their unique layouts that look far more like art than fashion shoots.

But this one just seemed a bit out there for a retail catalog… I find it simultaneously beautiful and disturbing.

Beautiful for the way it evokes impressions of old world paintings – what you see when you stand too close and the image blurs. Also the light appears to glow from within. At the same time I’m reminded of looking at a sunset – how rose and copper rays light up the face turned up to it, and everything behind fades to dusky blue. Yes – quite beautiful.

But there is also something a bit disconcerting about it. After the initial impression of ethereal light, you realize that the model is under water. Still peaceful…but in what way? She doesn’t look like she’s swimming. Instead she kind of looks like she’s floating. Face down.

But then again, I really don’t see death in this image, just an eerie stillness.

And then it came to me. The real reason why it seems a bit odd.

When I see this:


I’m reminded of this:


Have you ever seen a 3-D ultrasound before? I had one once for Oliver very late into the pregnancy, so it probably didn’t work as well as it should. I found it terrifying. It looked like a baby made of clay that someone started to smush back into an unformed state. And there was something creepy about the amber tint of the film (or maybe I just associate the color with the weird smushy baby).

Also, every image the technician captured made my baby looked like he had two black holes for eyes and a little black nose. All I could say was, “he looks like a panda!” So I passed on the 3-D print outs. The old school sonogram pictures of black and white silhouettes worked just fine for me thank you.

Now, I know that the cover/ultrasound comparison isn’t an exactly likeness…but seriously – if you take away the hair and make the tint as amber as Illustrator will let you (which unfortunately for my argument – isn’t very much…):


Do you see it?!

I think they were going for water nymph in this cover – but the recently pregnant woman in me sees a 3-D ultrasound.

Maybe I’m onto something here. Something truly avant garde for the next cover.

Womb Style!


No? Okay – maybe not.

There is a reason that I’m not an art director for Anthropologie. The fashion world just isn’t ready for me.

R2 on YouTube

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I had so many questions about WHERE to get this amazing toy, that I finally looked it up online.

Chris’ grandfather bought it. And while I suppose I could just ask him, the idea of trying to explain to an 80-somthing guy that I want to post about it on my blog…well it seemed easier to just Google it.

But I’m so glad I did, because look what I found!

Now that are saying you MUST have this – here is a link to where you can purchase it: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001E95SQ2.

It’s not cheap – but SO worth it when your friend in another room demands a beverage. Once you go “interactive astromech droid” you never go back…

So You’re An Underdog…Do You Want an Award or Something?

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You may not remember this, but last month I wrote about an idea I had for a website devoted to online “Underdogs.” Well – I actually did it – and I’ve even had some recruits!

While the original idea was to list award nominations for…well, anyone who asked, really…I’ve had some other ideas.

First of all – this site is far from serious. I mean – how could it be with a mascot like this:

Underdogs Unite

But I do like the idea of giving people a platform to say, “hey – check me out! I don’t suck!” Or something like that… And so far, that’s what we’ve done.

The current list of sites that don’t suck includes:

Not too shabby for a month right?

And a few of those aren’t even nominated for awards. They just asked me to promote a giveaway or just “them.” I’m willing to try anything out on the Underdogs site, so any requests or suggestions are welcome.

One idea that I had recently was to spoof the “real” awards with a list of Underdog Awards. And apparently, I’m not the only one who has thought of this.

And I’ve finally started to work on that – as you can read in this excerpt from today’s post on Underdogs Unite:

A couple of weeks ago, I started talking about adding some Underdog-specific Awards to this site. A League of Our Own, so to speak…

So I’ve been trying to come up with award ideas.

Pearl gave me some suggestions when she signed on as an Underdog last week: “Most Likely to Re-Offend, Mostly Likely to Stalk, Best Use of Spell Check, Most Obviously in Violation…” and “don’t forget Most Likely to Post Nekkid.” I think she’s a genius.

Here are the ones I made up:

Most Prolific Poster

Most Likely to Tag Dooce for a Meme

Most Self-Congratulatory Parenting Advice

Most Enthusiastic Commenter

Most Likely to Become a “Famous” Blogger (whatever that means)

Most Likely to Gain 500 Followers After Threatening to Stop Blogging OR After a Major Blog Scandal (whatever that means)

Most Likely to Get Drunk and/or Cry within the First Five Minutes of BlogHer (or at home during the week of BlogHer)

Most Confusing Aliases for Family Members

Most Likely to Overuse the Term “Hubby,” “Hubs,” or Something Even Cuter

Most TMI

Worst Potty Mouth

Best Accent

Best Hair

Best Dancer

Best Dressed

Too snarky? (That’s a question – not an award.)

Am I forgetting anything? Suggestions are welcome. Just comment or e-mail me at underdogsunite@gmail.com.

I’ll get this organized by next week, so stay tuned for more details. In the meantime – don’t forget to VOTE for each other (you know – for the real awards) and send more Underdogs this way.

Anything goes here – so if you want to promote anything (including yourself), just let me know!

So We’ll see what happens with that…

But wait! Are YOU an Underdog?

I’ve had a few bloggers who do have a fairly impressive following ask if they could be considered an Underdog. How unknown do you have to be, so to speak. I have the same answer for all of them: “Are you Dooce? No? Then you’re in!” Although the site is really open to anyone so Dooce is more than welcome to join. It would be a little strange of course…but luckily, she hasn’t contacted me, so I think we can probably avoid any awkwardness there.

So – long story short (or long story summarized at the end – since nothing is ever short on this site) – I’m having a party at Underdogs Unite, and everyone is invited. Your reasons for coming are irrelevant. Whether you want to get more votes for your nomination, participate in the soon to be huge Underdog Awards, meet other bloggers, promote your site or giveaway, or just get in my good books* (which ‘ya should – of course) – it’s all good.

We all feel like Underdogs at heart right?

I can’t believe it’s just me (and the other 10+ sites listed above)…So join the party – and bring snacks – because that will REALLY get you in my good books.*

*This is a common English idiom, not a reference to a book that I’m writing. Although I really should write a book once I get this Underdog thing off the ground… I suggest sucking up to me now if you want to be in it.

Just a Boy and His Robot

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When I wrote about George last week, I had a list of things I wanted to include. Then of course when I sat down to write, I couldn’t remember everything. Probably just as well since my posts are far too long as it is… But I forgot one story that is just too important to drop.

You see, we have recently added another family member to the three ring circus we call The Reston Zoo.

Meet R2:


Chris’ grandfather sent this to the kids for Christmas, and in typical Hood family style, it took us about four months to actually put batteries in it. And we only did it because we found George and Oliver pushing the toy around and “pretending” that it was a working robot. Seriously, Chris and I (but mostly Chris) take lazy to a whole new level.

But once we did give life to R2, we couldn’t believe we let him sit dormant for so many months. To quote Chris, “R2 is awesome.”

This robot makes all of the same whirring and chirping noises that you will remember from the Star Wars movies. AND he responds to voice commands. If you say “hey R2,” his “head” will swivel in your direction and he’ll “beep, whir, chirp.” If you say “C3P0,” he will shake his head and “chirp, whir, beep.” If you say, “R2 – go on patrol,” he will roll into the next room and keep going until he finds a person (he’s a heat seeking robot).

He doesn’t roll into walls. Instead he senses them and keeps turning until he finds a clear path.

In general, after spending an hour or two with R2 chirping and whirring around the house, you kind of start to feel like he’s…well, R2D2. A cognizant presence. Another family member.

One weekend, I walked into the playroom to find George and Oliver sharing their afternoon snack with the R2. Oliver had put him on a chair at the kids’ table and they were conducting a full conversation mixed with toddler chatter and robot beeps.

Since R2 is sound activated, he has random reactions to various sets of sound combinations. As a result, too much noise, namely the kids all simultaneously whining, screaming and talkingtalkingtalking, can send him into a tailspin.

One evening, all three of them were in rare form – probably fighting over something bizarre like a string of Mardi Gras beads or a handful of plastic straws. And the shrieks and complaints had the R2 in fits:

Kids: Scream, smack, howl

R2: Whir, chirp, beep-beep

Kate: Stop it – I want to see some nice sharing.

Kids: Shriek, push, sob

R2: Beep-beep-beep-beep, whir

Kate: I mean it – If you don’t stop fighting, I’m taking it away.

Kids: Shriek, smack, whine-whine-whine-whine

R2: Beeep-eep-eep, Whirrrrrrrrr-chirp

Kate: Okay that’s it – everyone is getting a time out!

Kids: ScreamCryScremCryScreamCry

R2: ChirpWhirChirpWhirChirpWhirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…..

Kate: Stopit…Stopit…Stopit… YOU’RE UPSETTING R2!

True story. I actually said that. And I meant it. And the kids must have appreciated the gravity of the situation, as they immediately piped down and looked at poor R2.

George loves R2 the most though.


He’s always the one to seek R2 out. He even makes up voice commands that don’t actually exist. I have no idea where he heard this, but one of his favorite things to yell at R2 is “activate!” But when he yells it, it sounds like “adivate!” Needless to say, R2 doesn’t recognize this command but he does respond with some gratifying whirring and chirping noises. George has figured out the “patrol” command, so he also likes to yell “R2 – Troll!“


He also confounds the robot with this weird “woo-hoo’ing” thing he’s been doing lately. This would be less of a “wah-hoo” and more of a “yoo-hoo.” Seriously – it’s like having a little old lady in the house with us. But when George calls “woo-hoo!” in his supersonically pitched falsetto, R2 doesn’t come running as he is expected to. Apparently, there is no voice command for “woo-hoo.”

Sadly, R2 is starting to slow down. He sits and whirs for long stretches of time and his patrols are rather short lived these days… We suspect that it’s time to change the batteries again. Who knows how long it will take to get around to it… My guess is that R2 will be back to marionette movements orchestrated by the boys before we juice him up again. But by then, we will really have to as by then, we will most likely be semi-insane from listening to George’s futile attempts to “adivate” R2. “Woo-hoo!“

Jack Black in An Orange Jumpsuit…So Yummy, So Yummy…

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As I may have mentioned before, we watch far too much television at my house – kid DVDs to be specific. I have become a regular connoisseur of pre-school entertainment. Love The Wiggles, love to hate Barney and for the love of god, someone turn the volume down when Dora is on!

I have favorite quotes from Clifford (John Ritter did a mean big red dog), shed copious tears at the end of Homeward Bound, and can pretty much learn to find some enjoyment in any of these shows that I am subjected to in my rather aggressive viewing schedule. What do they call this…the Patty Hearst Syndrome?

When my kids find a DVD they like, I can expect to watch it non-stop for weeks. We’ve almost destroyed the aforementioned Homeward Bound DVD with wear (Oliver calls that one “dogs and cat” which cracks me up since it sounds like “moose and squirrel”). If I watch Thomas and Friends one more time I think I’ll scream. And I won’t even get into the whole Milo and Otis reign of terror…

But I’m constantly surprised by how creative and dare I say it, “hip” some of this programming can be. Case in point: Yo Gabba Gabba.


We discovered Yo Gabba Gabba on Noggin a while ago and I have enjoyed many a quiet 30 minutes while DJ Lance and his unusual friends brainwash my children into drooling silence.

I have often thought that people on drugs would enjoy this show. Here is the Party in My Tummy clip (guaranteed to get stuck in your head for days on end…but you will LIKE it):

Did you watch it? For the rest of the day you’ll be singing, “so yummy – so yummy!” That was Brobee. The full cast is as follows:

DJ Lance Rock, in the orange jumpsuit
Muno, “the red cyclops”
Foofa, “the pink flower bubble”
Brobee, “a little green monster”
Toodee, “the blue cat-dragon”
Plex, “the yellow robot”

The whole premise is that DJ Lance shows up on set with his giant 80s “boom box,” then opens it to pull out these creatures and place them in some kind of diorama. Once he sprinkles a little magic dust on them, they come to life and the dance party begins.

This is trippy stuff.

The weirdest character by far is Muno:


Chris calls him “the big red dildo.” And in my search for some pictures, I discovered that this is a common observation. But I give Chris full credit since I heard it from him first.

The other characters, of course, have their own “themes” (I mean other than “sex toy character”), but the point of this post isn’t to map out the world of Yo Gabba Gabba Wikepedia-style for you.

Oh yeah – right. I actually DO have a point to all of this (don’t I always?) Which is…that I was recently asked to review Yo Gabba Gabba – New Friends. Of course I said yes. That’s a no brainer in this house. A new DVD? Send it now so I can get them off of this painful Milo and Otis kick! Plus the New Friends episode features Jack Black – so I needed no further encouragement.

Chris and I are known Jack Black fans and closet Yo Gabba Gabba fans – so we were pretty excited when the DVD arrived in the mail. This particular episode is about being thrown into a new environment with new people (or big red dildos, or whatever) and how it’s not that scary once you open up and give them a chance.

Highlights include Jack’s “dancy dance” which involves a kick ass John Travolta-Saturday Night Fever move, a montage of Jack’s good times with his new friends, and of course a magical wardrobe change into DJ Lance Rock’s orange jumpsuit and fuzzy hat. His classic line: “I can’t believe it fits!”

Here is a clip I found on YouTube:

Yo Gabba Gabba also has some animated sketches from indie cartoonists. My favorite is “sometimes you win – sometimes you lose.” Chris is less impressed by the message this one tries to convey as he is of the opinion that second place means “first loser.” Maybe my kids really need Yo Gabba Gabba for some balance…

Not surprisingly, I found this quote on Wikipedia: “The show has also become popular among young adults, with some watching under the effects of cannabis.[6]” NO – really? And they never thought anyone could surpass the stoner appeal of the Teletubbies… Yo Gabba Gabba speaks to people on so many levels…(and drugs).

But hey this is a family blog! And I can smugly say that none of my children (ages 2-4) have EVER done drugs. So no worries here.

All in all, I give Yo Gabba Gabba – New Friends a big thumbs up. It manages to appeal to both children and parents, which is a big plus in our “all kids’ programming – all the time” house.

And seriously – how could you ever go wrong with Jack Black in an orange jump suit…

So yummy – so yummy…