Cordy’s first experience playing in the snow:

Last week we noticed that Aaron’s brake lights had gone out on his car. We realized that driving with them out was, well, illegal. But it seemed silly to pay someone to put a lightbulb in the car. Coming from a family of all women (feminists, too!), most of whom are well-educated in not only cooking and gardening but also car and home repair, I figured this would be a simple fix. After all, they had done this type of thing dozens of times! I looked in the owner’s manual, found the light bulb part number, and bought the bulbs for him to replace them.

Aaron wasn’t sure about it, but I reminded his that he can change a tire, and, well, this is far easier than changing a tire. He braves the cold to make an attempt at this. Fifteen minutes later, he comes back in and asks me to check and see if they’re working. I check. “Well, dear, there’s no brake light, still. But now there’s no turn signal either.” He erupts into cursing (his normal response when he’s angry and Cordy isn’t around).

My mom came up the next day and took a look at it. Having replaced headlights, tail lights, etc., she hoped to find what he did wrong. She couldn’t. Aaron then told us that we should have taken it to Wal-Mart to begin with, since they fix car lights.

OK, fine. We take it to Wal-Mart last night. They take a look at it and tell him it’s not the bulbs. Well, hell. So now we have to take it to the dealer.

We then take his car to the dealer today. Turns out it was originally just the bulbs, but Aaron managed to screw up the wiring and broke the socket when he tried to replace them. Damn. He was right – we should have just taken it to a professional. But it was a friggin’ lightbulb! How can you screw up a lightbulb?

$189 later, I have learned my lesson. I will never again assume that my husband can do minor repairs on a car to save us money. It will, in fact, end up costing us even more if I urge him to try it. Keeping this in mind, I think I will refrain from asking him to do any home repairs as well.

Today my friend Lisa and I decided to take our children out to see Santa at the mall. Bad idea? Obviously. I suppose we were suffering from some delusion that our toddlers would happily waddle up to Santa, sit on his lap, smile a big toothy smile for the camera, and gladly get back into their strollers afterwards. Heh, right.

My first clue that this would be a disaster should have been when Cordelia decided to abort her nap in the morning. Normally I have the rule that we don’t leave the house until she takes her nap, but I blissfully decided that she seemed fine even though she refused to sleep.

We met at the mall, and there was no line to see Santa. Fabulous! I thought, Now at least if they take some time to warm up to Santa, we won’t be inconveniencing anyone else. We go up to see Santa, and the “elf” (twiggy blonde teen girl in a skimpy elf costume – do her parents know she’s wearing that?) tries to sell us a package. I take Cordy out of the stroller, and she immediately twists herself out of my arms onto the floor. Just when I think she might crawl right over to Santa and make a mommy proud, she bolts for the exit ramp and I have to chase her down. I tell Lisa to go first, while I wrangle with my now shrieking, thrashing monster child who is clearly pissed that I won’t let her crawl down the exit ramp.

Lisa has no better luck. While she has the most gentle, mild, well-behaved child I’ve ever seen, he’s also very sensitive. And the thought of getting close to the big man in red with the big white beard, sitting in the massively oversized chair made him burst into tears. Lisa sat with him in the chair with Santa, and Twiggy Elf snapped several shots. Meanwhile, Cordy had decided that now Santa was cool, and she stood up and walked right into several of the pictures. She again resorted to her tazmainian devil impression when I tried to pull her back.

I glance around me and see that somehow, out of nowhere, there is now a line of 7-10 mommies with their beautifully dressed children waiting to see the big man. And the eyes of every single mother were fixed on me as I wrestled with Cordy and tried to bribe her to be good with Goldfish and Gerber puffs. Apparently God hates me for some reason. But I was determined to go through with this, because, well, I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.

Lisa picks the best pic of her son (the pouty-faced one, where he was at least looking at the camera), and Twiggy Elf informs me that we’re next. I can feel the heat of the moms in line staring at the back of my head, probably using all of their mental powers to will Cordy to cooperate. I decide not to even risk handing her to Santa, knowing that not even her grandpa can hold her if I’m in the room. I sit down with Santa, and Twiggy Elf, clearly tired of dealing with us, starts shaking her jingle bells to get Cordy’s attention while I shove one more goldfish in her mouth to keep her happy. My friend Lisa, with her son back in the stroller, sits under the camera and does a song and dance to also attract Cordy’s attention. Cordy sees Lisa and laughs. Twiggy Elf snaps several pics in rapid succession and says, “Well, I think I got one of her smiling.”

We get out of the way of the next kid and view our pics. There’s not a single one that’s good overall. I’m torn between two: one where I look decent and Cordy looks retarded with her mouth half open, or one where she’s smiling (although looking away from the camera and from Santa), but I look, well, drunk. I decide to be the selfless mommy and choose the good pic of Cordelia, while adding this to the list of Things I Did For You to present to her whenever she’s a rotten teenager someday.

I thank Santa (that man surely does not get paid enough), and we move down the exit ramp to the cashier and to wait for the pics. Cordy thrashes and screeches until I nearly drop her, and then tries to crawl as fast as she can towards the Origins store (I had no idea she was so interested in skin care). I drag her back to the Santa station, which results in her frantic “I’m being tortured” screaming. Plopping her into the stroller, I attempt to strap her in while she does her best to resist my efforts.

Once she’s strapped in, she wails and arches her back and shakes the stroller. Now all of the moms in line, along with half of the mall, are staring at us. My face begins to turn red from embarrassment as hers reddens from anger. People walk by, staring at Cordy in a mix of horror and amazement at the sound she’s producing. I try to offer her snacks, but she smacks my hand away.

I wait for what seems like an eternity (about 5 minutes), get the pics and make a hasty retreat. Aaron then calls as we’re walking out of the mall, asking how things are going. “Well,” I respond, “I think most of Easton now thinks we are either the parents of a demon or the worst parents in the world.” “Oh, OK,” he responds, “Well, I’m going out to get some lunch. I’ll talk to you later.” Sure, great.

After the Santa fiasco, we rest at Lisa’s apartment for awhile, and then I meet up with Aaron. As we’re heading home, the snow begins. I knew this was coming. It had been on the news all day. I just didn’t realize how fast it would come. The roads are covered in snow, the visibility is squat, and, as usual, Ohio drivers are being stupid. I watch a man take a left turn far too fast and plow his car into a lightpost. I quietly pray to anything that would listen to get us home safe. I’ve always been annoyed with stupid drivers in bad weather, but Cordy is in the backseat, and the thought of someone hitting us and hurting her is terrifying.

When I was a child, my mom and I were in an accident due to icy roads and I was asleep in the back of the car – the hatchback flat part of the car (yes, no car seat!). I was lucky that it was a slow speed accident – it could have been much worse.

So, we’re home now, and the snow is still coming down, and the fireplace is on. I’m pretty sure I earned my glass of wine tonight, along with a nice chocolate and almond bar.

Oh, and the Santa pic? Here you go, but remember that I normally look much better than this:

I left work a little early last night and got home around 7pm. As I walked in the door, I noticed that the lights were low, and the TV was off. I assumed Aaron had just put Cordy to bed. Aaron looked up at me from the couch, where he was playing City of Heroes on the computer. “Hi dear! You’re home early.”

“Yeah, well, I finished all my work early. How are you?”

“Doing fine. We’re having a little bit of quiet play: I’m playing on the computer, and she’s playing quietly on the floor.”

At this point I realize I haven’t seen anything else moving in our living room. I thought she was already in bed. I scan the room for a moment, panicked that perhaps the gate was down and she had climbed the stairs, and then notice this:

“Um, Aaron, she’s asleep.”

“What? No, she’s just playing with the basket on the floor, see?”

Examining her more closely: “No, dear, she’s out. Out cold.” I stroked her cheek, which normally wakes our light sleeper, but she gave no response other than sighing quietly. Oh, those baby sighs, how I love hearing them!

“But…no! She was just playing with the basket! I saw her playing with the basket!”

I don’t know when he last looked up from his game to check on her, but it hadn’t been recently. Or if he did glance at her, it wasn’t long enough to notice that she wasn’t moving, and that she and the basket had not changed positions since the last time.

As I tried to get her ready for bed, she didn’t even wake when I undressed her. She was sleeping deeply, and had probably been sleeping deeply for at least 10 minutes before I got home. The flash of my camera didn’t even disturb her.

As I was perusing the Columbus Craigslist, looking for good deals on used toys and gear, I came across this ad. Now, I love cutesy little gifts for new moms, but this was just disturbing to me.

It’s soap, hand-carved in the shape of a baby. It’s creepy. Besides the fact that each of these soaps looks like one of those weird 3-D ultrasound images, there’s the question of what do you do with it?

You might choose to save it as a keepsake. But then you’ve got a piece of soap sitting on the shelf next to your baby’s picture and other knick-knacks. And a piece of soap on the mantle just seems out of place.

On the other hand, you could use the soap. I don’t know about you, but I’d feel oddly guilty about washing myself with a baby’s backside, causing it to deform as the water wears parts of it away unevenly. Then it would be this horrible, disfigured baby, and I’d have to throw it away or risk having nightmares about children with no arms or no noses.

So if you’re considering something “unique” for that new mom in your life, please stay away from this unless you really want to send that poor mom into years of therapy and an aversion to cleanliness.