Dear Pink,

We've gotten to know each other pretty well over the past year, so I think I can be candid. You know I don't love you, but you also know that my daughter does, and that every day her love for you grows stronger and darker and, well, pinker. I don't hate you, Pink (and I still infinitely prefer you over your loathsome cousin Lilac), but I do feel that since you live in my house—notably in the clothes, shoes, duvet cover, toothbrush, and on and on, of my kid—I have a right to get peppery with you when you threaten to take over completely.

And yes, lately you've gone beyond the pale, quite literally. Mornings are murderous in our house now because Crabkid will only wear a particular dress, which is often dirty because it is the exact right shade of pink, and yes, there are many other pink items in her wardrobe but, you know, not always the absolute right tone for my girl. And every time Crabkid walks past a rosebush or fuchsia in your shade, it's not enough just to admire your pinkness, Pink—she tries to snap all the flower heads off so she can own your beauty in her hot little fist.

You even disrupt our grocery shopping: I have to have extremely firm conversations about you when Crabkid bursts into tears at Trader Joe's on being handed a lovely freebie balloon at checkout. Why is she crying? Because that balloon cannot always be pink. Sometimes there's only green left. Green: a lovely color, the color of grass, grapes, leaves, and the water in our very favorite lake, but whatever, I guess green is no match for you.

Something I still don't get: why are you so insanely popular with little girls? How is it that while a little girl might start off with, say, orange as her favorite, she always defaults to pink in the end? How do you do pull that off? Yeah, yeah, I get that lots of sweet and pretty things in the world are pink: cotton candy, marshmallows, bunny noses, piglets. But you also color some bad stuff: parking tickets, measles, sunburn, Pepto Bismol, ear infections, and baboons' butts. Scientists think they've cracked the allure of Pink: your popularity with the girls supposedly has something to do with ripe fruit and evolution. In the ancient days, ladies had to keep an eye out for nice-looking berries and pinky plums and stuff, while the men were out hunting. Or something. I still don't really get it.

What I'm trying to say, Pink, is that you're not the only color on the wheel with something to offer. Red is the color of Elmo, ladybugs, strawberries, the best flavor of Fruit Rollup, and Valentine's hearts, all of which Crabkid adores. And orange is the color of her dad's yoga mat, and she loves that yoga mat, and orange is also the color of the big fat koi at the Japanese gardens, and we love those guys, and orange means tangerines, which are one of Crabkid's favorite fruits, and the orange marker in her art box is that super-duper delicious parking-cone shade of orange that really makes the rainbow fabulous, and it isn't all dried up and feeble like the pink marker in the box, yet Crabkid still goes for you every time, Pink. Oh, Orange, I miss those days when you reigned briefly but seriously in our house! Crabkid, I know you had to move on and assert yourself and all, but what's wrong with turquoise? How seriously fancy is turquoise? Even Tinkerbell has a turquoise dress, doesn't she? Or maybe it's more greenish. The point is, it's not pink.

Soon Major Pinkness will be taking over my daughter's bedroom walls because, somehow—in a silly  moment of fairness—Crabmommy agreed to allow Crabkid to choose a paint color for her room. The problem is I'm unable to sway Crabkid toward a shyer, more tasteful version of you, Pink. What she wants are, specifically, dark-pink walls: a shade that makes me think of the dressing chamber of a teen starlet, like Hannah Montana, or the boudoirs of those girls who live with Hugh Hefner. In other words, a shade entirely unsuitable for the room of an almost-four-year-old. Which brings me to my request: Pink, please, could you just tone yourself down a tad around my tot? Seriously, if there's anything you can do to steer Crabkid toward your softer, paler, less trashy side, I'd greatly appreciate it.

Thanks for your time, oh most popular color of little girls. I know how busy you are.

Sincerely,
Crabmommy

Bedtime stories were turning a tad tedious this past month until I managed to get Crabkid interested in a new book. Crabkid's at the stage where she wants the same story, over and over again and so Madeline absconds with the gypsies constantly at our house. That is, when Richard Scarry's "Schtoompah the Austrian" isn't playing his tuba in the animal orchestra.

Happily Crabgrandma sent a little package recently, containing a small orange hardcover, I Like You. It fit our requirements for a good bedtime read: the author name is goofy (Sandol Stoddard Warburg) and so is the illustrator's (Jacqueline Chwast). Crabkid and I enjoy a good chuckle over silly names. Then there is the matter of the book itself: shortish (Crabmommy loves the short bedtime story), silly, and sweet without being syrupy.

I Like You was written in the '60s. It has cool scribbly black-and-white illustrations, thanks to Ms. Chwast (love saying that name!), and the text is sweet without being cheesy:

You know how to be silly
That's why I like you
Boy, are you ever silly
I never met anybody sillier than me
till I met you

I like you because
You know when it's time to stop being silly

Maybe day after tomorrow
Maybe never

Oops too late
It's quarter past silly

The book is about friendship and Crabkid is almost four now, so friendship is featuring hugely in her life.

If I pretend I am drowning
You pretend you are saving me

Crabkid has a new friend, whom she adores, so she can relate to this sort of talk:

You really like me
Don't you

And I really like you back
And you like me back
And I like you back

Crabmommy enjoys the simple realism in lines that deal with grumpiness and less than lovely moments:

And I like you because
When I am feeling sad
You don't always cheer me up right away

You can see the book wasn't written recently:

I like you because if I am mad at you
Then you are mad at me too
It's awful when the other person isn't

Phooey

I like that Crabkid has something new to like in I Like You. What kiddie reads are you liking these days?  I've enjoyed a number of odd little books thanks to Crabmommy reader recommendations. Got anything unusual to pass on?

Warning: this post is neither funny nor heartwarming. Sorry.

We moms, we can't win. Either we're disciplining our kids too much, or not enough.

I considered not posting this anecdote. I didn't think I'd need to revisit this territory quite so soon. The incident I'm about to tell you actually happened a few months ago, but I decided to wait a while before writing about it. I thought by waiting I'd have the distance to add a touch of humor to the story. But somehow I still don't find anything funny about it. It's a very crabby story, in fact, about two crabby mommies and one crabby tot.

The scene: Busy Crabcity street, Sunday morning. Crabtot (she was still a tot then...not the almost-4-yr-old she is now) was having an "off" day after a busy weekend. We go into a store, whereupon Crabtot seizes a pair of sunglasses and tries to bend back the arms. I reprimand her, and she screams so loudly that the shop lady literally holds her hands to her ears and I don't blame her for doing so. It was excruciating. So I pick up Crabtot, tuck her under my arm—body flailing—and walk out. Crabtot attempts to bite me on the way out (a threat she used to make on occasion). And I bite her back.

Okay, so that last line was a joke (albeit a feeble one).

What really happened: I took my child outside, sat her down on a bench, and said the following: "Crabtot, what you did in there was inappropriate and disrespectful and it hurt Mommy on the inside and on the outside."

Okay, so that was another attempt at a lame joke. I didn't speak like that. If I had, I wouldn't be writing this piece. Nay, instead of speaking in even measured positive-parent-y tones, the Crabmommy sat Crabtot down, cupped her chin in my hand (forcing her to look me in the eye), and gave her what-for: "I've had enough of this behavior! How dare you scream like that and try to bite me!" That sort of thing. Yes, it was my outside voice. But we were, after all, outside.

Crabtot blubbed a ton and her eyes get extra-blue and extra-huge when she cries, so I realize she must have looked like an adorable—if miserable—cherub and I an evil glowering hag; still, in my book it doesn't excuse the following: I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find a woman three inches from my face. She has a newborn swaddled to her chest in a Mayan wrap and a look of flaming outrage on her mug. "What do you think you're doing?" she hisses.

Thus begins a mom-battle of words, between me and a stranger. She accuses me of being abusive and threatens to call the police. I tell her to go ahead. She calls me a maniac. I call her a maniac for calling me a maniac in front of my child. It's ugly. In the background her husband stands looking hapless and unsure. Eventually Righteous Mom stalks off and I am left shaking with indignation and embarrassment.

To rewind, was I screaming at Crabtot, loudly enough to validate the intervention of strangers? I was not. But did I sound like I was mad? Heck, yeah. Am I proud of it? Not really. Normally I would have escorted my kid off to our car and had the freakout privately, but disciplining off the public stage isn't always possible. What I don't get is how another mother could butt into such a situation and accuse me of something flagrant, illegal, and awful—child abuse!—when I wasn't even spanking my child (and last I checked that's not actually illegal in our state...yet).

Here's the way I see it: we all have our trying times as parents. We all also differ from each other as parents, just as our children differ from one another. My child is delightfully spunky and tenacious. And sometimes the spunkiness and tenacity—it's not delightful. And maybe the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but why do I need to convince a stranger of my right to be who I am and be the mother I choose to be? This idea that all parents must be the same, handle their children in the same way, and respond in a uniform fashion to any and all challenging situations is bogus to me. It's stepfordmommy fascism.

Believe me, ye softmommies, there are plenty of things Crabmommy would love to say to you when I hear you pussy-footing around your badly behaved children. But I hold my tongue in person and blog about it in private, and I ask that, when you next come across a stranger-mom who sounds stern or says "no" or does something else you deem scary and freaky, you hold off on the harsh words until you get home to your blog. Then, by all means, go nuts.

The irony of that day? Crabtot's protector terrified her. On the positive side, I think that chick nipped the biting thing in the bud. Something about having a stranger tell Mommy the police might take her away...I think it sealed Crabtot's jaws once and for all. And that isn't really very funny, is it?

Imperfect Mommies, I have a message for you: the Perfect Mother Police are out there. And they are watching, always, and ready to pounce. Be afraid. Be very afraid. 

So what about you? Have you ever told someone off in public? Or have you been the recipient of a dressing down by a stranger? Do I scarrrrrrre you with my CRAZY CRABMOMMY TEMPER? Give me your two cents'!

Since a bunch of you enjoyed the baby room cuteness I sourced for you in my last cheapmommy post, I'm back with another round of attractive, 100% organic, low-budge wall art to help make your nursery truly one of a kind. Check this out! Nope, that wasn't a pic of a tree. It's a print made by a mom from her, erm, placenta.

Oh, but what could be more madly one-of-a-kind than a placenta print? Indeed, pleasing designs can be made on the cheap with your very own childbirth by-products, ladies! And when you think about it, a placenta print is a literal reminder of baby's very first room...in the womb. A sentimental souvenir of in utero-ness, then. That is, if you dig that sort of thing.

Until recently I had no idea placenta prints even existed. By now we've all heard of placenta-eating and placenta-burying (as practiced by the deeply earthy Matt McConaughey). But beyond burying and baking, there's the phenomenon of printing with your placenta too! News to me, though apparently placenta prints are pretty popular, so much so you can even get step-by-step instructions on how to make them at ehow.com. Or you can dispense with the online tutorial and pick up The Blessed Babe Placenta Print Kit® for $18.99! This item comes with everything you need to make your placenta print. Except for the, uh, placenta.

As you might have gathered, Crabmom's not-so-much the type to get all jiggy with my placenta beneath the full post-partum moon, or whatevs. Even the word "placenta" bothers me, let alone the notion of painting the damn thing, and then plopping it onto parchment. Yeesh!

But hey, each to her own. One woman's idea of ick is on another woman's baby registry, if you'll permit my clumsy phrasing.

And you? Squeamish? Intrigued? Been there, done that?

Good crikey, I'm more than a little late with my, ahem, "monthly" momoscope! Forgive my laxness, ladies, but frankly I just haven't felt clairvoyant in a while, and, you know, you just can't force these things: either you can see into the future or you can't. Sometimes, as many of you know, Crabmommy has wildly right-on prescient musings about you moms out there; other times, however, the great void that comprises my daily mom-brain doesn't contain visions of anything, much less your future!

Anyhoo, here I am, back with my crystal ball and with thoughts about your forthcoming month as Mom. As always, I tend to to see the not-so-great moments that lie ahead for you mom-readers. The upside? At least you've been forewarned.

Leo:
I see quite a few of you Leos struggling with the following: You're leaning toward yet another month of putting off the inevitable and moving that child out of the family bed, but, come come! You know with each passing day that tot's only getting comfier while you become more cramped. So step up, toss the tot out of yours and into his or her own. It won't be a super-peachy-fun month ahead, but since your nestling is practically ready for driving lessons, the stars' message is clear: just do it!

Virgo:
Seriously, a staycation? And you really thought such a silly word could be a good idea?! Yup, you figured  you'd relax, chill out, have more drinks, do less cooking, camp in the back yard with the kids. Ri-ight. Instead your downtime feels like normal hard-work life, only intensified, what with the grandparents and all the rule-bending mayhem going on at your crib. Oh, well. Too late to change things, except your martyr 'tude. Do less; they'll all do more.

Libra:
I'm afraid your tot is going in for a big month of fibbing. That's right, tall ones from the small one. Don't always believe the first version of the stories your angel tells you this month. Your kid's good at this. Go deeper.

Scorpio:
So you signed up to burn away your mom-flap midsection and you did well for a while. Sadly, this month you're back on the couch eating crates of mini-macaroons from Whole Foods. Blame it on the moon phases because truly do they affect your cravings and your motivation! But don't lose heart. You may be sluggish now, but your time of tummy-crunching will come...

Sagittarius:
Talk about a willful child and a wardrobe obsession that won't quit! The apple doesn't fall far from the tree in this case. That pink dress or those stained navy track pants, or whatever it is your wee one favors so intensely, will be the subject of many a tedious argument with you, O willful Sagi-mommy! Look, someone's got to give in here. Let this one go and it will.

Capricorn:
What a bummer your wee one didn't dig those swimming lessons! You so could have spent that money on a new purse. Advice? Stick to sprinklers for the rest of the season. And get a new purse.

Aquarius:
Yes, it's tough with Saturn rising in your fifth house, Aquari-mom, but you don't have to be such a supreme biatch in your actual house! You know what I'm talking about. Heck, I'm one of you and I'm the queen of biatching about the bungalow, but there's a time when a girl's gotta pick up her lip and snap out of the snippy spell! But even if I'm forcing some cheer here, apparently this pity party continues yet more weeks for most of you, so don't expect anyone to be madly digging you this month.

Pisces:
By September, you'll deeply regret you didn't send the tyke to summer camp when you had the chance. Never mind! Next year you'll gladly wave the young tyrant away, and you won't be one of those moms weeping and wailing when the bus pulls away. Lesson learned.

Aries:
I'd like to tell you that your haircut was a good move but all I can see is a bottomless pit as far as  maintenance goes. It's true you got rid of the plain and severe Mom Hair that had been tweaking your vibe for so long, but the new style is too much work and has resulted in a very thin ponytail. Next time, aim lower on the style barometer...for a higher return.   

Taurus:
I'd love to tell you your children have overcome that ghastly whining stage of the past few months. True, things seemed better for a while. But don't hold your breath on that score. And do cover your ears—you're in for a shrill soundtrack until summer's end (unless you buy yourself this handy gadget).

Gemini:
A dead fish is hardly the end of the world, and can easily be turned into a gentle lesson on mortality. Advice: Give the fish a good funeral, either in the ground or borne aloft by the great waters of the modern sewer system.

Cancer:
But how do you expect the children to follow your example when you're being such a momocrite? Truly this shall be a month of madly momocritical behavior! Whether it's slovenly table manners, bad language, or wildly undisciplined and momocritical donut eating, your slack side will reign supreme even as you continue to preach restraint. Oh, well. Just tell them to do what Mom says, not as she does.

All adults have moments when we wish we could be kids again, just as our kids often wish they were us.

For her part, Crabkid has begun to notice the many things grownups get to do that she doesn't get to do, but longs to do. Grownups can stay up late and argue loudly. Grownups are allowed to say, "for God's sake" and get to pick out every single part of their daily outfits every single day. Grownups don't have to sit on the Time Out chair when they've been rude or naughty, and they're allowed to eat standing up and put sugar into their drinks.

Crabkid, I know that doesn't sound fair, but it is. Because, you see, there are things kids get to do that grownups might want to do, but can't. Kids get to take naps, which you might not think is fun, but grownups think naps are really, really cool and fun. If grownups could, they would all be napping every afternoon, but as it so happens, only certain countries allow grownups to nap daily in the afternoon, and ours isn't one of them. Kids also get to run through sprinklers, and some even get to do it without their tops on. And even though grownups sometimes eat a piece of toast standing up, they'd really rather be sitting down, like you are, eating food that has been made for them by another grownup.

And even though you complain about riding in the grocery cart, Crabkid, this is the sort of thing that grownups would love to do if they could squeeze their chunky selves into the seat. In fact, I can think of many, many grownups who would love nothing more than to sit in that grocery seat noshing on a Fruit Roll-up and looking at all the colorful packaging out there while someone else fills the cart with the items on the list.

Crabkid, you know how you like my cell phone? Well you know what's funny? I hate my cell phone. I don't have as much fun talking on the phone as you do. Just as I don't get as excited as you do when I open those envelopes of bills with the see-through window in the front. And you know how you love love love going to the bank and watching the money come out of the slot and looking for that one nice bank teller who always waves at you with a lollipop in hand? Well, the weird thing is, you won't love the bank as much when you get to be a grownup. Unless, that is, you grow up to be much smarter than your mother and then when you go to the bank they will probably continue to wave at you with lollipops in hand and tell you how happy they are to see you.

Another thing: I know you hate sitting in your car seat and that you like to pretend you can drive, but guess what? Driving isn't really all that fun. That's why you might hear Mom and Dad using those words that kids aren't allowed to use and grownups can only use in the car. Driving is like having a birthday: much more thrilling when you're small.

Here's some good news: I'm glad to report that some things about being a grownup are (almost) as much fun for grownups as they are for kids. Like getting new shoes. New shoes are always nice. And it's always lovely to have an ice cream on a hot day, even when you're a grownup. And even though you can't pull your top off in public as often as you might like when you're an adult, you still, occasionally, get to go on a merry-go-round—that is, if you hang out with kids. Also, new stationery can be exciting even when you're a grownup: a sheet of fresh stamps and a blank notebook can make a grownup feel (momentarily) satisfied with life. And when the airplane takes off for a vacation destination—even grownups can get a kick out of that.

A last word about this adult business: as a grownup you can't really make bird noises in the street like a kid can. I mean, you can do it, but other grownups won't smile at you and in fact they may even ask you to stop. That's how grownups are; they will only smile at people making loud bird noises if those people are not other grownups. However, you will be pleased to know that grownups are still allowed to hop. When you are a grownup hopping, people might not smile at you, but I'm happy to confirm that if you feel like doing it, you're allowed to hop anyway.

In lieu of the usual Million Dollar Mommy inventions that I test-drive on this blog, I've got a slightly different idea this month. Inspired by two recent articles, here, and here, I foresee great wads of cash to be made by someone in the summer camp business. Apparently so many parents, coast to coast, are going ballisto with grief when their kiddos go to camp, to the point where camps need to contend with parental separation anxiety as an occupational hazard. But it doesn't have to be a hazard; it can be a cash-cow! Seriously, someone crafty surely stands to profit this new trend of parents experiencing seasonal "kid-sickness." For example, here's a letter I'm working on to welcome parents to my imaginary summer camp...a camp for parents of soon-to-be summer campers.

Dear Campers,

We are super-excited to be welcoming you to Camp Kickapoo Lake. Congratulations on making the decision to take on a camp adventure! We are certain you will leave with new friends, fond memories, and most important, the skill set for which you came to us in the first place.

Camp Kickapoo is a smart choice for those moms and dads who need a little extra emotional preparation before their children go to summer camp. We realize that saying goodbye to your campers can be deeply challenging, but we are confident we can help you build the strength you need to face your child's camp experience with courage.

Program basics: Our unique three-night program comprises a condensed camp experience, and allows for a staggered transition from home life into a child-free camp environment. As such, a full family sleepover is permitted for the first night of camp, with child guests allowed onto the premises following Snack, at 3pm. On Day Two, family will not be permitted after Final Cuddle at 8pm. On your third and last night, you will be kid-free. We understand this may sound intimidating for those of you who haven't been separated from your children, ever, but we believe our compassionate environment (which includes a soundproof Safe Spot weeping room for private grieving) and professional parental counselors accredited by the ADP (Academy of Detachment Parenting) will provide you with the tools you need to make it through this tricky time.

Key strategies: Our curriculum is built around a series of partnered role play exercises designed to help you learn to say goodbye to your children each summer without breaking down and hurling yourself onto their duffel bags in embarrassing displays of cowardice. We offer parents a full range of supportive services and coping techniques, from mild encouragement (the green team), to full-on, hands-on Extreme Wimpout Redirection (the blue group). Role play exercises will be followed by a stimulating group brainstorm with the goal of isolating sample activities the parent might enjoy during his or her upcoming weeks or days of child-free time. We realize for many of you this time looms as a doom-filled black hole and that you haven't a clue how you could get through it! But we guarantee you'll leave camp with a minimum of ten Top Tips for Managing Your Freedom. Individual post-brainstorm counseling sessions are always available to help you tailor these tips to your individual needs. Remember: at Parents' Camp on the Kickapoo, the kitchen closes at midnight, but the counselor's door is always open—24 hours a day!

Orientation: Please read the attached yellow form provided by your orientation group leader and be sure to check off all items on your packing list. Important note: All communications devices must be checked on arrival, including cell phones. Please also understand that family photographs (even wallet-size) are not permitted except during Show 'n Share, which takes place each morning in the Jolie-Pitt Family  Gathering Sanctuary. We entreat you to leave all such images and other mementoes, such as report cards, in your cubbies. We appreciate your cooperation in this regard!

Edutainment and sporting activities: We value individual direction and decision-making in parents, and are delighted to offer a spectrum of free-choice activities to take place between scheduled workshops. Examples include PowerPoint presentations of your child's projected camp activities, special demonstrations of water safety, food safety, badminton safety, safety in safety demonstrations, and the importance of safely speaking about safety, which will take place in our Safety Circle Pavilion, a pleasant sponge-lined annex to the rear of the boat dock. Swimming, canoeing, and table tennis are also available, and our resident fitness instructor offers daily classes in Pilates, cardio-striptease, and Kundalini (Breath of Fire) yoga.

Rest assured that we at Camp Kickapoo are fully capable of facilitating your transition from pussy to proper parent in this three-night sleepaway. It won't be easy, but it can be fun, and if anyone can make a happy camper out of you, Camp Kickapoo can.

We look forward to seeing you all!

So that's my rough draft. I see a big-money concept here. Don'cha think?

Peeps, I promised I'd do my crummy exercises. And I am doing them. But by doing them I've also broken a lifelong promise I made to myself: I will never do Pilates. Even the very word "Pilates" annoys me. It's just so not me to sign up for such a thing! So I'm having a sort of identity crisis with every core-burning leg lift. What's next, Crabmommy, cardio striptease?

Yup, Pilates is incredibly boring and incredibly unpleasant, but I have to admit, it's doing something to  what they call in Pilates-speak, "the powerhouse." While "powerhouse" might be an optimistic moniker for what I've got going on, I can seriously feel a tautness in my ab area now, after a mere 10 or 12 days of Pilates! You can't see the tautness, mind, but it's there...like a tiny bamboo chopping board buried beneath a beanbag.

So yes, since my last report, I've spent most of my 5-min 5 times/week tum-tum sessions attempting nasty increments of my sister-in-law's Gaiam Pilates DVD, led by an annoyingly taut and glossy instructor who maintains the calmest of expressions even during the most ghastly exercises. There are 2 chicks demo'ing the workout, and the first chick is all, like, doing the tough stuff, and the second lady demo's the "modified workout" for those of us with stomachs resembling loaves of bread...and even this modified version is insanely difficult and actually lasts 25 minutes, and I could never, ever manage that. To add insult to injury, the workout is set to an infuriatingly serene soundtrack and takes place in Maui, with gentle waves plashing in the background; in other words, a veneer of soothing loveliness conspires to disguise the fiery hell at the core of this movie.

I hate Pilates. But I've been sticking to it, buoyed by the thought of you blog-readers out there, to whom I swore to uphold my vow. Some of my sessions have even extended into excruciating 10-minute marathons. Which sort of feels like cheating. I didn't sign up—we didn't sign up—for 10-minute ab-flab workouts. We said 5 minutes, did we not?

So, as of yesterday, I'm shelving my Pilates DVD, to focus on a new workout designed especially for the Crabmommy mom-flap-busting group by my badass chum Kelly, of FitnessFixation. How is it that I can dig a blogger who writes about fitness? Because she's no ordinary fitness guru, yo. She's got a dang funny blog, and lawd knows I need a little funny in my fitness.

Kelly devised the following 5-min routine (which can be found in full and with specific instructions here):

1. Do 30 seconds of full sit ups.
2. Do 30 seconds of bicycle crunches.
3. Do 30 seconds of straight leg lifts.
4. Repeat 1, 2, and 3.
5. 4. Do 10 full (non-girly) push ups (I can do 12, suckers!)
6. Hold plank for one minute.

Some of the above incorporate the Pilates moves I've been up to, especially if you focus on controlled breathing and keep the abs engaged and sucky-inny and all that smack they talk in Pilates.

Which brings me to a most unsavory point: diastasis. I talked about this last time, and I still can't tell if I have it or if my tum-tum just looks heart-shaped when viewed from the top down because I'm just an incurable romantic (when it comes to Gummi worms). But because I'm not sure, and because I don't dig my protruding flub, I am seriously watching my breathing in all exercises, and adding 2 mins of Tupler technique to my workout, and no, I don't really know what that is. You can read the direx here, but in a nutshell, it's about bringing belly button to spine. Or in Tupler's words, a Tuplerizing woman must imagine "her belly button is the engine that moves the belly back towards the spine. She brings her belly button to the spine and then does little squeezes out the back of her spine." Little squeezes out the back of her spine. Whaa? (They always lose me with that stuff. It's like the last time I did yoga... "scoop your navel beneath your ileosacral sponge.") Anyhoo, I think I get the basic concept of Tupler technique. So I'm trying to do 100 of these moves a day after my 5-min workout.

A last word, for you gals and the comments you left for me last time here and here. Seems we have some uber-keen mom-flap-busters. To those of you on trampolines or yoga mats or doing sit-ups under your desk at the office, kudos! Your thoughts and reports are motivating for me too. Just please don't tell me I must drink green tea. I refuse to change my whole life for my tum-wibble. The most I have changed in my diet? I am eating couscous once or twice a week instead of daily hits of gruyere potatoes containing twelve pounds of butter and cheese. And I'm forgoing the great big wodge of apricot jelly that I usually slather onto my peanut-butter morning toast. That's hard, people. So don't ask me to make a grand life change inside and out, and especially don't ask me to give up sugar in my coffee! I'd rather strap a wheelbarrow to my stomach and ferry it around than have to drink a coffee without the sweet stuff. I'm Crabmommy after all. I need a little sweetness to counteract my daily grumpiness.

I'll be back again to report on my midesction and how it fares. Maybe I'll wait a couple of months, give the washboard a chance to reveal itself. In the meantime, keep up the good work, and tell us how you're doing with Kelly's mom-flap-busting workout or whatever you're doing to wage a 5-minute war on your midchunk. Going well? Given up?