I will not smack or shout at Crabtot in 2008.
I will not be a momocrite.
I will stop mocking others.
I will stop complaining about motherhood.

Wait, then I'll be out of a job.

Scratch that. Anyway I'm too lazy to come up with self-improvement strategies. We all know it 'aint going to happen. Plus, I'm feeling too sleepy. In fact I'm on a deck chair. Beside a pool. It's hot. And I've been chasing after babies all day long. Not mine, but these: Yes, those are warthogs. We're on a totless safari! Crabtot is safely stashed with Crabgrandma in Cape Town and hubby and MIL and I are in the South African bush for three nights. Naturally I was dying to bring Crabtot. But, you know, the malaria. Also the kids around here aren't as friendly as the ones she knows. Some bullies in these parts: Obviously we were heartbroken to leave Crabtot behind, but heck, life is hard. And so is being on a luxury safari. In fact it's a lot like being a new breastfeeding mom: you're up at 5am and you're always eating. However, unlike the latter, the former has real perks. You can snooze by the pool all afternoon, and when the babies get boring you just drive on! And then someone hands you a cocktail! And the sunsets. I cannot possibly bring myself to write about an African sunset, or even to use the words "beautiful" and "African sunset" in one line, for that is an unforgivable cliché...

Of course, devoted parents that we are, we have managed to dial out on the bush telephone and find out how the tot is faring. Evidently she is none too happy with us for going on our Totbreak. In fact, we've been informed that on our return, Crabtot is going to lock us in the bathroom.

HNY to each of you lovelymommies! And here's to another year of motherhood: may we all continue to moan about our offspring at least as much as we adore them. Now that's what I call a worthy New Year's resolution!

You can't go home again. If it means traveling with Crabtot. How true did that sound when, from Wyoming, I embarked on the Great Trek to get the Crabfamily to my far-flung hometown for the holidays.

But we made it. We took several hundred flights, skipped several time zones, switched seasons and hemispheres. We endured many thousands of miles airborne with Crabtot. And I want to say that she was especially crabby. And I want to tell you ghastly tales from the epic journey, because as you know, I don't believe in blogging about good times as a mom. But I am sorry (from a blogging perspective) to report that for the first time in her little life, Crabtot got merciful on us in transit. I mean, the trip sucked and LAWD was it ever long, but the level of tot hideousness was way lower than predicted.

True, I had my mother in law with me as well as Crabhub, and that made a massive diff. True, I had a bag of tricks from China so delightful Crabtot could not fail to be enchanted at least for three minutes of every hour. True that last-minute purchase weighing down my bag was GENIUS (beading people, BEADING!). And true that giant extra battery for the computer was worth carrying around for the additional hour of Kiki's Delivery Service on DVD. But probably in the end, the voyage went well precisely because I dreaded it so much. If you anticipate doom and drama, you might just occasionally get the opposite, even if you are one crabby mommy and your child is one crabby crabtot.

So now that we're here in mellow, miraculous, end-of-the earth Cape Town, and we've swapped minus temperatures in Wyoming for balmy summer days, my thoughts naturally turn to the return trip ahead. I'm doing that trip without Crabhub or MIL, and it fills me with doom. No way can C-tot repeat her performance in a second round of flights. Plus we gain 3 hours in the trans-Atlantic flight, which will make the middle leg of the journey 18 hours with a mere 12 to go on arrival in DC.

I have a month on which to fixate on the probable torture that looms. Being who I am, it shadows me as we frolic on beaches, track animals on safari, and  otherwise engage in the splendor that is South Africa. On the bright side, my cousin has trained as a traditional African witch doctor (okay, he's probably the only blond one but I think he knows his stuff). Perhaps he can prescribe me something homeopathic (or some ground tortoise powder) to put tot into uber-sluggish mode for the return. Or maybe I will find here some illegal-in-the-USA Tot-Xanax to pop into her Pez dispenser. A mother can only hope...

Meantime, look out for dispatches from the south, mixed in with general crabbishness on the usual topics. If you can't get enough, do visit my personal blog for more on our adventures. With that I say happy happy to those of you who do the Jesus birthday thing. We're half a day ahead of you here and desultorily preparing a seafood Xmas Eve dinner. Excuse me while I help Crabtot finish off the tree decorating. We didn't bring the Crabtot angel on this trip, but I think there's a gold wire pot scourer somewhere underneath Crabgrandma's kitchen sink...

Thanks to you who recommended unusual, charming, and yes, SHORT bedtime reads, I've bought Knuffle Bunny, While Mama Had a Quick Little Chat, and Anatole for Crabtot and we're thoroughly enjoying the new life breathed into her bookshelf.

Today Crabtot has another fave book to share: Pierre, by Maurice Sendak. If you don't have Pierre, purchase it presto! We have the darling Nutshell Library edition of Pierre, which begins as follows:

One day his mother said
When Pierre climbed out of bed,
"Good morning darling boy, you are my only joy."
And Pierre said, 'I don't care!'"

From here, it's all rudeness (which tots SO enjoy hearing about). Mother implores, "Don't sit backwards on your chair or pour syrup on your hair." And Pierre says, "I don't care!" Even when Dad promises to reward good behavior, ("I'll let you fold the folding chair") the belligerent boy won't budge.

Then the story takes a darker turn: "A hungry lion paid a call...and asked him if he'd like to die." (And Pierre says, "I don't care.") And the lion says, "If that's all you have to say then I'll eat you if I may"...SO THE LION ATE PIERRE! (Don't worry: the doctor hits the lion with the folding chair and when the lion gives a roar who do you think lands on the floor?)

Apart from the dark wit and terse, clever rhyme, I love the message here. Don't get me wrong, I hate schmaltzy, obvious, moralistic children's books (Rainbow Fish, anyone?) But I like me a good politeness book. Because frankly I hate hearing "I don't care." And it seems to me many ADULTS still say it even when what they really mean is "I'm open to suggestion," e.g.,

"Would you like to go see a movie with me?"
"I don't care."

Yep, so many adults could use a brush-up on gracious declining/accepting of invitations. So if you know someone who still says "I don't care" instead of "I could go either way" slip a Nutshell Library Pierre into his/her Christmas stocking. Or just hit 'em with a folding chair.

Anyone want to share additional book recs for last-minute holiday shoppers? Adult or tot-related must-reads most welcome! My last offering is David Sedaris's "Holidays on Ice." It includes his career-making essay "The Santaland Diaries," in which Sedaris hilariously recounts the time he spent working as a Macy's elf.

Crabmom's blogocratic oath: 
Rule #1: Never post if you've had a good day. If you have a good day as a mom, keep it to yourself.
Rule#2: Never post any pictures of Crabtot. Some of you have asked me why. I don't think it's ethical to post pictures of one's kids when they haven't given permission to show them. Also I think cutesy tot photos are the bête-noire of parentblogging. They encourage self-indulgent fishing-for-compliments writing and dull congratulatory comments from readers. I'm not saying everyone who posts tot pics is a bragmommy, just that for Crabmommy, saying no to Crabtot pics keeps me focused on my mission: to brag about myself (and complain about motherhood).

That said, I'm also a momocrite. And I have a picture I want you to see. I suppose I could black out Crabtot's eyes (if I weren't so tech-challenged), but it might ruin the effect. So instead I'll just give a disclaimer: What you're about to see isn't really a picture of Crabtot; it's a craft project that so happens to incorporate her mug. And it's 2 years old. And it has a purpose beyond (mere) admiration of Crabtot: I want to share with you my one and only moment of Christmas Craftacular inspiration, the Treetop Tot Angel:
How to Make a Ridiculously Easy Treetop Angel (so cute even an atheist can't resist!)

Materials:
Christmas wrapping paper/any stiff-ish paper; photo of your kid's head, preferably making some sort of rude face (see Crabtot sticking out tongue); head must be in close-up, say around 3 inches in diameter

1. Cut a biggish square-ish piece of paper (A4 size is probably about right, but this is very flexible).
2. Fold into a cone. You should have a smallish pointy bit at the top where the "neck" is, and a wide bell-shape at the bottom of the angel's "dress." Make sure your neck isn't too wide. It must be a fair bit narrower than tot head (see photo).
3. Staple/tape dress together. Trim base to make it straight.
4. Angel wings: Turn holiday paper over so that you just have white, or else get fancy and use gold paper. Fold paper over once and cut a single angel wing shape into your double layer of paper. Unfold and presto! 2 angel wings. Tape or staple to your cone.
4. Cut out tot photo head, preferably with a bit of neck.
5. With tape or a glue-stick, attach tot head onto front of angel, covering the pointy top of the dress (neck part can go on the inside or outside of the cone). Alternatively, for maximum durability, you could affix head to a popsicle stick and then insert the stick (coated front-side with Elmer's) into the cone. But dang, that's too fancy for me! However you do it, make sure the tape/glue closes up the top part of the cone, so that it can slip onto the tippy-top of your tree and stay there.
6. Draw and color a yellow halo. Cut it out. Slide over tot head at devilish angle. Tape or glue-stick it in place.

Now you have your very own personal angel/devil to crown the Christmas tree, reminding everyone who's really on top in this house! Remove carefully after the festivities and save. Even though it's half-assedly made of paper, ours is onto its third Christmas/Kwanzaa/ Festivus.

I'd like to announce a new mini-column in this blog to replace Million Dollar Mommy. Some of you have asked for more of my genius mommy inventions (those nifty gadgets designed to make parenting easier),  but I'm sorry to say my brain is empty. It was more or less empty to begin with. And now it's nothing but a hollow ringing void. Indeed, I think I've sadly given all I have to give to Million Dollar Mommy. But I have plenty to say on other matters. Such as mom etiquette.

It seems to me that having tots coincides, for many of us, with losing something in the process: our manners. Granted post-partum hormones and exhaustion probably play a role, but however we excuse it, I think we moms (dads too) need to brush up on our basic behavior. And since there are no books out there to tell us how to acquire such a skill set when it comes to this aspect of momming, Crabmommy wants to fill the gap. (If you see a Modern Moms' Guide to Etiquette by Jessica Seinfeld, people, just remember, you heard it here first!)

So let's get into it here, shall we? Please do send me your pet peeves or shameful admissions as moms. We all could use a lesson or two. And that includes me. My table manners, for one thing, are atrocious. But now I have Crabtot who can tell me to ask to be excused or not talk with my mouth full, and I'm appalled to note that everything I've taught her is everything I myself have entirely forgotten.

Please stay tuned for monthly highlights of this sort of behavior right here. We'll bash the boastful moms, the moms who don't RSVP to birthday party invites, the flakemommy who doesn't show up for the playdate, the mom who offers unsolicited advice on your kid's hair, the mom who's missing her sensitivity chip, and the mom who generally needs to stop and think before she offers you her wisdom without being asked.

Speaking of offering wisdom without being asked. Sheesh, I clearly need this guide. In a big way!

Suggested topics for this column?

Just like the ones I used to know. Because it's a dry summer in South Africa, where I grew up. And that's where our Christmas will be. That is, if we can live through the flight odyssey with Crabtot.

Trek aside, I can't wait for Christmas in South Africa. After several icy Wyoming winters lasting nine months, I could use some sun and a naked child playing with a bucket and spade. And after all the Christmas mania we're mired in here, I could use a half-baked sort of Christmas, which is what you get in SA. Everyone too hot to shop. Everyone too lazy to take it too seriously.

Indeed, traditional Christmases always seemed out of place where I grew up. In a land of drought and with summer in full blaze on the day of Jesus' birth, classic Christmas festivities were always a half-hearted affair, at least where Crabmom's family was concerned. When we were very young, we'd decorate a poor parched pine tree and we would boil and sweat through the glazed hams and turkey feasts. But then my mom decided Christmas traditions were totally irrelevant to African life. Thus Christmas grew progressively weirder and more pared down. One year our tree was a mere stick of bamboo wrapped with tinsel. The following year Mom produced a tree made of barbed wire, its only decoration a Goldilocks-brand pot scourer (gold fuzzy wire ball procured from beneath the kitchen sink). "That's an angel," Mom explained, popping the wire ball on top of the wire tree. "We're going minimalist this year."

I was none too taken with our minimalist Christmases. Growing up, my holiday fantasies consisted of what we saw on Christmas cards and advent calendars: proverbial snowy hamlets thick with evergreens, where kids skated on frozen ponds and tiny lights twinkled in the snow...a magical Christmas fantasy that, um, is Christmas in Crabtown. To a tee.

Ah, traditional Christmas! The children playing in the snow! The smell of Crabtown pine needles, the holiday chills and blazing fireplaces. I guess I'll miss it this wintry hamlet after all. Just as right now all I can do is dream of barbed wire trees, a pot scourer angel, and a seafood spread for Christmas lunch. You know, there's nothing nicer than going swimming on a hot Christmas day. (Except maybe sledding down a hill in a mountain hamlet.)

And so the holidays become yet another classic Crabmommy glass-half-empty experience. She dreams of there when she is here and wants to be here when there. Sound familiar? Cheers anyway! Let's have an early eggnog. Make that an ice-cold G&T!

I'm afraid of flying. With Crabtot, I mean.

Usually I make fun of advice here. But this time I'm asking for it, nay begging for it. Because we're soon jetting off to see Crabgrandma in Africa, and I want to know how I might survive a tot in transit for 2 days. Frankly, I'm looking to knock Crabtot out. Because from the Rocky Mountains to Table Mountain (Cape Town) is not a journey, it's an odyssey. It's the Great Trek.

Given today's wussiness toward meds, I didn't expect my pediatrician to be sympathetic to my desire to submerge the 3-year-old in a sea of Benadryl. But in fact Doc suggested half a teaspoon of Beny, tried in advance to check that it didn't have the reverse effect. Sadly, even a full 5mls just had plum sweet-Fanny-Adams NO effect. To my disappointment, Crabtot seemed utterly herself after Benadryl, entirely undiminished in wakefulness and cheekiness. I was longing to call the doc and ask if a double-dose (that would be 4 x her half-tsp suggestion) could be sanctioned under drastic circumstances. But you can't ask them that because you know they can't answer you.

So next on the test-run agenda is Dimetapp, then something I didn't think was still on the shelves called PediaCare, which I descended on at the pharmacy last week as if spotting a nugget of gold in the sand. In choosing my poisons I'm picking those containing the heartening side effects message "marked drowsiness may occur" as opposed to just plain old "drowsiness may occur." I was also thrilled to see a lovely moon and star on the PediaCare bottle—definitely a promising sign!

Any other suggestions? Anyone heard of Gravol? Any PediaValium out there? Judge away, but how far do you think you'd get with lavender oil on the temples and an Etch-a-Sketch if you were going from Wyoming to South Africa with your crabby tot?

I really do beseech you for advice on how to obliterate wakefulness on a 35-hour trip. Scanning online message-boards hasn't helped. If it's not some Berkeley mom admonishing me for even thinking of doping tots, then it's someone asking how to safely settle her rascal for that dreaded Seattle to Minneapolis marathon. But I want to hear from folks who've taken triplets from Tulsa to Tripoli. I want medical tips from Manitoba-Mumbai or Flagstaff-Fiji tot-toting travelers. Don't hold back. I want your drugs, people, and believe me Crabtot wants them too.

I guess if all else fails I can always hit the mini-bottles of brandy on board. A few shots in tot's bottle (and mine) and it's goodnight. Or at least, a mom can dare to dream.