After my previous post on paper toys, I found these fabulous paper nesting dolls for a whopping $3:
They are by artist Timothy Haugen, whose Etsy page, Fantastic Toys,  includes such ridiculously adorable paper crafts as a 3-D mushroom house.

Another site with fabulous FREE paper downloadables is The Toymaker. I love her Window To Fairyland 3-D box. She has many other cool downloadable paper projects too. Like these black and white templates for bug boxes, houses, and school buses. Simply print out, let tot color 'em in, and then put  together with a modicum of effort. Lovely stuff!

I'm feeling quite peachy-pleased about finding these sites. Takes care of the desire to be craftastic with paper, even if you lack original talent for it. As in, me.

Go on, do one!  You know you simply must.

I hate modern animated features.

I hate the bloated 3-dimensional lifelike stuff we get from Pixar and co. I hate the fine-tuned realism, the way creatures swoop down on the viewer in their bursting fiery rainbows of techy-techni 5-dimensional color. I hate the freakily photographic quality they aim for in these things. To me it lacks imagination. And the punny grownup humor  tweaks my vibe. The other day I saw a promo on one of Crabtot's DVDs, for Shrek 3 or Ratatouille or one of the other wildly popular movies that I fail to "get." There was a joke in the trailer about contact lenses and health insurance. How is this relevant to children?

I guess these movies aren't really for children. Or at least, they're meant to be for kids with extra lines thrown in to entertain the parents. Whatever. I still don't like them. For all the tech effects, they leave me cold. I've mentioned this before. But I want to talk about it again, now that we have a new version of Horton Hears a Who.

What was wrong with the original? Crabtot loves it and so do I. It's beautifully rendered by animator Chuck Jones, with the 2-dimensional flair that can only come with using imagination over software. And yeah, Jim Carrey is talented, but I had no desire to hear him replace Boris Karloff as the Grinch any more than I'd like to hear him go all spastic as the voice of that sweet little elephant Horton.   

I haven't seen the remake of Horton, but not experiencing something firsthand has never stopped me from casting my crabby judgment before. This is no exception. I'm gonna bet it's lame.

Thankfully after an antiquated childhood diet of Mom-chosen animations, Crabtot will herself one day frown upon the latest animated flicks from the box office. Ri-ight. Oh well, for now I control what she sees. And we're skipping this one.

Anyone else feel similarly? Or have you seen and loved the new Horton Hears a Who? If so, sock it to me!

How cute is this 3D paper doll (designed by artist Nick Knight)? Maybe you want to make it. If you do, go here. Me, I probably won't.

I always thought that when I had a child, I'd become seriously craftastic. You know—the mom who spends time with her tot creating lovely things out of paper and pipe cleaners. I've always been drawn to such things. Then again, I've always been a lazy person in many ways, a conceptual artist (meaning when I think craftastic thoughts I feel as though I've already made the craft).

A few times in my Crabmommy career I have acted on an idea and hence the now infamous tampon wiener, inspired by my mother-in-law's white wiener dog, Gertie. But these impulses don't come often. So I've decided to start this monthly "Crabmommy Gets Craftastic!" mini-column here, in the hopes that by sourcing craft ideas for you, I would force myself to try them out. Which brings me to today's topic: paper crafts.

Fun facts first: I'm sure we all know that origami is the art of folding paper; but did you know that kirigami is the art of folding and cutting paper? Me neither. And did you know that it is physically impossible to fold any piece of paper in half more than eight times? Again, fascinating snippets of knowledge brought to you by Crabmommy.

Right, getting on to the crafts. I searched online for some fun paper activities to do with Crabtot. Some are a tad tricky for a preschooler, but darling anyway and worth a mention, like the Japanese doll above, which involves cutting and folding and gluing paper (so I guess it's orikiriglueygami). All you need is a color printer, glue, scissors, and a hell of a better grasp of how to attach all those flaps than I have. Good luck.

Let's try something easier, shall we? Like these fetching and easy origami dolls. Or this kirigami card project, where you can make a mouth pop out of a folded card. And amazingly, Crabtot and I have managed to make a fleet of these moderately tricky but mega-cute origami paper chicks for Easter! We're going to give them out at school instead of choccy eggs. Yay!

Okay, so I just lied. Making origami easter chicks with Crabtot? Are you kidding me? Like I would even try that right now with the tantrums we're both having during playtime?! I think, however, that I *might* try this over the weekend, which looks perfect for preschoolers and their kirigami-challenged moms. It's a nifty gender-equal string of paper chain dolls and looks about my level of kirigami talent. And just thinking about it makes me feel good, as though I've actually done it. That's me, conceptually craftastic Crabmommy. In my own mind at least.

It's been a while since I've posted about books that have made our hit list. As some of you know, we like books that are short (meaning, I like books that are short), uncheesy, a bit peculiar, and preferably have weird author names that Crabtot and I can say out loud and chuckle over at story time.

Which brings me to Nothing at All by Wanda G'ag (dead serious, that's her name). Nothing at All is a book I stumbled upon at Crabgran's this summer. It's been in our family through many generations of children. And it shows. (Can't tell what's on the cover. Old ice cream? Paint? Bird droppings?) It's a mess, but it's still around. I fell upon this book with glee this past Christmas. Like her mom before her, Crabtot fell under it's rather bizarre spell too.

Nothing at All is the name of a dog who looks, well, like nothing at all. He's invisible. Which is beautifully rendered as a ball of whiteness: Nothing at all lives on an abandoned farm, along with a couple of other ordinary and visible dogs. One day some darling children come by and take the other dogs away. But they don't take Nothing At All because they can't see him. Not content to be left all by himself, Nothing at All follows them. It's my favorite page: Along the way, a little bird teaches him a spell that helps him to take shape. He has to whirl round and round saying, "I'm busy getting dizzy" (Crabtot loves this bit) over and over again until he picks up doggy features. At first he just assumes a featureless doggy shape, then he gets spots, then a tongue, eyes etc. Eventually he looks like a real dog, the children adore him, and the book ends happily.

Aside from the odd concept and appealing illustrations, which are all done in a striking palette of green, orange, black, and white, I think I like Nothing at All because it has no big message that I can see. Except, perhaps, that it's best not to be invisible. Whatever that might mean.

Sometimes no message can be the right message for story time. Because sometimes you just want to hear a strange tale by someone called Wanda G'ag, about a white blob, who is actually a dog, called Nothing at All. Works for Crabtot.

Any odd stories pass your way lately? Or other non-messagey books to recommend?

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.

Pookie the Rabbit with Wings, a book from my childhood and my mother's before me. It's about a hybrid rabbit-fairy who lives in a toadstool. Like many other family books, Crabgran has kept Pookie precisely for the purpose of reading to future Crabtots. And because I knew there would be lovely old things like Pookie waiting for us on this vacation, as well as lovely new African storybooks too, I traveled light on the reading fare. Of course, I couldn't guarantee that the Brit-fairy stories of my youth or African folktales would vie with Elmo Does the Hokey Pokey and Madeline Joins the Circus, so I brought a few reserves. But I haven't needed them.

It's quite a strange feeling for Crabmommy to enjoy reading time. As I've mentioned before, after a long crabby day I frankly find storytime quite tedious, and the shorter the book the better. But this winged bunny is a character I loved as a wee lass, so when I read about Pookie now it's with the eyes of a tot.

I used to stare at this page as a kid.

Looking at this still gives me a weird entranced feeling. Say what you will about Brits but they know how to tell a kids' story. For one thing, they always fetishize food in their kiddie lit. Everyone's always eating toasted crumpets and drinking honey tea and whatnot. See here Pookie visiting his pixie friend who makes blackberry jam. Check out those "rose-petal curtains" and the "beechleaf hearthrug." So absurdly cute I could eat that page right up!

Maybe it's just been hardwired into me, but I still think this drawing style rocks much harder than any modern illustration involving collages of Manhattan or clever gobs of paint à la Eric Carle.

See Pookie holding a meeting with the woodland folk. Humans are trying to put a road through the forest! Stop those wankers, Pookie!Not to get too Proustian here, but I've often wondered if it's possible to get back the enchantment that reading held for me as a kid. No matter how much literature means to me as a grown-up, the feeling I get from it never squares with the hit I used to feel in the presence of Pookie and his ilk. Maybe neuroscience types could explain it to me. Or maybe I'm just too jaded and crabby and self-involved to lose myself properly in fiction. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that these days, when I settle down to read a nice spot of Edith Wharton, more often than not a high-pitched whine starts from somewhere beyond the bedroom door. ...

What do you think? Do you have a childhood fave that gets you this way?

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.

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!

Dear readers,

With Thanksgiving behind us, now's the time to turn to holiday cards and newsletters. For some of you, writing about your lives might be tricky. Not me! Really, it couldn't be easier to look back on the year that's passed and share some of the joy with family, friends, and especially you, my Cookie-pals. So I'm going to do just that and share the first draft of my holiday newsletter right here:

Whew! Can you believe how time flies? For the Crabfamily, it's truly astonishing to say "there goes another year of joy, achievement, and growth (both personal and financial)." But  sure enough December is almost upon us, Santa is prepping his sleigh, and there's a touch of holiday magic in the air.

As you all know, having a toddler has been something of a challenge for Crabmommy, but by working positively and with self-control through the tough times, I'm proud to say that I now have a rather uniquely marvelous preschooler. Truly it is amazing what they teach us when we let them! Especially when they are as special and unusually kind as Crabtot, who voluntarily gave up her Radio Flyer toddler trike and a gently used sticker book so that the children of Iraq could have a special Christmas too. Bless her tiny heart! I think as parents we all know that this is the stuff that really counts, and the other stuff such as advanced verbal facility (Crabtot is almost bilingual in Spanish now) and developmental developedness (her fine motor is, I must say, ridiculously good) just aren't very important compared with having a deep-seated sense of morality.

I'm also pleased to report that this same generosity shows itself in Crabtot's day-to-day interactions too. Not only does she share, but she actually teaches others to share too. Just last week her teacher told me that Crabtot actually refused to eat her lunch, offering it instead to another child! Talk about selflessness! Of course Crabhubby and I know that raising such an emotionally (and intellectually) wise child is a grave responsibility. We don't want to push her, so we try to simply raise her in an atmosphere of loving normalcy. I've been reading biographies by mothers of great people (Gandhi, Mandela, Celine Dion) and I think a common thread between all of us moms of special people is that we don't treat them any differently for being different. So maybe you have unique listening skills at age 3 and maybe you're going to change the world someday, but today you're still bringing your plate to the sink, young lady! I figure that's the best way to be as the mom of a special kid, and I mean even if your kid is special like handicapped-special you should probably do the same as what I'm doing and just treat them as though they are totally normal. Even if they aren't. It just seems to work out better if you minimize their gifts (or in the case of the handicapped kid, their limitations).

Moving on to other news we're thrilled that Crabhub has done so well as an architect that he has become the personal architect to the Rolling Stones, doing up their houses all over the world! No wait, that's what he dreamed last night. Silly me! The holidays really get to my head sometimes. Just to say he and I both feel pretty swell about everything. I mean, we've had our rough spots. But now that we've sold off a bunch of real estate and are doing daily yoga as a family we feel centered, anchored, and basically just super-stable in all ways. Especially since Crabhub has stopped snorting everything up his left nostril and I've finally taken the gin out of my tonic.

Truly, marriage is about growth, and sometimes that growth can be malignant, like a tumor or a big fungus or something. But if you nurture your marriage with sunshine, laughter, love, and water (I'm drinking so much water these days!) you can see good growth, like an apple tree.

Goodness would you look at that? A whole page and I haven't even mentioned Africa! Yikes, there isn't any room left to report on political activism, or what we've been doing in the Crabtown community, much less space to mention Crabtot's involvement with an African orphanage or my book deal, or the fact that we've decided we might take a year off and build tsunami shelters in Thailand. (Crabtot is just busting to learn a South Asian language and heck, I could use a tan!)

But I don't want to go on and on about me. Just to say that the Crabfamily looks back on 2007 with contentment and looks forward to 2008 with delighted anticipation. And we wish you and yours the absolute best for the season, no matter what your religion. Unless you're Mormon. Which we're feeling rather conflicted about these days, 2007 being the year in which we read John Krakauer's thoughts on the matter.

Anyhoo, jingle jingle bell to you and may the doves of peace alight on your corner of the universe.

Crabmommy

So that's just a first draft. What do you think? Any suggested edits?

I'm sorry, but I can't love your dog. Make that any dog. Animals just aren't very important to me. I know one day history books will point to the likes of me as an example of the primitive thinking of ancestral humans, but even so, back off with your beagle.

I've always tended to disapprove of those supposedly heartwarming news stories in which people rescue pets during natural disasters. I know I'm meant to be overjoyed that the dog is alive, that someone clutched a puppy to his chest as he swam through a flood...but I'm always suspicious, always thinking what about the granny clinging to the log behind you? Because I swear, there probably was a little old lady somewhere off screen left, but you know, that swimmer just saw that cute puppy! And people want to save puppies. And it's considered humane to do so. Humane. A peculiar word. When I think of humane, I think of kindness to humans, not animals.

Don't get me wrong: I don't hate dogs. I will pat them. I will even compliment the pleasing color or intelligent eyes of someone's hound. And I myself have had fond, if slightly distant relationships with dogs of my own: the name Pasha, as well as an old framed photograph of a sheepdog-husky mongrel sitting on a rock, can certainly bring a happy tear to my eye.

But I draw the line at elevating people's dogs to the status of children. I also draw the line at finding elevated turds in my shrubs. In Crabtown—make that Dogtown—my attitude is highly unusual. And even beyond Crabtown, I'm finding my kind less and less represented in the world. Most everyone these days seems to be a serious dog-lover, and I just no can tolerate.

Last year, two dogs knocked Crabtot flat onto rocks at the bank of a river; in both instances the dogparents excused their beasts with a classic "he's very friendly." As a result Crabtot doesn't like dogs. And I know enough to know that I mustn't encourage her fear or dislike of dogs. So when someone's slavering woolly mammoth bounds over to us in streets and playgrounds, I try to stop her from screaming. I try to make her think I love dogs.

And then, last week, a dogmommy at a park said some very unusual words to Crabtot. She said, quite cheerfully, "You don't have to like dogs." It was an oddly objective thing for a Dogtown dogmom to say, and Crabtot took to this and repeated it later in the day. "You don't have to like dogs, Mom," she told me. "I don't like it when they lick me," she added. Now that's what I call humane. Granny clinging to log, or puppy stranded on the shore? Methinks Crabtot won't hesitate to make the right call. (Not to mention potentially saving her parents the joys of vacuuming pet hair. How humane is that tot?!)

Happy Thanksgiving, all. May you wrestle your turkeys well and nobly, and partake of the festivities with much cheer. If your guests are pests, may I suggest a parlor game? (Thank you, Heidi.) I have heard Mafia is just perfect for dispensing with pesky relatives.

I know as moms we're meant to say that nothing delights us more than a big fat stack of wordy books before bedtime, because reading is so important and bedtime is so special and yadda yadda, but come on: there's a reason Goodnight Moon is so popular, and I'll wager it's not just the red balloon in the bedroom.

Truly does my heart leap when Crabtot picks storybooks that are short on text. In such cases, two books are a breeze and then it's lullaby, lights-out, and grownup time, thank you very much. I especially love it when Crabtot picks a book that's not only short, but also funny and a tad peculiar. And I've found it's often the books I've never heard of but plucked randomly at the used bookstore that become the biggest hits. Example: The Yawn Goes On by Sally G. Ward, (which you can buy used for a whopping 3c here).

It's an amusing little book about how tedious life can be, with witty text and manic watercolor drawings. On the cover, a mother yawns, and her mouth is a puncture hole that continues through the book from front to back. This hole becomes a yawn on each page, a great big yawn that passes from person to person in the course of a busy day. On every page someone is tired. The final page moves from the family, collapsed in exhaustion, to an owl yawning in the garden.

I love this book for its simple realism, for showing that life is not just about hugs and rainbows but is also exhausting and monotonous. I love this book because it has this odd and rather hypnotic refrain—and the yawn goes on—that Crabtot likes repeating. I love this book because the dad bathes the kids and the mom looks completely frazzled. And I love this book because it is short.

I'll be doing more book reviewing in this blog. If you'd like to recommend your tot's favorite, comment or email me (by clicking on the envelope below this post). Also feel free to bash a book or three! We can alternate Must-Reads with a Book Bashing, where schlocky books (anyone else hate Guess How Much I Love You?) get the dissing they deserve.

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!

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!

Dear Crabtot,

It's your third birthday today. And in keeping with the traditions of parent-blogging, I'm meant to write you this very sincere and sentimental newsletter. I'm meant to lay down, for once, my mantle of maternal cynicism and show you (well, actually, since you can't read—show everyone but you) that I really am grateful to be a mom and that I live, love, and have learned so deeply and so much more because of you.

My newsletter should read something like this:

Dear Crabtot,

I can't believe you're turning 3! It's amazing how time flies...[yadda yadda]... You're such a complex little being now. And sometimes you challenge me! [Here's where I could get a smidge risqué and hint at dark moments in the past year.] But no matter how tough those moments are, you always inspire your dad and me to be the best people we can be. [That sentence must follow the dark risky stuff, a redemptive line just to show that while it's been a bloody hard year, I want everyone you to know that I know parenting is essentially a positive experience.] Then I throw in some humor about the tricky times and the cute things you've said and then I write this bit about how even though I'm Crabmommy, nothing melts the crabby shell around my crustaceous heart like a Crabtot birthday.

The problem, Crabtot, is that Mom doesn't like to do what she thinks others think she should. So if your blogmommy is rude and complainy and whiny, and everyone thinks maybe for one day in the year she should post about the indescribable new capacity for love that has come about because of you, she doesn't want to! She's a naughty mommy!

The other problem is that your mom thinks it's gimmicky and therefore insincere and contrived to copy things that have been pioneered by this blogger who is called Dooce. Dooce is funny and clever and all. But Crabmommy wants to think of you on your third birthday, and to try not to think of Mommy or her blog or Dooce or anyone else. So I'm not writing you this newsletter, okay?

Love, Mom.

Crabmommy bio

Do you know the night momster? By day she's generally a pleasant person. She may be a bit crabby, but she's a loving mother and wife.

Come nightfall, she changes.

When the moon rises and everyone is asleep, it happens. Like a man into a werewolf, so the mom into...the momster.

I'm talking about the unspeakable ill humor that comes to me when I'm woken from deep slumber. And that's been happening a fair amount lately, what with Crabtot being in a fitful sleep phase. I'm still more or less capable of being nice to her when she wakes me and I dutifully shush, soothe, and otherwise speak sweet mommywords to the little one. But poor Crabhusband!

When awakened by Tot, I take out my tiredness on Crabhub. In the logic of daylight, I have no problem with the fact that I get up to soothe Crabtot and he sleeps through most of it, given that he has work to go to and he's also, well, the dad, and a whimpering tot needs Mama. But daytime logic doesn't stop the night momster: by night I become quite mean, and wail loudly about those who get to sleep and those who don't. Don't get me wrong: our kid is a good sleeper, but I think I'm just genetically incapable of dealing with any night waking—hers, mine, anyone's. Nobody could be huffier without sleep than me.

Except maybe my mother. She could sleep even when awake. When I was a kid, she could barely crack an eyelid before 9am and would never remember kissing my brother and me goodbye for school or signing report cards. We could take advantage of her upright but comatose state and get her to agree to things she never would in her waking life. As for me, by day I'm full of guilt, apology, and benevolence toward Crabhubby. But too much night waking and I start shouting. On a bad night Tot gets it too. I'm good for a max of three Tot soothes; thereafter I just yell, in a terrible momster voice, "%&##@@@!"

Shuts them all up.

Any of you night momsters too?

Crabmommy bio

With two uber-anxious parents it's a wonder Crabtot ever gets to do anything at all. One of us is always barking at her to avoid this, watch out for that, or be careful jumping off a three-inch step onto soft grass. As Murphy's Law would have it, the first time we actually let Crabtot do something dangerous (jump on a trampoline), something bad did happen.

It's Friday and I'm slugging a cocktail at Crabhub's company BBQ, when I hear a terrible wail. It's Crabhub, who, within one second of allowing his tot onto the trampoline, saw her get squashed by another.

Crabtot cried, but not for long. Shortly after the accident, she smiled and forgot her tears. Except she wouldn't walk. Her leg looked normal, but she wouldn't put weight on it. She was her toddler self, only crawling. So we hit the ER.

The pediatrician advised x-rays "just to be sure the growth plate isn't damaged." "Growth plate?" Crabhub was terrified, no doubt picturing Tot with a permanent gammy leg because Dad didn't catch her on the tramp. But x-rays revealed only a minor sprain—and an adorable fact: kids have no kneecaps! The tot patella is the size of a corn kernel! Crabtot took the x-rays to school for Show-n-Share (Btw, what ever happened to Show-N-Tell? Is "tell" too bossy? What gives?) "Look at that little kneecap!" she repeated to her pals in the circle. "It's so cute!"

I wish I could say that I thought about myself only after Tot's x-rays came back. You see, my sis was visiting from South Africa and we had swell plans for the days when Tot would be at preschool. But a kiddo's leg in a cast would ruin my fun. Yes, I'd like to say my selfish thoughts occurred well after the accident. The truth is, they didn't. Right when Tot started crawling, I saw my longed-for week ruined. Naturally I was worried about and sorry for Crabtot. But people, I've got so much maternal compassion it just overflows...leaving plenty leftover for the mother herself.   

Crabmommy bio

I've been scanning the mom-blogosphere and many are blogging about the onset of fall. One chipper mom spoke of fall as a time to renew: renewing "family goals" (what are those?), cleaning up the house and so on. I assume she means doing dull organized things like getting your digital photos printed and albumed and buying new fridge magnets for the kids' schedules. Me, I see fall as a time to get really, really depressed.

We had a swell summer. Capped off by a lovely Labor Day weekend. We went to Portland, OR (read all about the voyage here) and while Crabtot attempted to throw rocks into Portland's impressive Zen garden, it was an otherwise serene way to spend summer's last official weekend.

Back in Wyoming, the sun still shines (as it always does, relentlessly, even when it's minus 50), but there's a sharpness in the air. Stand in the shade and you need a down jacket. So I'm turning to depressing reading. I'm liking very much Arlington Park, by Brit novelist Rachel Cusk. It's about miserable moms in uspcale British suburbs. They all loathe themselves and their families, and rattle around in enormous gourmet kitchens. Apparently, Cusk also wrote a controversial nonfic book about how horrible it is to be a mom. Which makes me think she's probably a great mom. At its best, Cusk's novel reminds me of THE great novel of domestic doom, Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates. (If you're married and have kids, it's best to read that book stone drunk.)

Here's a snippet from Arlington Park, when this mom character goes shopping for dinner. It captures the light mood I'm talking about:

Amanda felt that if she were not married, it would not have been required of her to go to the butcher. These visits seemed to emanate from a core of physical embroilment, from a  fleshly basis that sought out other flesh by which to feed itself. It all seemed somehow grotesquely related, the conjoining and making of bodies and the dismemberment and ingestion of them.

It's getting heavy and heady here at Crabmommy. Curl up with a book. Get depressed. Keep me company.

Lazy moms may find here my tips to ensure minimal exertion while entertaining the kids on these hot summer days. Or at least, that's my intention. I have plans to make this a regular column. But I can't promise anything. I mean, that would be absurd—a lazy mom promising to work hard on a column about laziness...I'm too lazy to even finish that sentence.

Let's see what I can muster for today's entry, from my position on the couch. 

Instant Magic Wand:

Is your tot into fairies? Does she desperately want a magic wand? Are you too lazy to make one? Are you too cheap to buy that one with the lights and the fairy voice-activation? Fret not—Crabmommy solves all.

Don't be intimidated by other moms with their gold foil and sequins at-the-ready in their Craft Boxes, fastening a perfect five-point felt star onto a slim branch perfectly whittled by Handy Dad. Don't despair if neither you nor your partner knows how to fashion anything out of anything. (Remember those other parents are losers in their own way too. You might envy that chick for being married to Handy Dad who made that super-cool swingset and that mini-shopfront, but rest assured, he's probably a secret drinker. I mean, he can't be that great can he?) Okay, er, back to the point.

Instant Magic Wand:

Step One:
Purchase a flyswatter. These come in a myriad of colors so you should have no problem finding one in your tot's color of choice. Flyswatters shouldn't cost more than a buck, so if you're a cheapmommy as well as a lazymommy, then—yay!

Step Two:
If you're not feeling industrious, under no circumstances should you dip the swatter-head in glitter-glue. Just wave the paddle shaped head in the air and say "Abracadabra! I wish for a magic wand." Then, look at what you're holding and say "Wow!" Presto! A magic wand has appeared for your fairy to treasure. And it's even orange!

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