Last week, Crabtot enrolled in a new preschool. This event demonstrates how Crabmommy swings with the weather on matters tot-related. How fast I can become a Momocrite when circumstances change! How nimbly do I toss out my firmly-held opinions when they no longer suit my situation!

For the last 1.5 years, 3 days a week, Tot attended what is considered the rock-bottom childcare facility in Crabtown, the sort of place where the Brooklyn mother I once was would have had a small daily coronary at drop-off. But it was the only place that would take her. And it was affordable. And it wasn't that bad. Or rather, just when it seemed to get that bad, it would improve, with a new hire staying longer than 3 weeks.

To be fair, there were some good teachers, who engaged in praise-worthy disciplining tactics involving a Time Out Grizzly Bear. Oh, and Tot also liked it there. It was undeniably gritty, though, and far from our roots. While back in Brooklyn NY, tykes learned the Rubix cube or made mobiles out of leaves before their organic snack, Tot and her troops picked their noses after the government-sponsored waffles were served, and grubbed around aimlessly before chicken nuggets re-perfumed the diaper-scented air.

Crabmommy gave the grit a positive spin for a while ("character-building," "They don't need no education," "We're in Wyoming! She's a cowgirl!"). I defended and supported the facility and pooh-poohed the high-maint local moms who needed high-priced care. But when a friend opened a playschool with gingham curtains, we defected.

Now Tot comes home with reports and paintings. She has uberfabulous caregivers who gravely discuss her progress. And though I could give a rat's bum about toddlers learning Spanish or yoga, it's kind of nice to know that someone does. Oh, and Tot also likes it here.

But I sorta miss those chicken nuggets. Packing Tot's lunch is hard for Lazymommy.

Crabmommy bio

Call me Victorian, but I'm against kids learning anatomically correct names for genitalia. I shudder when the tiny people tell you they have a vagina, or a penis. But, as we all know, plenty of people don't agree with me.

Maybe I'd feel different if the offending words weren't so, well, offensive, to begin with. There's just nothing nice about the word "vagina." It's so guttural. Saying it makes me feel like I just chewed on a piece of foil with my metal-filled molar. And "penis"—ouch! When I say it I feel like I just got a paper-cut. Yet there are many sensible parents hell-bent on bandying these ugly words about.

Luckily, kids often cutely mangle them. Like the little girl who told her mother her "bagina" hurt. Or the kid who said, in disbelief, after being informed of how babies are born, "Uh uh. They don't come out of your veejay!?"

If only better words had been given out back when the Anglo-Saxons or whoever donated those sounds to English. Why couldn't they have switched some words around and called the veejay a "sponge" or an "anemone" or something similarly easy on the ears? Then I'd be fine with teaching Crabtot what her wee-wee's real name is. And if they'd just swapped the p-word for "stamen" or "stem"—something prong-like but somehow less screamingly penile—then I'd be cool with telling Tot the dictionary name for her friends' winkies.

So I'm on a crusade. Will you join me? If we collectively conspire to eradicate "penis" and "vagina" from our child-rearing vocab, maybe we can eliminate these unattractive words from the English language altogether. And let's extend this mission to those people out there still convinced that kids need to know the term "bowel movement." Please, parents! Watch your language!

Crabmommy bio

This story is old. I was too embarrassed to blog about it at the time. But I'm feeling brave today and, in her blogocratic oath, Crabmommy swore she'd be able to make fun of herself and admit it when she was being a Momocrite (that mom who judges harshly but ends up doing what she swore she never would).

Okay, so you all know I loathe braggy parents who proudly tell you their kid is "very verbal." But, I admit it, Crabhubby and I think Crabtot is "very verbal." Though we've kept this info private, we've exchanged smug looks when, in her early twos, C-tot cottoned on to the word "pediatrician" and "stethoscope" from an Elmo Visits the Doctor DVD. (Okay, it was "steposcote" but that's still pretty darned multisyllabic.)

Tot's early interest in steposcotes went down quite well with her cardiologist Crabgrandpa. Then arose an extra opportunity to spread the word to another medical professional. When Tot developed pink eye some months ago, I hate to say it, but I sort of looked forward to the visit to the pediatrician. She's always been so healthy she hadn't had much opportunity to be examined by docs. That my child might refer to the pediatrician by her specialist's name—and then ask to look at the steposcote—struck me as a pleasant spin on the pink eye situation.

Unfortunately we were seen by a new pediatrician. She had a loud, twangy voice and referred to Crabtot as "Princess," a word Tot didn't know. Crabtot was silent and my fantasies of impressed physicians dissolved. In desperation, I went straight to that parental place I swore I'd never go to. "What's that?" Pushy Mom prompted as the doc approached with the steposcote. "A princess?" Tot replied.

I'm ashamed of this attempt to show off my child, when she was sick, no less! I couldn't even admit my intentions to Crabhusband. But I know he had similarly shameful expectations. "How was the pediatrician?" he asked. "What did she think of—I mean, how was the visit?"

"Not good. Dr. R wasn't in town."

Crabhusband looked disappointed when I recounted the princess story. We weren't pleased with the pediatrician. Even though she did, um, fix up our kid.

Crabmommy bio

I'm excited to share with you yet another bright idea generated by Crabmommy. I'm consistently amazed that light-bulbs can occasionally flash in my otherwise vacant Mommy-mind. As always, I am inspired by more famous inventor moms who also seem otherwise vacant. Like Baby Einstein's Julie.

The PelletTracker™

Changing babies is such a hassle. And accidents happen. What parent hasn't experienced the MPS or Missing Pellet Situation? You're changing young Colter, he squirms, and next thing, a hard deer-like pellet stool rolls off the stool and onto the floor. Only to disappear. And so you find yourself in the odd position of being on your hands and knees actually looking for poop, and—for the first time in your life—hoping to find it. Now that's depressing!

Search no more. With its patented stool-sensing technology, the PelletTracker™ wand need only be waved over the general area and presto! Poop alarm is sounded, with volume increasing as you home in on the target.

Devised by a mom, the PT incorporates the latest in materials analysis and GPS technologies. With an infra-red heat sensor programmed to perform detailed shape, color, and material recognition studies, you can be sure your PT will accurately and speedily locate stray stools within minutes, or your money back!

User friendly: Even the most brain-numbed mother need not worry about manuals and menus. With its one-touch button, and simple plug-in activation, the PT is ready when you are. It also clips onto the changing table or can be suspended from the wall (sucker grip included). Extension cord free with purchase. Cordless activation also available for an extra $39.99.
Attractive design: Necessary objects need not be ugly. To fit in with the modern nursery, the PT is available in hot-pink, retro-diner-blue, or pureed-organic-carrot-orange. A handy travel tote is also yours, absolutely free with purchase!

With the PelletTracker™ you can say goodbye to:

• accidental pellet-squishing
• leaving the changing station with that nagging feeling of unfinished business dogging you through the day
• having your baby hand you what looks like a raisin, except it is in fact, a weeks'-old diaper defector, MIA from the scene of defecation

Crabmommy bio

Today I went to yoga for the first time in three years and boy do I ever feel bad.

In order to do a sitting twist, I realized I could only do it if I rearranged my mom-flap—that post-partum tyre around my midsection. I had to tuck it under my elbow. (I'm blaming the baby, but maybe it's the blogging. Maybe it's a blog-flap).

I've been missing yoga for years, but now that I'm back, I miss being away from it. Now, all the annoying things about yoga return to greet me. Like when the teacher asks you to "spiral away" from your soaz (an "invisible bridge beneath your tailbone") or to "scoop your ileosacrum" while "enlivening the sides of your back rib cage." Sure! Why not?

Sadly today reminded me that yoga and I are not a natural fit. When I'm told to send my breath into the spaces that hurt, I never know which place to pick so I end up picking nothing. When I'm meant to be quiet inside my mind I start adding up my husband's recent Amazon purchases. And during the chanting, I always check to see who is singing so out of tune. How could anyone be so off-key? I crack my eyes open. Even for a moment, I can't be in the moment.

It was only at the end of class, in shivasana, with that lovely eyebag on, that I was able to be present and calm. And after, while seated for the final Om—eyes shut, back straight, hands pressed together in front of my heart center—I began to feel my yogic potential as the teacher closed the class with an inspiring little talk. If a lotus can rise out of a dirty swamp, there's hope for me yet.

But then he read a poem he'd written, with the words "dare to dream" in it. And my whole soaz completely unspiraled as I struggled to keep my mouth from twitching.

Crabmommy bio

It's July 4th. Summer is officially here and I know I have questions about kid safety. Like, is it okay to use my fancy high-altitude helioplex sunscreen on Crabtot, or is the stuff toddler-toxic?...What does a deer tick look like?...Is Crabtot old enough to safely make me a gin and tonic? 

Many questions. Which is why we turn to the experts. It's a pity they so often have nothing very useful to say. For example, here are some shockingly enlightening pointers from the Guide to Summer Health, brought to you by the American Academy of Pediatrics:

* "You know you've overdone the sun when your baby's skin is pinkish red."
No, really? I thought she had to be ORANGE!

* "The sun is strongest between 10 am and 3pm."
Are you sure? I thought kids were most at risk in the early evening when the sun gets all sort of reddish and starts slipping down the horizon!

* "Mosquitoes leave itchy bumps, while a bee sting causes redness and painful swelling."
I'm glad I now know that a mosquito bite might itch. Seriously, who wouldn't know that? IS THERE A PERSON ALIVE on this earth who hasn't been bitten by a mosquito?

* "Leaving your baby alone in the water, even for a second, puts her at risk for drowning. This is always the case in the bath and around buckets of water, but in summer, add to your list: all pools, lakes, streams, and the ocean."
All I can say is, THANK GOD I read this. I mean, like all humans I had heard the one about not leaving the kids alone with an inch of water in the bath. But I didn't know that I should add oceans and lakes to my list. Thanks, docs. You just saved a life today!

* "Water accidents are most likely to occur during the summer."
Now, THAT'S a newsflash. I would have guessed winter for the highest concentration of water-based accidents...All those children licking icicles and needing the fire department to disengage their tongues from the ice! All those toddlers drowning in their hot chocolate!

Please take the good doctors' research to heart, parent people. It takes many years of medical school to bring you the facts. Use them and enjoy a Safety First Summer.

Crabmommy bio

Sometimes I panic that I'm forgetting something important in Crabtot's childhood, something small that will one day seem big.

Like when I realized we hadn't gotten around to Winnie the Pooh. As in, no Winnie on Crabtot's bookshelf. And suddenly I worried about that. And I worried I might forget that I was worried about Winnie, and then I'd forget Winnie for yet another year and by the time Crabtot was 4 or 5 and I finally remembered again, she wouldn't dig Winnie. And that would be an awful shame. Not to mention that when she's 16, someone will say something about Piglet, and she'll say, "Who?" And  she'll be mocked and pitied for her oddness, as though she were a Mennonite...And then Winnie will represent all the other things I did wrong or forgot to do at all, and she'll resent me. With good reason. I mean, what mother forgets Winnie the Pooh?

These moments occur in random places. You can be enjoying a piece of sushi when you think, Fingerpainting! I think we've missed the finger-painting window! Too bloody late.

Maybe you can relate. Or maybe you think I'm neurotic, hypermomming my way through childrearing like so many of our generation. But you don't realize the full scope of my situation. Because Crabhusband can't help me here. Last week we were having a family hike, and Tot and I were singing "Baa Baa Black Sheep," and I said, "Have you any wool?" and then gave the answer line over to Crabhusband.

Silence.

Turns out, Daddy does not know the words to "Baa Baa Black Sheep." "I've of heard of it," he says. "I think." But he doesn't know the ditty. So I mocked and pitied him for his oddness, as though he were a Mennonite.

For him, it's too bloody late. But not for my daughter! She will not be held back by glaring parental oversight. I'm on top of things. Yes, sir, indeedy. Three bags full.