Yesterday I received my usual weekly e-mail from Old Navy, offering up the newest batch of deals. This one was focusing on denim for baby. Since Cordy has outgrown all of her spring clothing, and therefore has no long pants, I clicked the link.

And then my brain exploded.

Let me back up for a minute. Before this, I had just read this BlogHer article about Moms for Modesty. While I don’t like their name, I can agree with their cause that we need to stop trying to dress our little girls as if they’re a miniature Britney Spears. Seeing a toddler wearing a “Big Flirt” t-shirt or “Juicy” written across the butt of her pants is inappropriate. It sends a message that our girls are nothing more than developing sex objects, perfecting their place in life with crop tops and skinny jeans while they learn how to push out their chests and suck in their tummies.

Back to Old Navy now. Presented on my screen were over a dozen choices for jeans, and at the top was an explanation of the different cuts of jeans for toddlers. What? My daughter doesn’t need to choose between boot cut and flare jeans – I just want pants for her! Plain pants! She certainly doesn’t need their Special Edition distressed jeans: she will wear them out fast enough on her own, without the help of the manufacturer.

I guess I’m saying that I really don’t like the trend of dressing toddlers just like mini-adults. They don’t need to follow the adult fashions (like Baby Gap’s new skinny jeans). I’m not saying they should be wearing only loose clothing in pastels with cutesy hearts and rainbows, but certain fashion trends aren’t needed. They can be hip without looking like the next reality TV star. More examples:

In the category of useless accessory, these pants are cute, but what’s up with the pockets? Does the toddler on the go need those side cargo pockets to store her Little People?

Seems to me these pockets would only lead to trouble. Nothing like finding half-eaten, two-day old Cheerios in those cute little pockets on laundry day, is there? Or worse: crayons that don’t get noticed before going through the wash. Ugh.

This t-shirt bothers me a lot. I’ll fess up: I do call Cordy a princess, and I know it’s probably not the best thing to do. But I usually add the word “warrior” in front of it.

I have no problem if she wants to play princess when she’s older, but I plan to teach her that princesses or queens can do just fine on their own as well. She’s a tough girl, and doesn’t need a prince charming to come find her. Implying that she does is insulting.

Maybe one of these shirts would be better for her.

Same goes for this shirt as well. “Cowboy Wanted”? For what, may I ask?

The answer had best be a costume-party playdate and nothing more.

Why does a toddler need a shirt that says Cowboy Wanted? Is she incomplete without her man? Can she not be a cowgirl on her own, without the support and guidance of a cowboy?

I know there are far worse examples out there, but I refuse to seek them out, because it would only give me more of a headache. (I won’t even begin to address the Baby Phat phenomena.) And while most of the clothing at Old Navy is generally good stuff, I am disappointed to see them carrying these types of items for young girls.

I’d rather they focus on making the baby girls line of clothing comfortable, cute, maybe a little hip, and when it comes to graphic tees, focus on empowering messages for girls. Hear that, Old Navy? And while you’re at it, could you please burn your skinny jeans?

Next up: After looking through the first round of costumes I’ve seen for Halloween, I’ve got another post brewing about this year’s theme in costumes for young girls. Here’s a hint: the sluttier, the better.

I’m obsessing.

I said I wouldn’t do it. When we decided to start trying for baby #2 at the beginning of August, we agreed that we’d start with a “whatever happens, happens” approach. Nothing at all like the first time.

You see, if I’m going to do something, I want it done right. Which means I obsess. When Cordy was conceived, I had spent months reading and re-reading Taking Charge of Your Fertility, learning all about the signs my body gives to indicate fertility, pregnancy, etc. (By the way, I highly recommend this book!) I changed my eating habits, stopped drinking alcohol, cut down on caffeine, and tried to exercise.

I went off birth control pills three months before attempting to try for a baby. I took prenatal vitamins during those three months, and did daily charting of my basal temperature and cervical fluid as a means of birth control, and to get the hang of charting. Luckily, I am one of those women with a clockwork, 28 day cycle. I ovulate later than most, but make up for it with a shorter luteal phase (the phase between ovulating and your period). I hung out on message boards, first seeking advice on charting and conception, and then as one of the veterans, offering to help people figure out their charts.

By that November, I had my monthly cycle down to a science, and had my body prepped as much as possible for conception. It took two cycles for me to get pregnant. Easy. I did everything by the book, timed our intimate encounters just right, and got pregnant. I won. (Yes, I’m a little competitive, but like others, only with myself.)

This time around, things aren’t quite so structured. I am making every effort to not obsess about this. I’m taking prenatals, but they’re the over-the-counter ones, not prescription yet. I really haven’t changed my eating habits yet, and exercise and I still aren’t on speaking terms yet. The basal thermometer is still stored in the drawer, but my mind keeps drifting back to charting. I mentally keep track of where I am in my cycle in my head. I’ve noted other signs of ovulation.

I’m now currently in that limbo known as the “two-week wait”. I attempt to distract myself, but my mind keeps wandering back to this topic, wondering if the ache and feeling of fullness in my breasts is a sign of pregnancy or just a phantom symptom. I’m now eager to test – eager to get that double line, my trophy. I’m counting down the days until I reach the realm of possibility of getting a positive test. (For those sharing my madness, I might test as early as Saturday.)

This competition with myself is maddening. Baby-making has become a game to me, and I must win it. Am I excited to get pregnant again? Yes, I am, although this time around I’m actually much more nervous about “Are we ready for this?” than I was with the first pregnancy. With Cordy, we were pretty sure we were ready for parenting. We were also blissfully naive of how hard it was going to be. Now we’ve gone though the first two years of parenting, we’ve been in the trenches and been covered in poop more than once, and so the thought of another child has a little more weight to the decision. It’s a little more frightening this time around, remembering how hard it was with only Cordy, and wondering how I will cope with a newborn and a preschooler this time?

But for the moment most of those fears have been pushed to the back of my mind, as I obsess over winning the fertility game.

I was dreaming about some kind of alien invasion and the destruction of my city. (I never get the nice dreams, like dreaming about me with Heath Ledger or anything.) In the dream, I was with another woman, and we were hiding out in a half-destroyed building. And that’s when I heard it.

Beep

The woman and I looked at each other, and then looked up at the ceiling. “Guess they need to change the batteries in the smoke detector. Not that it matters anymore,” I said.

Beep

Suddenly I was back in my bed, in my room, and it was just after 5am. As my brain adjusted from the dream world to the real world, I tried to make sense of what I heard.

Beep

Aw, hell. It wasn’t just in my dream. The short, yet loud and shrill, beep was coming from one of our smoke detectors. I closed my eyes again and tried to go back to sleep, hoping the next beep wouldn’t come for awhile.

Beep

These stupid smoke detectors never bother to have a low battery warning during the day. In just over two years that we’ve lived in this house, not once – not once – has one of these damned, cheap plastic made-in-China detectors alerted us to a low battery during the day, or during the early evening. It’s always been between the hours of midnight and 6am. Are they still set on China time?

I waited with annoyed anticipation for the next beep, but there was nothing. I figured it was done for the moment, so I slowly drifted off to sleep again.

Beep

That beep startled me out of early sleep. I laid in bed for the next 10 minutes, listening to more beeps while trying to decide if I should get up to change the stupid battery. Strangely, there is no discernible pattern with these beeps. For this particular detector, it would beep 5-7 times, with 30 sec. to a minute between each beep. After that set, it would rest for anywhere from 3 minutes to 10 minutes before starting up again.

I finally couldn’t take it anymore, so I got up to change the battery. However, the next step was figuring out which smoke detector was making the noise. You see, we have 5 smoke detectors upstairs – one in each bedroom, plus one in the hallway. With the echo in the hallway, it’s often hard to tell which one it is unless you’re standing directly under it.

I walked out in the hallway and waited for the next beep. As if it knew, the smoke detector decided to take a break. I listened, but there was no beep. The cats were circling my feet, wondering why I was up so early. I finally gave up and got back into bed.

Beep

Gah! I jumped up and listened for the next beep. When it came, I was puzzled – I couldn’t tell where it came from. I looked at the detector in the hallway. The green light on it was flashing. Did that mean it needed a battery change? One guest bedroom detector also had a flashing light, and the other had a steady green light. Our bedroom had a steady green light, too. Shouldn’t it be only one way or the other?

I walked downstairs, thinking it might be coming from the detector downstairs. But once down there, I heard the next beep, and it was clearly upstairs. Now I was tired, cold, and annoyed. I trudged up the stairs and climbed back into bed, intent on making a conscious effort to get back to sleep (because you know how well that works, right?).

Beep

Beep

Beep

ARGH!! Disabling it wouldn’t work, because all of the alarms are hardwired also – taking the battery out would just piss it off and make it beep more. I jumped up again, determined to find the source of my sleep disturbance. I stood quietly in the hallway again, and heard the beep. I thought I could tell the direction this time, and I slowly edged closer to Cordy’s closed door. Oh, please, don’t let it be in there.

Beep

It was coming from her room.

Ooooh, noooooooooo.

Now I was faced with a real problem. A beep wouldn’t bother Cordy’s sleep, but if I so much as cracked the door she’d pop her head up out of her crib. If I went into her room to change the battery, I would certainly wake her up, which meant I’d be up for the day, too. If I didn’t go in, the beeping would continue, and I still couldn’t sleep. Was someone trying to torture me?

Going back downstairs, I grabbed a fresh battery from the kitchen, then climbed the stairs one more time and went back to bed to ponder my options. At least being back in my bed was warmer than standing in the hallway. I glanced over at Aaron, who was blissfully sleeping through all of this, probably dreaming about some hot celebrity. Oh to be blessed with the ability to sleep deeply.

It was now about 6:45am, and I realized Cordy would be awake soon. As expected, about 10 minutes later, I heard her talking to herself over the monitor. Aaron started to wake up, also (his normal waking time), and my plan suddenly came together.

Beep

“What’s that sound?” he asked. I explained it all.

“OK, here’s the plan. You go get Cordy and take her downstairs, and then I’ll go in and change the battery. She’ll never see me, so she won’t insist on me coming downstairs with you. Then I can go back to sleep for a little bit.”

Thankfully, I have a helpful husband, and he agreed to let me sleep a little more. He released Cordy from her crib and they went downstairs together for breakfast. I snuck in to her room with a chair and the new battery.

I climbed up on the chair and slid open the battery door. It’s a really flimsy door – I wouldn’t expect anything better from the idiots who built our house – only the cheapest materials. I wiggled the old battery out, while the smoke detector continued to beep at me. Just you wait, I whispered to it. As usual, I had trouble getting the new battery in (thanks to the flimsy plastic), and as I tried to force it, I heard the tell-tale crack. I broke the door. That would be broken smoke detector door #3 in our house, for the record. Somehow, breaking the door makes it a little easier to get the damn battery in, and soon I was done, with a battery door now slightly ajar.

As I climbed down from the chair, the detector gave out one more beep, and I held my breath. If it beeps one more time, I will bash it with a hammer, I thought to myself. But the detector remained silent after that, and I fell back into bed at 7:05am.

There’s a new Tide commercial that I just don’t like. It features a woman with a baby, and the voice over says, “There’s a difference between smelling like a mom, and smelling like a woman.” The ad is for Tide with Febreeze, and seems to say that if you don’t wash your clothes in this stuff, your man won’t want to be around you because you smell like baby spitup. What the hell?

Personally, if I’m going out for a date with my husband, I’m going to wear something I generally don’t wear when I’m with my daughter. At the very least, I’m changing into clean clothes first, and my fragrance-free detergent does a fine job of cleaning my clothes. Besides, I can’t stand the smell of Febreeze – it has a chemical smell to it, I think.

Am I the only one who, upon seeing a family out in public with a toddler having a meltdown, smiles and feels just a little happy and relieved? I mean, I feel for the family, but I like knowing Cordy isn’t the only child who can have a major tantrum at the worst of times. Seeing another child laying on the floor, angry and screaming and thrashing, reminds me that Cordelia is going through a phase that most kids go through, and I’m handling as best I can, just like the other parents I see.

I’m sure most of you have now seen the news about the death of Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter. Aaron told me early this morning, and I’m still feeling very sad about his passing. Even though I would often shake my head in amazement at how crazy he was, getting so close to dangerous animals and risking his life daily, I admired his goals of animals conservation and education.

He said that in order to save animals, we must get to know them and love them, and he’s right. Steve worked hard to teach the public about these endangered animals, so that we could come to know them and hopefully join him in preserving their habitats and lives. One of Cordelia’s favorite DVDs is Wiggly Safari, which is a Wiggles DVD filmed at the Australia Zoo with Steve Irwin and his family. It was one of the first we bought, and she still dances in excitement when I put it on for her.

I wish Steve’s family peace and hope that this tragedy won’t change their goals and their vision to educate children about wildlife. I will miss seeing him on TV, but at least he died doing what he loved.

Dr. Harvey Karp said in his book, The Happiest Toddler on the Block, that toddlers should be thought of as little cavemen. His website explains:

Cavemen were stubborn, opinionated, and not too verbal. They bit and spat when angry, were sloppy eaters, hated to wait in line, and were negative, tenacious, distractible, and impatient…sound familiar? (No wonder, the first chapter of THE HAPPIEST TODDLER is named “Help! There’s a Neanderthal in My Kitchen!”)

I always thought this was a funny comparison, until yesterday.

After completely trashing the living room during a tantrum, Cordy grabbed her Dora doll by the hair and dragged her away in a huff.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. She is a little cavewoman.

I guess I need to brush up on my caveman-to-English translation.

Ug.