Last week I received an invitation to a baby shower in honor of someone's second child. The invite asked me to bring a dessert item and included a link to a registry involving organic cotton bibs. Or, if one did not wish to buy from the registry, one could consult an attached wish list for gift pointers. There is so much wrong with this picture that I hardly know where to begin. But I do know that this makes an excellent topic for this my new monthly mini-column, Rude Mommy!

Frankly I've got big beef with any sort of baby registry; so much so that I think I'll leave the topic of registries in general for another post. But perhaps my biggest problem with baby registries is that, like babies themselves, one seems to lead to another. A first-time mom is encouraged to register by everyone these days. Maybe she does so reluctantly. But then she gets all this lovely loot! And next thing you know, this chick is having yet another shower thrown for her and you're meant come bearing both baked goods and Petit Bâteau onesies. All this for someone you haven't even since her first shower!

Naturally I RSVP'd "no" to that invite but here's what I didn't say: Mommy-to-be, maybe I'm meant to be flattered to be asked to your party, but I don't know you well enough to shower you with gifts during this joyful time. Even if I did, why should I help re-supply you with baby gear when you should already have it? Is it my problem you eBayed your Medela Pump In Style after Baby #1? My problem you picked Bob the Builder sheets for the boy nursery first time around, but now you need pink layette for the girl? Ever heard of dots and stripes? Or the colors white, yellow, or green? Ever heard of reduce, reuse, recycle? Lady, you're not the only one with a wish list. I've got one too and you're on it: I wish you'd buzz right off.

What do you mamas think? Is this new ritual the height of rudeness, or is Crabmommy the rude one?

(And for more rude zingers from moms, check this out.)

As if to cruelly mock my Valentine's Day sourness, Crabtot has taken to drawing pink hearts everywhere, fiendishly and with a violent passion. Pink is her new favorite color! And pink hearts are what she loves most of all in this world. Some of you may remember the orange series I did early in this blog, in which I discussed the color brainwashing I embarked upon to get my little daughter to choose orange as her favorite color instead of girly pink or purple. Well, people, the experiments failed. Pink is in. In a big way. She will only accept pink fake tattoos. She will only color with the pink marker. She will only wear pink underwear.

Crabtot has also renamed herself Dark Pink Heart. Sometimes she calls herself Dark Pink Flower or Dark Pink Strawberry but always there is the emphasis on "dark pink." She brings me magazine pages containing the shade of color that is her favorite. She presses a stubby forefinger into pink margins so I know exactly what tone of frosting will be acceptable for her next birthday cake. "This pink," she says. "Dark pink."

I'm not happy about this pink thing, but I take comfort in the "dark." At least we are talking fuchsia and not pastel pink!

I guess she's a chip off the old block. Both blocks. I can get quite a bit obsessed with exact shades. Often I lie in bed thinking of how, exactly, the most perfect blue of all time could be made. Would it have a bit more teal in it or a bit more Tiffany blue, a bit more The Life Aquatic shade of electric blue, or a bit more Versailles pistachio...or a bit more Jordan Almond blue? I can also spend quite a bit of time thinking about purple and why I dislike it so much. Yes, as you can see, I'm a woman who uses her time well. And then there is Crabhusband: an architect, he can talk color with the best of us. "Don't worry," he assures me when I bemoan the fact that eventually I will have to let Crabtot have a pink room, "Le Corbusier made his own shade of pink paint that's not bad." Apparently you can still get it mixed at paint stores. A pink that is stylish. Le Corbusier Pink. I hope that it's dark: I hope Crabtot will like it.

After her bedtime story every night, I say to Crabtot something my mother always said to me before lights out: "Sweet dreams of pink ice creams." Last night I said it as I always do: "Sweet dreams of pink ice creams." As I left the room Crabtot corrected me: "Dark pink ice creams." I mean, let's just be clear on that!

Anyone else have color issues with their tot?

As you learned from the inaugural Astromommy post, while Crabmommy may be lacking in some arenas of motherhood, she clearly has a gift for divining the motherly mistakes and misfortunes of others. So many of you wrote to me to say your Astromommy momoscope came true last month! Once again I give it to you from the hip?your monthly motherhood miseries ahead. It's never pretty but at least you know what lies ahead for you and your spawn. I can't say I like what I see, but I can and will say, "I told you so!"

Pisces: You feel a twinge of guilt for jamming those poor toddler toes into those too-tight snowboots. But it's already so late into the season and who knew those toes would grow so fast? You think you might buy new boots this week. But you know you won't. So it's another day of slightly guilty feelings for you, Mom, as the youngster hobbles out into the snow tomorrow. Never mind. Adversity is character-building, right?

Aries: You've never wanted to be a pushy parent. But you're getting annoyed with your preschooler's seeming inability to discern letters on a page. Advice: Take a load off. Quit the early literacy afternoon program you've been pushing. Sit him in front of the TV, and pour yourself an early drink. The reading can wait.

Taurus: Uh oh! Now that you've stopped being so serious about your tot's diet and allowed the occasional lollipop into the mix, you're starting to see it's a slippery slope. Is your tot about to become yet another sugar-addled tyke? Yes, I'm afraid she is.

Gemini: You've been flaking out on playdates. Your mom-friends are getting ticked. Flakemommy, mend your ways! Really, it's time to get that 2008 dayplanner.

Cancer: Your child whined and begged for that equipment and you really thought he'd get into that sport. But he hasn't. And he won't. Another wasted wad of cash. Learn from this.

Leo: Actually, the stars have good news for you! Ish. Yes, that'll be two pink stripes on the old preg-o test! Again. But I don't understand how you can accidentally fall pregnant again. Especially considering you already have two kids. How come you're still getting it on? Aren't you people tired?

Virgo: Your spouse has been acting like he's all "on board" with the new program of discipline for the children. He's sworn he's going to help more and try harder to do the tough stuff in parenting so you won't always look like the evil momster parent. But I'm afraid he's not there yet.

Libra: Probably that wasn't such a great paint color. You should have gone a shade lighter. But you weren't thinking straight. Because you're pregnant and pregnant people can't choose paint colors very well. Never mind. It's not that bad.

Scorpio: Oh my LAWD that was truly a dreadful trip you took. The kids were so badly behaved and who can blame them? Wouldn't you pull out your sibling's eyelashes if you were stuck in a seat for that long at that age, only to get there and have to spend that amount of time with those people? Advice: don't do this again. Ever. Especially not for your spouse's family holiday!

Sagittarius: Is your newborn colicky, you ask? Or is it something in your diet that's making the baby so fussy? It's not. The baby is just colicky, period, and nothing but time will change that. Hang in. It will be over three momoscopes from now.

Capricorn: It's a shame that new mom friend's husband is such a pill. Honestly, it's like talking to a spoon, isn't it? Pity, since she's so lovely and her child and yours are such perfect mates. Oh well, at least he brought that great wine to the dinner.

Aquarius: You're feeling guilty about the Pilates classes you missed. You're disappointed in yourself, especially since they have that great daycare right there for the baby. You're going to turn over a new leaf, though. You're going to go next week. And every week. So you say.

Could I be anything other than crabby about Valentine's Day? I'm so crabacious most every other day of the year. So could you really come to me looking for a big read heart around this blog today?

But truly, I am a romantic. And that's why I'm ticked off on Val Day. It's not just about keeping up appearances that I crab before you now. It's about the saccharine and nonsensical tradition of involving small children in the ritual of handing out cards to each other. It's about dishing out sweet tarts with words like "be mine" to little ones who can't possibly know what they're asking or being asked. And the fact is, nobody seems to mind that this is just another mindless excuse to buy junk and get candy and celebrate something nobody quite understands.

When I grew up in South Africa, Valentine's Day was this wonderfully mysterious and romantic occurrence. The idea was to give cards anonymously (i.e., signed with a question mark) to those for whom you felt a true passion. You could get a little polygamous in your card-sending if you wanted, but never did you send to your friends, in-laws, or any other platonic connection. And never did small people in pull-ups get roped into the game. I still recall receiving one mysterious Valentine in my mailbox when I was fifteen. I never did figure out who sent it. And I like it that way. Where a whiff of romance can be had in the mystery and tots aren't handing out "I love yous" to people they can't possibly love and who haven't the faintest clue what the word means.

On this one day of the year when romance is meant to be represented in the form of red hearts, wouldn't it be nice if we could all forgo the gimmickry and really feel something genuine, just for once? Valentine's Day by nature should be exclusive. Yet like all things these days it's a party where everyone is invited. Even—and especially—the little ones.

So yeah, I think it's dumb. But I'm cutting out paper hearts with the rest of you for Crabtot's preschool card exchange. Who wants to be the lead balloon when everyone else is enjoying themselves? Who wants to be the sour Valentine's Day party pooper? Who wants to say "I hate this" on the day when everyone says "I love you." Except that saying "I love you" doesn't mean you mean it. Especially with kiddos. Heck, they often barely even like each other. Love? That's asking too much.

So why do we ask? In our culture we ask—no, demand—that everyone be special all the time and that things like Valentine's day be an all-inclusive free-for-all, incorporating even children into the specialness of a day whose importance is totally lost on them. A day when we all love each other. A day when we all feel special and make each other feel special.

What's so special about that?

p.s. I wrote all of this yesterday, but when I picked up Crabtot from school and she proudly showed me a pink-sequined card she had made, even my crustaceous heart melted. (Okay, maybe it just thawed. A weentsy little bit.)

I've found the cure for jet lag: keep flying. And then fly some more.

Warning: This post is not for the faint of heart. This account of Crabmom and Crabtot's hellacious journey from South Africa to Wyoming makes for a most unpleasant reading experience. So, as incentive, I will reward the first person to comment with one gently used (okay, heavily used) red travel pillow designed to relieve strain on the neck muscles. Another random commenter shall also be the proud beneficiary of a brand new egg of Silly Putty. Because Silly Putty rocks! Because Silly Putty is so magnificent that it gave me many extra hours of peace and quiet while Crabtot molded it to my armrest.

SATURDAY: 3 hours to Joburg, then 19 hours to Wash. DC: Crabtot is uncharacteristically angelic and the hot guy next to us gives us an extra seat. We don't sleep much but invisible ink drawing and putty play gets us through. Air travel? Piece of putty, methinks. How wrong could I be? READ ON!

SUNDAY: DC: Stroller does not appear from on-board check-in for 40 mins. Almost miss flight to Denver. Arrive in Denver, sprint to our last connection to Crabtown. Just make the plane! But minutes before landing a blizzard slams us. We are diverted to a Podunk, Idaho, I think it was called. We wait on tarmac, plane rippling back and forth in the wind like a feather. We attempt another landing and are then sent back to Denver. Now we are 48 hours into the journey and I have had 4 hours of sleep. As we deplane, I beg the cabin crew to help me. They assure me a representative in a blue blazer will be meeting our aborted flight and will be able to give me special help. But though I search frantically, no blue blazered human is in sight! Instead, we join a line half a mile long to rebook seats. Crabtot, justifiably, melts down and begins to howl and twist in her stroller. People stare. I hate them with the passion of a mother.

I break the line and race forward to the ticket desk and beg for mercy. A leaden-faced badly-permed trollop of a woman at customer service refuses to give me any special help even though we have been flying for 2 days on her airline. She snipes that if I wish to cut the queue I have to ask people myself. And so I do. A gentleman lets me ahead of him. Another man shouts at me and asks, "Can I cut into the line if I have a kid?" Crabby words ensue. Mothers defend me and foist snacks on us as Crabtot has not eaten all day thanks to American air service. Seriously, how is it in a country where people eat constantly, no one will feed you if you're traveling from dawn to dusk? The moms crowd around me with Fig Newtons. A mom in need is a mom indeed. I weep a little at their niceness. And later, a lot, out of misery.

MONDAY: I took mercy on you, fast-forwarding through a nightmare-ish night in Denver, where we take a 40-min bus ride (because there are no airport hotels) to a Crystal Inn. I took pity on you by not telling you how Crabtot was too tired to eat but mumbled just before falling into a coma, "please no more sweet things." I took pity on you and declined to relate the monstrous details of how long it took me to get through a "special search" at Denver airport security the next morning. How they made me take Crabtot's shoes off, then put them on, then off again (because tiny bombs may well be stashed in those Dora sneakers!). And how Security became mad when she stepped into that creepy air-puffer bomb-detector phone-booth thing on her own. And how I could not get the thing to let her out, or me in. And how I finally did break down and actually cry when I realized I would miss my flight. And how my little tantrumy, sassy, prickly Crabtot calmly gave me her chubby hand and said, "It's okay, Mommy. We're fine!" And I thought to myself, humbled for once in my Crabby Mommy life that here is a 3-year-old child who has been traveling for 60 hours. And she can still smile and be nice. She was like Gandhi! (Except with hair. And beef jerky.)

UTAH: We know we won't make it to Wyoming on account of weather. We choose Utah instead where we have an actual chance of landing. And a mother-in-law to stay with. We are the last plane into Salt Lake City, after which a totally random and gung-ho blizzard rips across the placid blue skies above the Great Salt Lake and shuts the airport down. This is an airport that never shuts down. My mother-in-law is here. Never have I been so happy to be in Utah! I am so happy I am practically converting to Mormonism on the spot!

AND FINALLY

We begin the absolute worst leg of the journey altogether, no lie. Now, readers, I sense you are flagging. Hold on! I say. Hold on! Remember the neck pillow. And the Silly Putty! Okay, so with no carseat (Crabtot's spare carseat was lost in the theft of a car I borrowed in South Africa—another long story), we clamber into my mother-in-law's car and proceed to climb the mountain pass between Salt Lake and Park City, where MIL lives. We drive at 7 miles an hour in a whiteout. Around us, some 200 cars and trucks drift into snowbanks. The world is white. I think maybe we are, after all this, at the end of the road. As in, we're done for. But we make it. To Park City at least. And then they close the roads. For the rest of the day and night.

AND THUS

Concludes my journey. Ish. We spend many days at MIL's while Crabhub fights through Wyoming blizzards to come and fetch us in our car. He makes it, but we are further snowed in for days. Crabfamily tensions rise to a new height. And Crabtot eats more candy than she has ever known it possible to eat.

IN CONCLUSION

You can't blame the airlines for the weather. But you can blame them for their inability to treat people humanely. Especially when they are 3 years old, are flying on a paid seat, and have been traveling for 3 days. Instead of expecting traveling mothers to ask pity from fellow disgruntled passengers, airlines should have formal procedures whereby they offer help to the truly needy in such circumstances, especially when the needy have spent over $5000 in air tickets with you on this trip. And when they have asked for special assistance. But as we all know, you can't expect decent treatment from these air-people anymore. What you can do, though, is blog about them. And hope that mothers who read it will do everything in their power to avoid United Airlines and its ghastly robotic cretins in future. Fly your unfriendly skies? Never again!

TAKE THAT, AIRPEEPS! Do not provoke the wrath of the Crabmommy. For she shall deliver it unto you tenfold! (Unless you send me free First Class tix for next time. Then I'll take it all back.)

Got an airline horror story to get off your chest? Or do you just want that neck pillow? Tell me you feel my pain, below.

Many of my friends and fellow moms in the US consider me a tough, strict, perhaps too-old fashioned mom who frequently seeks "mommy time." On the other hand, my mother in South Africa thinks I'm indulgent and over-focused on my child. So which am I?

"Stop answering all her questions!" my mom said while we were staying with her on vacation. "You don't have to explain everything to a three-year-old."

Maybe it's not so much countries as generations that bring to bear on the question. The mom culture around us encourages us to parent our children with positive reinforcement, to answer all questions, encourage constant self-expression, explain all the punishments (or "consequences"), and above all, to always be involved and present. On the other hand, so many of our maternal forebears come from the school that answers the question "Why?"  with the wildly enlightening "Because I said so." And having been asked the same questions fifty times this past vacation, and having offered epic marathon explanations as to why we shouldn't emit bloodcurdling screams for no reason, put candy in the bath and so on, it's quite appealing to hear someone suggest I not bother. It's sort of like having someone tell you that spanking is absolutely harmless, and actually entirely beneficial; i.e., a refreshing point of view against the trend.

I guess I'm never quite sure where I stand on the evolution of parenting style. In a related point, I've made a conscious effort to be open to alternative ways of being a mom, knowing that screaming myself hoarse—a natural tendency channeled by mega-crabacious genes on both sides of my family—might not be the best way to raise Crabtot. That said, I have a certain impatience with the sort of soothing, patient, and ever-attentive parenting that dominates our present culture. Moreover, it can feel insincere to me—like playing a part rather than being a real mom. Not to mention how exhausting it is to keep up the act.

So while I've tried to learn new and alternative ways of handling my child (and found merit in some of the strategies), I think there's also merit in balancing that out with a good strong dose of the old-school negative reinforcement that once was the norm. You know, the kind of mothering style in which tots are ignored when they're annoying and told to be quiet when they talk too much. Seriously, imagine a time when bedtime takes three minutes, little kids can lose at games, and you don't make a bad or a good choice—you just don't get a choice. Period. Now run along to bed, poppet—you're having an early night tonight! Why? Because I said so.

What do you think? Are we too soft on our kids? Is there such a thing as being too attentive?