Last year, I decided  Crabtot should join the herd and "trick or treat" in costume around the town square. I wanted to rebel a little longer against dressing up small defenseless people for H-ween. But I caved. Still, I was hell-bent on making sure she'd be an original. So she went as a tomato. In a sea of witches, I felt sure a ripe red 2-year-old tomato would announce "I am an individual!" [even if I haven't a clue why I am dressed up as a tomato and had no say in the matter].

I wanted to top that tomato this year. I had original notions. Some were unsavory: a baby bride in toilet-paper gown; a mini-'ho (okay, I'm not serious, but I think a Halloween 'Ho would lend so much more credibility to the hollow "trick" part of the "trick or treat" phrase...) Yes, I had me some clever costume notions. But I also need to be practical and match outfit to her blue snowsuit. October is appallingly cold here in Crabtown and I can't have that tomato bleating again this year.

Luckily I am a genius. So it occurred to me that Crabtot could be a peacock! I love peacocks! How original! And blue too! So I bought feathers on Ebay and visualized the greatness of a Crabmommy-made peacock hat. Blue felt, peacock feathers...perfecto!

Last weekend I attempted the peacock. I went as far as the sewing store parking lot. I had a cold. My head clanged like a gong. I dreaded the costume, actually. I mean, ideas are fun, but follow-through, not so much. Mercifully the store was closed. And then I decided out of sheer self-interest that I needed to stop thinking about myself and think about Crabtot. What she really likes is not peacocks, but witches, (specifically Kiki from the charming DVD Kiki's Delivery Service).

So on Wednesday she will be another witch...in a sea of witches wearing Patagonia beneath their store-bought cloaks.

Let us then enjoy my craftasticness of yesteryear:

I made that tomato hat with these two hands alone, people. Every stitch of that tomato stem, all mine. I refused to be haunted by the fact that I had always failed sewing at school; instead, I marshaled all of my Mommy-determination and dang did it, and it just about killed me.

Indeed, it may well be that Crabtot had the best of Creative&Original Crabmommy Costumery last Halloween—Mom's best effort, for the one Halloween that Crabtot didn't care about and won't remember.

But so what, right? She's got her very own broomstick, and to her that's magic.

Yes, I'm reporting late to the game on this one. But that's because Crabmommy's had a cold, and been laid out for several days now. Luckily for me, I hit the Nyquil. And nobody's telling me not to. Well, not yet.

After reading the piece that said it all this month and caused all of American Mommery to go into a mad panic and pile infant cold meds onto a giant bonfire, I'm feeling peppery: yet another moment of mass hysteria in our culture. Yet another opportunity for fear to get the upper hand.

I'm thinking of doing a new mini-column here. I'm running out of ideas for Million Dollar Mommy, but there are endless sources of inspiration for a new Mommy Fear Factor column, where we can discuss the latest things that terrify us beyond all reason. Lead paint, car-seats that don't work right, flu meds that kill our children...I'll never run out of material. Thanks, America!

So let's recap: I'm supposed to toss the bottle of "Little Colds" I have in my cabinet, not because it's really dangerous, but because it doesn't work. The infant deaths reported have been attributed to "rare patterns of misuse leading to overdose." In other words, no real danger. Even Dr. Sears corroborates this: "these medications are not harmful when given in the proper doses." It's just that they haven't been proven to help.

So does this really warrant tossing out the poison that last year everyone thought perfectly bloody fine? Must we all revert to Amish methods of cold-soothing when we just want to give the tot a tot of the good stuff? Okay, so nobody has proven the effectiveness of the meds in question, but have they polled any actual parents for that? I know that when I used "Little Colds" for Crabtot's last cough, it meant the diffs between a good night's sleep and none at all. Or at least, that's what it seemed to us. And if it's the placebo effect that worked, then bring it on. I just know it was nice to think something was working when nothing else did, especially when that something isn't harmful. 

The New York Times sternly ends its piece with the admonishment, courtesy of pediatrician Andrew D. Racine, M.D.:  "Most parents who gave cold medicines to young children were just hoping for a good night's sleep themselves." Oooh yes. I see where we're going. To that dark special hell where we negligent tot-doping parents belong. And in this special hell we must all beat ourselves and each other for the terrible, selfish things we do as Mom and Dad. Indeed, after many hours of a tot's late-night coughing I, as an exhausted mother, might be *slightly* thinking of my own sleep needs as well as Crabtot's when I whip out that bottle! So, go ahead, beat me! Make me feel guilty. (As moms, we really don't feel guilty often enough, so thank you NYTimes and Dr. Andrew Racine for helping us with that.)

Back to the FDA. I beg you, FDA, before you terrify us all and cause millions of sleepless nights the nation over because you think this stuff doesn't work, put in a clause that says the following:

If you're not a complete idiot, and know how to follow dosage instructions [i.e., if you're obsessively cautious like most of us and check dosage to the milli-zilli-leter], feel free to use up the rest of your bottles of meds as you see fit. Because we don't know that they work. But we don't know that they're useless either. In fact we don't know much at all. So maybe you shouldn't hang on our every word.

Seriously, isn't this just so much hooey? 45 infant deaths in almost thirty years of cold meds...and because of overdosing to boot! Crabmom's as neurotic as the next mom, but even I'm not scared by this. I refuse to be. Good to know I'm not alone, and that other parents are also hoarding. (But if you're not one of us, please contact me and I'll arrange for Fedex to bring me your rejects.)

One thing's for sure: the sale of Paxil anti-anxiety meds just got a big boost from moms across our nation. Wait, wasn't Paxil recalled?

No, not Crabtot. Crabmommy.

Since I've become a mom I've done so much lying. You lie about other people's babies. You say they're beautiful when they aren't. You lie to your spouse about what time the baby woke up (always a half hour earlier if Mommymartyr's on duty). You lie to the tot: no, that money in your piggy bank isn't actually yours, it's just where Mommy keeps her extra cash! Lies just roll off my tongue. And now this: Last Sunday I went out and got a bit drunk. This is a very good thing. For Crabhubby and I to go out, totless, to an actual sushi restaurant and actually drink too much sake is so rare a treat it felt as though we'd flown to Japan.

But Monday morning I had a head-clanger. Too much sake at high-altitude—don't do it. So I crawled out of bed and only just managed to get Crabtot to preschool, an hour late. When it came to delivering my excuse to the teachers, something about my role as Mom told me I should say "headache" instead of "hungover." And then I added some drivel about "coming down with something."

I feel utterly sheepish about it. Drunkmommy, why did you lie? It was totally uncalled for. Crabtot's teachers are completely cool, fantastic women! And even if they weren't, why shouldn't I have told the truth? It's not like I was doing crack! But instead of admitting to too much sake (shock! horror!) I played pious. And it makes me feel bad that I felt I had to sound good.

Yes, it's time to own up to the sad truth: Since I started momming, the fibs and fudges, they just flutter off my lips. For all I know this whole story might be made up. Don't trust me: I'm not a reliable narrator. I mean, I lie. And right now, I'm also a bit drunk.

Can you relate to this? Please tell me you're a bunch of liarmoms too!

I'm a genius. I may be crabby and lazy about swim lessons and such. But when it comes to solving that pesky tot art storage problem (as discussed here and here), Crabmommy has the last word.

If, like me, you can no longer handle or find room for the mountains of artwork issuing from preschool—but you can't/don't want to toss it—then Crabmommy's Tot-Art Curtain is for you. What am I talking about? Get ready to weep with joy or be crippled with envy when you see what I just invented:

You, too, can have one of these if you follow these 3 easy steps:

1. At Ikea, buy this thing they call a curtain wire. It  costs less than five bucks.

2. String up the wire in the tot bedroom. But don't hang a curtain off it. This is no longer a curtain rail. Nor is it a washing line. It is a toddler artwork line.

3. Use accordingly, by attaching art with the clips provided.

Finally, a way to get the tot art out of the way! Finally, fridge, desk, and counter space are tot-art-free (and the artwork also brightens up the bedroom)!

Those Cookie stylist people are probably judging me right now, scrutinizing the pic of Crabtot's boudoir. Yes, I know she could use a bent-birch plywood modernist rocking horse. And that the walls should be orange. But Cookiepeeps, I live in a prefabricated house with unpaintable walls the consistency of gravel. So shove off, okay?

Let's go back to calling me a creative genius. I'm too humble to say it myself but...the evidence is plain. My God! I've become so craftastic! It's all this tot-bloggery. It's unleashed a great brilliance from deep within. MartyrMeters, Baby Bjorn Clip-On Food Trays, Hello Kitty cupcakes and now...this!

If only I'd developed the actual rail myself I could've packaged it and become a Million Dollar Mommy after all. Oh well. Enjoy, Momfriends, enjoy. I live to serve YOU.

Before summer, I wrote about my distaste for early tot swimming lessons. And I felt vindicated in my reluctance to sign up for Mommy&Me swim class when I learned  the American Academy of Pediatricians  disapproves of lessons for those under age four.

But summer has gone and I promised Crabhusband that come fall, I would enroll Crabtot and me in sessions at the local rec center. You see, we're spending Christmas in South Africa at Crabgrandma's, and my mom so happens to have an unfenceable swimming pool. Her whole house circulates around this water feature, complete with rocks, lush plants, and semi-treacherous decking. In short, Crabgrandma's pad is a Modernist's paradise, but a mom's nightmare.

I can hear you gasping. How could she take Crabtot to this place? Trust me, with the paranoia running through these parental veins (and the years spent in America, Land of Fear), I too have felt so panicked about this unfenceable pool that I've considered just going ahead and drowning myself in advance of the trip.

Either that, or, um, prep Tot with some lessons.

So I called the rec center. I really did. I would have signed up. Until I heard you had to queue at least two hours in advance for a spot you might not even get in a class that would be held in an apparently very cold pool in the coldest state in the union (after Alaska), infested with the most intensely athletic moms known to earth. I heard they deliberately make the water cold to teach children to deal with shock!

And suddenly I thought maybe it would be better to leave things as they are, with Tot only comfortable getting into the pool when Mom is around. No need for lessons to give her extra water-confidence. You see, she likes water when she's in my arms. And that's about the safest thing I can think of.

Of course, I have backup. I found this gadget, the Safety Turtle, a bracelet you attach to tots' wrists so if they ever touch water while your eye happens to be turned momentarily toward your cocktail, it sends a screeching alarm to a base control station, audible for up to 5000 miles...

So we're packing the turtle and the inflatable swimsuit. I'm hoping to leave the excess anxiety behind. We don't have room for it.

Both Daddy Underground and I have been plagued by birthday parties lately, so I decided to stagger the suffering and report on Crabtot's third birthday party two weeks after the fact.

I ignored birthdays one and two but decided three necessitated an official celebration with clots of tots infesting my mini-home. Naturally I dreaded pizza coating my floor and icing gooped onto furniture, but as parents we must make this annual sacrifice. Also the whole debacle would be good for blogging, right?

Actually, no. Because I hate to say it, but it went well. Probably because the adults were drunk. Somehow the children did not fully trash my house. They participated in my manic games (it was a dance party involving prizes for freezing into statues, making faces, and miming the motions of washing machines). They responded with gusto to my behind-the-couch Hello Kitty puppet show.

Yes, I'm sorry to tell you Crabmommy was neither lazy nor whiny about this party, so I can't blog about it humorously. I just dang got out there, people, and did it! Some might say overdid it. I made puppets (okay, I glued pictures of HK and her weirdo pals onto popsicle sticks).

I even made Hello Kitty cupcakes, and hot damn if they weren't the finest things ever created. They tasted superlative too thanks to Nigella, the Domestic Goddess's ridiculously basic and divine cupcake recipe.

Before you boycott me, deciding I'm just too intimidatingly great and craftastic as a mom (she even makes wiener dogs out of tampons!), please note: I remain as selfish now as I was before. The cupcakes, people, they were all about me. Because I enjoy channeling several generations of neurotic ancestry through the tip of a gel icing tube. Especially to make  Hello Kitty. Who was my childhood favorite (and, after liberal brainwashing on my part, is now Crabtot's too).

Also, don't be too appalled by my creative genius. The first round of decorating wasn't too hot, as you can see in cupcake number one, where Kitty looks like a spaniel:

Feel free to email me frantically for HK cupcake tips: crabmommy@gmail.com. For once, I am ubermother! Hear me rooooooaaaarrrrr!

I'm not a big fan of Dr. Sears. I used his baby book, but I've always found him irritating. He's far too kind, patient, and positive for me.

Sometimes I think Sears and poor long-suffering Mommy Martha had all those kids just so he could use different names in his personal examples. "When our seven year old, Matthew..." and "After our ten-year old, Erin..." I know I'm not the only one to find Sears bugging. I didn't quite go the other way, but I certainly mixed a little Detachment Parenting and more than a few formula bottles into my otherwise swaddling, coddling, "babywearing," breastfeeding BrooklynMama infant days.

Since it's been a while since I checked in with Dr. Sears I thought I'd see what he had to say about tots. As expected, some very patient and positive nuggets are to be found on his website, as well as the totally useless stating-the-obvious tips the experts always insist on giving us. For example:

When you shop with a toddler, be sure she is well-rested and well-fed, and be ready with a nutritious snack to keep her mind off the cereal boxes, lettuce, and egg cartons.... Take your babysling along, or let baby ride in the cart. Have fun and a short grocery list. If you're in a hurry, feeling distracted or stressed, shop without baby.

"Be ready with a nutritious snack to take her mind off the cereal boxes, lettuce...?" What kind of toddler is this? Maybe a Sears toddler for whom lettuce is like, what, a fab treat? Sears, there are these things called cookies. And these things called lollipops and this aisle called Junk. Haven't heard of it? Figures.

"Let baby ride in the cart."Now THAT'S clever!

"Have fun and a short grocery list." A short grocery list? What are you talking about, Doc? You have like, 50 kids so you never have a short list. And I have, like, one, and nor do I. So why are we talking about this?

"If you're in a hurry, feeling distracted or stressed, shop without baby." Let me see, the advice you give me on how to shop with tot is...leave her at home?

On second thought, that's good advice!

Crabmommy bio