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?

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.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," I say to Crabkid via a mouth full of food.

"Eat slowly, and chew your food nicely," I say, having long since dispatched my dinner in about twelve seconds.

These are the sorts of things that have been coming out of the Crabmommy mouth of late, when we sit down together for our weekend family dinners. As some of you already know, we don't eat dinner with our child during the week (shocking, I know), so Crabkid isn't always privy to our lax grownup table manners, and maybe that's why we don't pay much attention to them. But lately I've become aware of the following sad state of affairs: not only have my table manners slipped since becoming a parent, but I'm going to have to clean them up for the very same reason.

When, exactly, did my table manners become so shoddy? I certainly ought to know etiquette, thanks to my mother, boarding school, and sitting at my grandmother's table for Sunday lunch, where we rinsed our fingertips in individual water bowls before eating the fruit course! I also know all sorts of factoids involving food, and have even begun to impart these words of wisdom to my almost-4-year-old. Like, if you chew each bite of food 20 times then you will live to be 100. And if you sit up straight, keep your elbows off the table, and don't use your fork as a shovel, you will be welcomed by kings and paupers around the globe to sup at their table and partake of the bounteous riches the world has to offer. Okay, so maybe I don't put it quite that way, but the point is, Crabkid has been hearing a bunch of stuff from Mommy about how to behave at the table and why it's important to be a polite girl, but Mommy doesn't always practice what she preaches.

Can I blame my shoddy table manners on motherhood itself? (Oh, but, you know Crabmommy can!) BC (Before Child) I used to enjoy taking my time over dinner, perhaps because BC I wasn't tapped out on kitchen duties and didn't have to follow dishes with a spell of picking up tiny beads off the living room floor. BC I never ate my breakfast standing up, because BC breakfast didn't coincide with assembling a preschool lunch involving a fleet of tiny tupperwares. BC the whole business of eating was a less exhausting affair, and BC I remembered to eat lunch in my day, and therefore didn't need to nosh my nighttime meal in one chew.

But the very thing I'm trying to blame for my sloppy manners (motherhood) must motivate me to brush them up for fear of passing my slovenly ways on to the next generation. Plus Crabkid's getting old enough to twig that I'm a momocrite in these matters, and I definitely don't want a preschooler berating me for using my fingers to stuff my beak with asparagus!

So, along with other new Crabmommy self-improvement strategies, I guess I'm going to have to take smaller bites, avoid stretching for the condiments, and stop hunching like a troll over my plate. And I guess Crabhubby's going to have to shape up on this front too. But I think we can do it. We're open to improvement; we're open to change. I mean, just last week we gave $40 to Obama! And we started eating couscous!

Anyone else have a momocrite moment to share? Or do you all [yawn] do as you say?

As many of you know, I've been quite taken by this recently published book, Nation of Wimps: The High Cost of Invasive Parenting. So I interviewed the author, Hara Estroff Marano (who is also the editor-at-large of Psychology Today), about her thoughts on child- and teen-rearing gone wrong. Her book is not for the faint of heart, as it cites some scary stats and heavily critiques the hyper-vigilant, uber-protective and mega-involved parenting phenomenon we see in much of American middle class culture and which many of us participate in (yes, mea culpa too!). but whether you're for or against Marano's message, it makes for juicy reading...

Crabmommy: We've all heard the term "helicopter parenting"—how hovering over our kids is bad for them. But you've coined a new term: "hothouse parenting."

Hara Estroff Marano: If you think of a hothouse, where plants are not exposed to the natural elements and they're protected from the rigors of nature, that's what's going on with kids. They're not really exposed to the normal vicissitudes of life. And the major effect of that is that they don't learn how to cope with the normal ups and downs of everyday life. When they do have to deal with these things, notably when they leave the protective cocoon of home to go off to college, they break down in record numbers. They're just totally overwhelmed.

C: Your book spans the whole cycle of childhood: you talk about kids who are very little and then move up through the teens years. You have all these great terms like "snowplow parenting" and "pasteurized" parenting that describe how right from the get-go children are brought into a space where safety and making childhood uncontaminated by anything unpleasant is sort of an epidemic, I guess, that you see around you. For my part, I wonder, is there a middle class mom alive in America who doesn't exhibit some of the tendencies you talk about?

HEM: It's very hard for them because the culture of parenting has changed. I talk to parents all the time and it's incredibly hard to resist this [overprotectiveness]. One example: kids going to the bus stop. So many people report the same phenomenon. There's a bus stop near their house and every morning 20 kids and 24 parents are out at the bus stop. Every parent feels somehow that only they are capable of watching their child. They don't even trust the next-door neighbor to supervise their child properly. So what you see here is this widespread element of distrust. And it's distrust of children and distrust of nature to prepare children for their eventual independence...and it's distrust of everybody else to keep a watchful eye on a child. And there are other elements too.

C: We have this perception that the world our children are in is much more dangerous than the world of the past. And you say a lot of this is built on myth. Like pedophiles—

HEM: There has been escalating hysteria over pedophiles over the last 15 years at the same time as the Department of Justice data shows that the danger is really minimal. And the fact is that kids are in greater danger in their own home from someone they know than they are from a stranger. I'm not inventing that. These are meticulous records. And the reason we know is that all kinds of crimes against children are decreasing and so are crimes against women and these are things that tend to travel together. What you do have is that when it happens you hear about it. I mean, how many years after the Jonbenet Ramsay case...? It's more than a decade and people are still talking about it! I just wish parents would apply their rational mind instead of their fearful mind. You have to stop and say, What is it that's driving all this parental anxiety? Where's it coming from? There's just this excess of parental anxiety focused on the kids. And I think the kids and the parents both would be better off without it.

C: So you're saying in a way that the parents are wimps. And then wimps beget wimps?

HEM: That's one way of looking at it, I suppose. Here's the funny thing: whenever I talk to parents, the thing that gets me is that they kind of know that what they're doing—they kind of suspect that what they're doing—isn't tremendously healthy for their kids. The reason they suspect it that they know they weren't raised that way and they seem to be doing just fine.

C: Can you give me a couple of examples of how this hyper-anxious parenting manifests? What are the most egregious or obvious things that come to mind when you look at moms today—moms of kids, teens, or college kids...

HEM: I happen to think that the cell phones with GPS on them are absolutely vile.

C: I'd never heard of them until I read your book. I guess there are moms out there who are tracking their children?

HEM: Oh, yeah. And their computers or cell phones beep when their children go outside some pre-specified zone. But when you think about it, you're outsourcing trust there. Trust is the bedrock of society. It's the glue of all relationships whether it's intimate relationships or larger social relationships, so I think the GPS cell phones are very pernicious...and you know, people think they're doing themselves a favor, and cell phone companies are marketing this. All you have to do is open your local paper and see the ads: "Equip your family with GPS monitoring! Have that peace of mind."

If you want to read on, please go here to read the rest of this interview on my personal blog. If all this talk of anxious parenting is making you want to drown yourself in a vat of Xanax, feel free to stop reading here. But before you go, tell me what you think. Do you feel you're an overly protective parent? Do you feel other parents around you are wimpy? How does it hang in your 'hood?

Many of you joined me when I issued a challenge to address the mom-flap almost 2 weeks ago. So, with my blog on the line, I could no longer procrastinate on dealing with my wibbly post-preggie, post-C-section ab-flab. Indeed, I've been very motivated to do my 5 minutes 5 times a week since the challenge began, and I'm pleased to report that already my abs have become sleeker and my mid-chunk jiggle is ever on the shrink. In fact, I'm almost down to my pre-preg tummy.

I wish.

That was all a big fat lie. Except for the part about sticking to the challenge. Amazingly, even Crabmommy, Queen of Laziness, has been doing her workout, and I'm seeing results, just not the results that I wanted. I'm afraid I'm not yet seeing the mid-chunk disappear; if anything my tum seems to be sticking out more than before! Flabulous, then, rather than fabulous. Seriously, in just two weeks of tummy crunches and the like, I'm seeing a bigger mom-tum  than when I did nothing but lie on my bed eating Gummi bears!

One of my commenters warned me about this phenomenon: apparently for some mums, traditional tummy exercises will only further distend the abdominal chunk-section. Nothing like getting down to the nasty business of post-baby exercise only to find it makes you look preggie again! Sheesh!

On Googling such lovely phrases as "postpartum tummy" and "distended" I found the word "diastasis," a word whose very sound makes me want to give up this exercise nonsense pronto and scarf down a bag of Gummis. Yup, this convex tummy business appears to be a common theme in the postpartum workout literature. Apparently you have to strengthen "the transverse muscles" after having a tot, and if you don't do it right you can balloon out at the very spot where you're trying to squish it all back in.

Why's it so dang complicated to tone a post-preg tum? Before I started this I figured if I did something—anything—that caused unpleasant burning sensations in the ab-flab area it would undoubtedly be good for eliminating the mom-flap. But I think it's going to take more than that.

Okay, here's my plan for this week: I'm forgoing traditional sit-ups in favor of bits of a Pilates DVD my sister-in-law sent me. Specifically, I'll be homing in on those cruel scissoring-leg core-burning moves they get up to in Pilates, for a total of 3 agonizing minutes. The remaining 2 minutes will be given over to full push-ups with stomach engaged (I can only manage 10 push-ups, but hey, at least they're not girly ones); then I will attempt this weird navel to backbone scoop-y maneuver that some tummy-guru calls the Tupler technique. The Tupler technique is meant to cure you of this diastasis thing. I still don't know if I fully understand it all, but Tupler says you're meant to do 1000 of these things a day, every day, for the rest of your life. Right.

Anyone else have any tips? I will come back to you next week with another report and a formalized workout plan to suggest for our mom-flap-busting group, culling tips from experts and readers alike.  What's been working for you? Have you gals been sticking to the vow? Have you given up already? Spill!

Sometimes blogging bites you in the butt. By nature the form is raw and the only editor involved is the blogger (that's right: Cookie magazine does not oversee what I post here; I am responsible for everything I put up). So it happens that sometimes you write something you don't dig on second thought. But blogging is your first thought.

I'm not thrilled with the first thought I posted here on the topic of vaccinations and Amanda Peet, who spoke to this magazine in favor of vaccinations. Like Peet, I'm very much in favor of vaccinations and am fed up with the non-vaccinating community for doing what I believe is harm and they believe is good. That said, my post was extreme in tone, and so I pulled it (and no, I won't be linking back to it). I apologize to anyone who read it and found it distasteful and offensive. It was. I also cop to presenting the case as black and white and skipping over the shades of gray. But let me tell you why.

I grew up in Africa where one can still see the effects of diseases many Americans have barely even heard of. And I believe too many people are being encouraged to avoid vaccinations altogether, prompted by misinformation on the part of the non-vaccinating community. Not enough people know some really basic facts, such as the fact that vaccinations have prevented millions of deaths and untold suffering the world over. That there are question marks left with regard to vaccinations is not a fact but a contention. Until I am proven wrong, I believe in erring on the side of maximizing public health, and this means promoting vaccines.

Like Amanda Peet, I also believe that anti-vaccinators with apparently healthy children are coasting on the immunity of children such as mine and are therefore benefiting from the very system they denounce. And apparently not enough people know the following: vaccinations do not make the vaccinated immune to disease. The more people abstain from vaccinating their kids, the more endangered we all are in our community. Even most non-vaxers won't dispute this. As such, vaccinations are not a "personal choice." Deciding for or against shots is the very opposite of personal: it affects everyone.

To blog casually about a serious issue such as this one is foolish. I did it and I'm sorry. But, misguided as it was, my intention was to use my crabby voice to strongly endorse the side of the vaccination debate that I feel is becoming dangerously marginalized: there is a growing trend toward demonizing vaccines in our culture and that's more troubling to me than any possible weak spots our public health system could ever be accused of.

Here's the gray area I omitted (deliberately, but unfairly) from my initial post: those who stagger shots and/or are not anti-vaccine but instead concern themselves with improving on what we have. I'm still skeptical of staggered shots, and I'm not convinced that so-called green vaccines are plausible or useful. That said, it's a more reasonable topic and therefore well-suited to more reasonable people than I. I don't think readers come to Crabmommy seeking a balanced view of much of anything, but if you have one by all means feel free to share it here or join the very vocal crowd at the Cookie forum.

I'll be moving on from this and onto matters of the mom-flap in my next post.

I'm feeling unusually pleased with myself: I found some très fab 1940s original children's illustrations (for pennies on eBay) and am about to frame them up for Crabtot's new(ish) room. Instant vintage sweetness! 

My search came about when I realized how dull small kids' bedroom walls can be. Too often one is tempted to put up pics of Winnie the Pooh or put up Mother Goose rhymes or whatever. Don't get me wrong: I heart Winnie and nursery rhyme art can be perfectly charming and all. But there are other ways to liven up a nursery or kiddo room, and lucky for you, I've found a couple of screamingly cute alternatives for your delectation.

I'm not a big one for fluffy bunny themes but who could argue with this gorgeous Asian-inspired poster from artists Kozyndan, which can be ordered for $28 from Mahar Drygoods? Look closely (as pictured in the detail at right) and you will see that what first appear to be cherry blossoms are actually little piles of delicious bunny rabbits! Yummy! 

People, is this not the loveliest thing you ever did see for a little girl's room? Even my crabacious heart melts at this vision of sweetness. The poster's creators have some other bunny stuff that's a tad freaky, like a tidal wave of bunnies that would probably terrify most children, but the blossoms really do it for me.

And how about this little bunny print from Etsy vendor Barking Bird Art? I can barely stand how cute this print is! And there are plenty more adorable ones from this seller, each only $9, like this ridiculously dear hedgehog toasting a marshmallow!
For heaven's sake, what are you waiting for? Snap 'em up!

And that concludes today's cheerful post on kids' room decor. Brought to you by Crabmommy: often crabby, occasionally sweet, always working hard to keep you edutained. (Okay, so I wrote that entire sentence just to be able to use the word "edutained." It's my favorite silly word of the moment.)

Right, best I run off and attend to my daily mom-flap exercises. Moms, it's not too late for you to join the throngs that have joined me via yahoo in a vow to vanquish midsection flab. And if you have signed on to attack your soft postpartum mom-tum, stay tuned for a forthcoming post (next week), where we can all check in and report our progress. Ugh...feeling all depressed now. Why did I start this? Hate exercise. Groan.

If you have one, keep reading; if you don't, go away. We don't want your kind here.

I'm talking about the "mom-flap." Or more precisely, that small midriff tire of extra chunk that the blessing of a baby bestows on the mother. I've blogged about this before. Because while I'm not a big girl and I didn't change completely post-baby, I definitely gained something more than just a bundle of joy: I gained a rim of chub around the midsection. Sometimes I call it my blog-flap, and sure, my sedentary work life doesn't help matters of the midsection...but the main the reason I have a pillowy waistline goes back almost 4 years to the arrival of Crabtot. And almost 4 years later, I don't think I can continue to dismiss the marshmallow midriff as "a little extra baby weight."

I first noticed my mom-flap during the highly unusual occasion of my attending a yoga class. I did a sitting twist and realized that I had to physically regroup my mid-chunk in order to properly complete the pose. Not cool. Of course, at the time, I resolved to deal with the problem constructively, and I did: I stopped going to yoga.

But today is the day when I vow anew to dissolve the mom-tire. With your help, ladies. I need at least 5 of you to sign on with me and pledge to work on your respective mom-flaps. Let's say 5 minutes a day. Yes, some of you hyper-fit mommies are laughing at me but I've got 2 words for you (or 1 hyphenated one, actually): C-section. Oh indeedy, for some of us with very little in the way of stomach muscles, 5 minutes of unadulterated abdominal toning will feel like 5 solid years of biathlon training. Over an open fire. While being poked with a giant red-hot stick.

I've never been very good at motivating myself to be fit. I always have a fitness plan, but it starts tomorrow, next month, next year. As a result, I haven't done one single sit-up since having Crabtot. Which brings me to the 5-minute challenge. I don't believe that with a 5-minute exercise routine I will be able to go from the Mommy one-piece suit back to the bikini, much less au naturel. That said, I think 5 minutes a day would do something. And something is better than nothing.

So, dear virtual mom-friends, I ask you to sign up for the Crabmommy Mom-Flap Challenge. Put your name in the comments and take a vow with me to spend 5 minutes on your abs, 5 days a week, doing whatever it is that you think you need to do to work those sleepy muscles again. Once I have 5 takers, I will begin my exercises and we can check back in after a week and see who's on top of their game. Without the group to motivate, I can't promise I'll stick to my promise. Because I'm the kind of girl who needs serious encouragement to make things happen. I'm the kind of girl who could, in other words, really use Xtina Aguilera's trainer; failing that, I'm looking at you.

So, please, join me. My abs depend on your participation.

Are you in?

Ah, summer! At long last, here in the north and west of the USA, summer is upon us! And this means much completely obvious (and therefore, useless) parenting advice in mags and on the net about safety.  Like when the American Academy of Pediatrics warns us to exercise extra caution when visiting large bodies of water. And I say, wow, really? Who knew the ocean could be dangerous!? Dumb summer-related advice aside, I'm thrilled that the season has at last made it here. 'Cuz to me summer is a time to GET NAKED!

I'm talking about kids here (as opposed to exposing my own less-than-perfectly-delectable bod to the harsh elements of scrutiny).

Crabtot is almost 4, and in our new city they have these glorious urban kiddie fountains. When we first visited, Crabtot was almost 3 and we came upon one of these fountains by accident. The minute she saw all the kids splashing and frolicking, she whipped off her clothes and sped into the water, tiny tush winking in the sunlight. I was pleased to see accepting smiles on the faces of the moms around me, for I believe that young children should be able to hit the beach or a public fountain in their birthday suits.

That said, there comes a time when they want to cover up, and everyone else wants them to too. If I had my way, Crabtot would spend another year "all nudie," as she calls it, but I realize she'll already stick out in the crowd if I let her hit the fountains in the nick this year. So I bring her a swimsuit for public swimming, but I encourage her to be naked in the shade in our little strip of back yard. As far as I'm concerned, nakedness is, well, natural, and a lovely thing to be enjoyed while a child is unselfconscious and innocent.

The longer I live in the US, the more I realize that in many ways we're an uptight and prudish culture. And you see it in the fact that so many people seem to disapprove of naked children. By discouraging bare bottoms, I think we're making them miss out on a feeling of freedom that they'll never regain as adults, when one actually has something that merits covering up...unless, of course, you go to Naturist resorts and let it all hang out (and if you do, more power to you, I say)!

I don't know what the cut-off is for socially acceptable nudity in children here on the west coast (I suspect it's later than that of the east) but I wish more people would let their kids go au naturel on beaches and at public fountains, at least while they're still in the pre-K years. I think more harm comes from teaching our tots to cover up than from letting them enjoy a few fleeting years of deliciously bare (but sun-blocked up the wazoo) skin. Okay, I can hear many of you chanting "What about child molesters?" but I figure the millions of pairs of parental uber-eagle eyes on all of our kids more than makes up for some perceived risk that child nudity courts child predators.

What do you think? Do you approve of the bare tiny heinie? Do you let your kids run around nekkid? If so, at what age do you think it's time to cover up?

Here begins a story about a beloved that I lost and then retrieved years later: a tale of accidental meetings, love at first sight, denial, and—finally—second chances.

I'm not talking about a man. I'm talking about a wallet. Specifically, a gorgeous, stylish clutch wallet.

Every so often this cheapmommy loves to point out to you mom-readers something kid-related that's easy on the eyes and bank account. But today I'm going to talk about the value of a splurge for Mom. For even in my crabby and thrifty life there are brief spells in which I pause to contemplate the momentary thrill that a lovely, luxurious objet can elicit. And then I go back to my glass half full and cheapmommy ways that (some of) you have come to know and love.

Back before I got knocked up, I was living the carefree and careless life of a childless NYC gal, whose biggest responsibility was a bonsai and only reason for rising early was to score something swell at a flea market. One morning, wandering through Brooklyn, I spotted a teeny boutique and went in. It was filled with delectable goodies and, notably, a case full of slim clutch wallets in delicious colors. My own wallet was a sensible affair, perfectly suited to holding my endless collection of expired foreign currencies and ancient business cards...I was definitely in the market for a new wallet, but the sassy clutch in question was out of this Cheapmommy's price range: a fair bit over $100. It was nicely made and totally worth its price considering how much use one gets out of a wallet. Still, it was a shade out of this freelance writer's comfort zone. So I almost bought it, but I didn't. And then I almost bought it, but didn't, all over again.

In the three years since that day, I met Crabhubby (on the subway!) and Crabtot followed pretty quickly.  We did serious penny-pinching as new parents, and my wardrobe and general glam-level has gone the way of regular haircuts and well-maintained feet, just as my purses morphed into diaper bags and recyclable totes for transporting the various paraphernalia of grownup mom life. Through it all, that swanky wallet has floated in and out of my thoughts, taunting me with its chicness. Lord knows these things aren't important in the grand scheme! Still, every time I've looked at my frumpacious wallet in the past few years, it has annoyed me and reminded me that, back when, I should have bought that one pretty thing to brighten up my future new-mommy dullness.

My wallet broke its zipper about six months ago and I happened to be back in New York, so I went looking for that boutique. I couldn't remember its name, but thought I knew where it was. I got to the general area but the place was gone; either that or I no longer had my bearings, having fled urban Brooklyn for the country life immediately on becoming a mom.

I held out hope I'd find a wallet just like the one I'd missed, and I saw some similar, but nothing quite a delightful as the original. It loomed in my mind, the Platonic ideal of Clutch Wallets, a symbol of urban swankiness I once might have had, but subsequently lost; a souvenir of an old life that I wanted to take with me. If only I could remember the name of that store! I closed my eyes. I could see the magic word as something fanciful, something to do with stars. A constellation? Cassiopeia, maybe? I looked it up. No joy.

And then, quite randomly, it came to me last week: Castor & Pollux. And I looked it up, and voilà, those clutches of perfection still available for purchase, online as well as at the boutique, which has relocated to Manhattan. And now, this very day, I've finally tossed my old ugly broken-zippered wallet relic, and feel exceptionally stylish with my new purchase in its posh shade of navy. It feels fabulous and unfamiliar to splurge on something for myself. (And no, I didn't get one for free through my blog.)

Lord knows these things aren't important in the grand scheme. That said, even Cheapmommy has learned: sometimes it's better to have splurged than not to have splurged at all.

Is there something special you've treated yourself to since becoming a mom? Or something you wished you'd bought back when your budget didn't have to stretch to include a baby?

I'm all about telling kids the truth, even when it comes to uncomfortable questions, such as those about babies and where they come from. You have to tell kids the real deal right from the get-go: babies come from magic baby seeds that you swallow, and then when they're fully formed, they fly out of your belly-button.

Okay, so I'm a prude. I'm totally into teaching kids euphemisms for sexual anatomy, and I shun truth and reality as much as possible when it comes to exactly how that anatomy functions in reproduction. I understand the impetus behind those who believe in honest answers for curious kids, but I just can't bring myself to be honest with my own child.

I always planned to be the sort of hip mom who could talk about babies and sex and periods and whatnot in a cool and effortless way with my daughter. Back when I was teen I pictured my future self as an Ideal Mom: I'd be lounging on the floor of my daughter's bedroom having frank discussions about the mysterious world of men and women. As Ideal Mom, I'd know exactly how to make my daughter feel comfortable discussing anything with me, while also maintaining a line between her privacy and mine. As Ideal Mom I would ever squirm at any question or be stumped for an answer. I'd be so easy to talk to and such a good listener. I'd also be totally cool with my daughter wearing ripped miniskirts and white lipstick (yes, this daydream occurred in the eighties).

I planned to be unfazed by sex when it came time for me to discuss it with my kids. But here I am already squeamish about the birds and bees and my kid is only in preschool! I guess I just wasn't prepared for her recent round of questions about babies and how they are made and delivered. I thought I had more time to figure out the right answers, but apparently kids want the info pretty early these days. And so, whether it's because I was ill-prepared, especially prim, or both, I recently spun Crabtot a yarn about magic baby seeds. I second-guessed myself even as I spun my story, wondering whether it might not be better to simply deliver the truth when a kid is too young to freak out over it.

Shortly after that conversation, Crabtot's idiot mother watches a Netflix of Juno while Crabtot's in the room, and I find myself fumbling for words yet again, only, this time I decide to be more honest. "How old is that girl?" Crabtot quizzes me, during a scene where preggers Juno goes to visit the future adoptive parents of her baby. "Is she a grownup?"
Where before I might have answered "Why, yes! Absolutely!" about knocked-up teen Juno, I decide to try out truth instead. "Not quite," I say. "But she's almost a grownup."
"She's got a baby in her tummy," Crabtot observes. "But she's a kid!"
"No, she's not a kid, she's a bit older."
"I thought only grownups could eat baby seeds!"
"Sometimes younger people eat them too." 

Gulp. To cut a long story short, I've now got a preschooler who tells me that when she grows up she wants to be "a pregnant teenager"! Way to go, Crabmom!

What about you? Have you attempted to discuss the facts of life to your little ones? If so, did you opt for truth or fiction?

I lived out my perfect day today.

In my head, that is. As I do all too often.

This morning I woke up early, before my husband and child, grabbed an hour of power skipping with the skipping rope I finally purchased after talking about it endlessly, and received my family with good humor at the breakfast table, where I served everyone oatmeal (McCann's, the real Scottish kind that takes bloody forever to cook) in these swanky Ittala bowls.

After Crabtot and her dad vacated our unpretentious but incredibly stylish and tidy apartment, I applied myself diligently to a craft activity that has been languishing beneath my well-ordered desk. This consisted of my gluing felt to a small pillowcase made from the vintage fabric I bought when Crabtot was but a wee babe in arms. After so many years, at last I finished this small cushion for Crabtot's bed! A row of felt owlets on a hand-embroidered branch. Screamingly adorable!

As I went about my day in a casual but effortlessly chic outfit, I felt the glow that comes from knowing my life is finally looking like the life I always envision in my mind's eye, from top to toe: I have a good haircut and de-sloughed foot soles; I no longer compulsively eat Gummi bears; I have improved both my mood and my "mom-flap" through exercise; I have found the missing mates to both my favorite wool socks and my black winter driving gloves; I have figured out which keys on my key-ring are obsolete and recycled them accordingly; I have in my possession enlarged photo prints of Crabtot from a custom printer, rather than a junky online store, to place into the lovely wood frames I picked up at a thrift store. AND just prior to a productive session of novel-writing (because talking about it isn't the same as writing it), I made the time to take jars of pennies and dimes to the bank! I even sorted them first for expired foreign currencies from Africa!

On picking up my child after a morning of preschool, I went home to eat a lovely lunch with my Crabtot, a meal that included tomatoes and lettuce grown from seed in our small but delightful garden. We then engaged in some wondrous afternoon playtime, performing with homemade puppets from behind the couch. Then Crabtot helped me clean up, took a nice little nap, and woke up in a pleasant and chirpy mood.

Tonight I will go out for a date night involving sushi and my husband's choice of ancient foreign film re-run, which I will not argue about, but will instead accept with wonder and delight, appreciating his creativity and independent-mindedness for the gifts that they are.

You know what really sealed today's feeling of peace and accomplishment for me? I removed all Hello Kitty sticker debris from Crabtot's clothing (and mine), deleted all old bookmarks form my internet toolbar, and bought all outstanding books in my Amazon cart, from Francine Prose to Boris Pasternak. I also made several mixed CDs for my scattered friends and family. These CDs went into packages containing exquisite original presents, which these poor good people richly deserve and which are long overdue.

Today, I lived the life I keep meaning to get around to living. Today I was my other future-perfect self.

I wish.

Anyone else live a whole other life inside their heads? As in, imagining a better, more productive, aesthetically pleasing version of your life that you fool yourself into thinking might...just...one day...become real?

It's been a while since I posted on delicious but cheap kid-oriented gear, but LAWD knows when I'm not crabbing about motherhood, I love sourcing a cheap but beautiful and practical objet of design for your delectation. I also adore getting around those dull and pesky baby shower registries, and nothing says you care quite like the gift of oil cloth to a new mom. Oil cloth being that magnificently bright, sassy, and delightful material from which any spill, smear, smush, or otherwise unwanted substance may be cheerfully removed with the simple swipe of a damp cloth.

Now who wouldn't love a gift of gorgeous oil cloth bibs for baby, with that handy front pouch for catching stray food morsels? Land of Nod has a swell deal on them: 3 for $14.95 in floral or gingham. And then there are these lovely velcro-sealing reusable lunch sacks from Tatermash (for kids and adults), for $13:

For the ultimate in oil cloth, I don't think anything could be more beautiful or useful than a mat like this one, and HOT DAMN if this item isn't seriously gorgeous and useful and worth every penny of its $38 price. My mother-in-law gave me a mat exactly like it when I had Crabtot, and I used it every day for two years. It was my picnic mat, my under-the-highchair mat (indispensable when we lived in an apartment with a carpeted dining area); it was also a mat for painting on and doing smushy playdoh things...Genius.

And that, my friends, concludes what may well be one of my shortest posts ever because I've been quite wordy and heavy here lately, and so today I'll keep it short and sweet. May you shower yourselves and each other with oil cloth. It makes even a Crabmommy smile.

The following post contains what has come to be known as a Momocrite Moment. If you are offended by hypocrisy and faulty mothering, please read no further.

"So I can have my cookies before lunch today?" Crabtot asks, confused when I hand her a couple of vanilla wafers to distract her from something else. "Is it a special occasion?"

Consistency. Every mom knows that's the biggie. The numero uno. The scaffolding that supports all the rest of your parenting skills.

But consistency is for losers. At least that's what I feel today. Because like all moms (honest ones, at least), I may cleave to consistency but I do so inconsistently. Which is to say I try and I try and I try, and then sometimes I just, you know, don't. So when I don't, then I have to come up with excuses for my inconsistent behavior. Consistent excuses, that is. Ones that make sense. Like "special occasion" for small treats or privileges not usually extended but somehow deemed necessary to get through that particular day. And I tell ya, special occasions are happening an awful lot at our house at the moment. Because I'm lazy, tired, and a little bit at my wits' end this month.

When I first started mommyhood I was an absolute slave to consistency. Especially in matters of sleep. I had my sleep-training bible, Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth, and I believed in every single line of that rigid and exacting technique (except that one curious sidebar in which after teaching you to be the most insanely consistent human alive he says, mysteriously, something like "remember: flexibility is good"). Weissbluth's methods are complex and strict indeed, but they work. And implementing them was something I did oh-so-diligently in year one of my child's life. God help the Crabfamily if Crabtot wasn't in bed by sundown and put down exactly as the book stipulates! And even while I pretended to understand when fellow moms told me the book "didn't work" for them, in the back of my mind my judgmental mommy voice piped up "It doesn't work because you're not being consistent."

These days I find myself caving more, giving in to my inconsistent side. And I feel bad for sending mixed messages to my child. But apparently I don't feel bad enough. It's just that being "on" as a mom is too much work sometimes, ya know? Which is why I have decided to let Crabtot eat as much sugar as she likes, stay up until 11pm if she wants to, and run around parking lots. I'm not saying I do let her do these things all the time. I mean, that would be way too much for a three year old! But some days I just let it all fall apart around me.

Okay, so some of you have have a bee in your bonnet over the above paragraph. Run around in parking lots? Whaa? Relax in your slacks! It's a JOKE. Would Crabmommy be Crabmommy without a spot of irony now and again? I have to have some consistency in my life, people!

In all seriousness, though, I have come to see that maintaining rules (even and especially your own) is perhaps the hardest part of motherhood. There's picking the child up and going straight home as threatened after that very first tantrum in the park. There's the actually following through and not allowing a scheduled play-date as forewarned if said Crabtot sticks her tongue out at Mommy one more time. Yes, I've learned to confine my punishments to that which I would actually follow through on, but sometimes your brain just doesn't work that fast. Sometimes you say something and you don't follow through at all, and it may just be a little tiny thing but it looms large in your head because you are Consistent.

And so I give up my Consistency Queen Crown. It's too hard to live up to the absolute. The only consistent thing about me? That I am inconsistent (sometimes). Therefore do I say unto you: consistency is for losers. Because whenever I'm not doing something well as a mother I have to find the positive in the negative in my momocrite way. Maybe it's consistency that is, after all, the hobgoblin of small minds, as the saying goes. If we are consistent we teach our kids that life is always reliably logical and makes sense and is fair, and we know that's not true. Inconsistency: It's the spirit of spontaneity! It's human and therefore humane; it's imprecise and surprising, which makes it real and true to life.

Okay, so maybe that's a bunch of hooey. But doesn't it sound good?

What about you? Consistently inconsistent too? Please say it's true!

**On another note, stop by my personal blog later this week for a swagtastic giveaway involving handknitted, ethically-made cotton baby sweaters from Totoknits of Kenya. Fa-bu-lous.

Who doesn't find dinnertime with small kids a tad trying? Actually, I don't. Because I don't eat with mine. And I've recently realized that what how we do it chez Crabfamily is a little unusual: most of my breeder friends eat with their kids.

Call me Victorian but, while I adore my child and find her fascinating and delightful much of the time, I have no desire to eat dinner with her. And nor does her doting father. Call us intolerant, selfish, old-fashioned, but we just find dinner with tots, well, unappetizing.

But it's more than that. Our parents-only nighttime noshing started way back, long before Crabtot could sit up and eat solids. Back when she was a colicky infant, my husband suggested we attempt to maintain some grownups' time in our newly topsy-turvy world by eating dinner by ourselves. At a laid table. With wine glasses. Like grownups. This took some doing. Sometimes we ate very late. But once we made the decision we no longer had to wrestle with passing a fussy baby back and forth between us while we tried to shovel food down our respective gullets.

Part of the reason this ritual has made sense for us has to do with Crabhubby's schedule. He isn't home in time for Crabtot's 6:30 dinner. And actually it is he who makes dinner at least half of the week, so by the time it's on the table Crabtot is in bed. But even if we could eat as a family every night...the truth is we wouldn't want to. Not yet, at least. I know this because we eat dinner together on weekends sometimes, and when I have to get up from the table for the seventh time—in search of a moist cloth or to hurriedly rinse another fistful of cherry tomatoes—I look forward to the weekdays ahead, when I can park my butt in a chair for the duration of dinner, eat some seriously spicy food if I wish, and not have to reprimand anyone about using fingers as forks.

Yeah yeah, our system has its drawbacks. How is Crabtot ever to learn proper table manners and evolve her palate if she doesn't eat with her elders? (And how are we, her elders, going to brush up our slack table manners if not by setting an example?) Plus, yes, there's the hassle of making a separate supper for the little one. It's a drag.

But there's still something to be said for that table set for two. The unfiltered, uninterrupted, civilized, grownup conversation. A tiny bit of sanity in an otherwise nutty day. I'm not saying it's always scintillating convo at our house or that there's anything romantic about these dinners, but there's something swell about eating with someone who doesn't fire off skeptical questions about the "little black dots" on the lambchops. Like all good things, our grownups' dinner won't last, and that's as it should be. But for now, we're sticking with dinner for two, and I say  "chin-chin."

What about you, parents of small fry? Do you eat with your kids? If so, when did you start?

I'm lying on a bench at the playground. From the corner of my eye I see my daughter gesticulating at some kid. And he's gesticulating back. And they're looking tense. And one of them is climbing UP the slide! My body stiffens. UP the slide! If ever there's a playground no-no for me that's it. Because just think of all the things that can go wrong, the kids that can get hurt, the bad manners... And so on and so forth. But I'm not budging. Do I seem like I'm lazy? Actually, what I'm doing takes work. I am in fact trying very hard to resist a powerful urge to march over to the kids, observe, mediate, modify, and otherwise interfere with the business of child's play.   

I was never a mom who thought toddler and preschoolers should just "work it out" when they clash over a toy or treat each other badly. Like so many moms I have looked askance at those moms who hang back from their kids when they are rude or misbehaving. But, people, I've changed my tune. It's this book, A Nation of Wimps: The High Cost of Invasive Parenting, by psychologist Hara Estroff Marano. We've heard of "helicopter" parenting before, but this author takes the concept far further, suggesting that hovering over our children's every move and micro-managing everything they experience (she calls it "hothouse parenting") creates adults who can't take risks, handle stress, or in fact make any independent decisions. According to the author, even our economy might suffer the consequences of the parental hover. Freaky!

But I buy it. It's really a most compelling book, sourcing everyone from admissions counselors at Harvard to experts on ADHD. And having read it, I've vowed to change my ways. Not all of them. I'm not going to take Crabtot out of her weekly Chess Grand-mini-master classes or cut out the private pre-pre-K tutoring. I mean, I've got to get this child ready for school, gotta give her an edge. But I am going to stop hovering over her at the playground. I'm going to let her peers teach her a thing or two before I get in there to stop them. I know it won't be easy. But I'm going to try. So if you see me lying on a bench, hypermommies. don't look down on me. I'm working hard. I'm trying to perfect the art of imperfect mothering. In fact, I'm saving our future economy. Maybe even democracy itself. Read the book and you'll see.

I'll leave you with a quote: "The paradox of parenting is that the pressure to make it perfect can undermine the outcome." So kick back with me, chill. Let's not work so hard to make our kids perfect.  Let them work it out.

My 3.5 year old still drinks from a bottle. And I'm fine with it.

Dear Department of Child Services,

I believe the Perfect Mommy Police have called you about me. Yes, I'm the mother whose child still has a bottle and she's in preschool. I realize that Perfect Urban Motherhood has notified you about this already, but may I explain before you take my child away from me?

Okay, readers. Let's scrap the pseudo-letter. I'll make my case to you straight: my daughter drinks a bottle every morning and every evening and she is almost four. In the morning bottle she has herbal tea. She likes this tea and it's harmless. In this morning bottle I also add a drizzle of honey. Which drives her wild with joy. In the evening, before bed she has herbal tea again, minus the honey. Then after she cleans her teeth she has another slug of her "Bobby," but this time, only water in there.

A hundred years ago, when I had my daughter in Brooklyn NYC, land of Perfect Urban Motherhood, I did all the things that Perfect Mommyhood requires: I attempted natural childbirth; I breastfed, read Dr. Sears, and spent a great deal of time learning about when to introduce eggs and dairy products into the baby's diet. In short, as a PMIT (Perfect-Mother-In-Training) I smiled at the good and frowned at the bad. And then, at the appointed time ordained by the Perfect Momming Collective (PMC), I implemented a much-dreaded but very important phase: getting my child onto sippy cups.

As a Perfect Mom, I got quite antsy when my baby didn't respond perfectly to my perfect ideas. She was reluctant to take a cup and it was a constant battle. And the one day I told my own mother about how the baby bottle was not disappearing from our lives on schedule. And my mother, who has raised three children (with very straight teeth), said to me: "Why do you want her to give it up? Is it about you or her?"

Of course I made the case of Perfect Motherhood to my mom, because naturally the generations of moms before ours were themselves anything but Perfect. However, when I got to the obvious sticking point that bottles are bad for baby teeth, my mom just laughed. She told me that my sister had had her bottle for many, many years. Indeed, my adult sister can even remember her beloved "Bobby"! So that must mean she was, like, fifteen or so when she quit. (Joking, people, but she was maybe 5 or 6?) Mom told me that yes, my sis's teeth did stick out a bit after years of Bobby, but after she gave it up, her teeth went "right back down in a matter of weeks."

And then we laughed. And my mom spoke of the parenting fads and facts that changed with the advent of each of her children. And suddenly Bobby didn't bother me so much anymore.

Now I admit I may have taken things a bit far and long with Bobby. But so what? We've moved a lot and my daughter is quite a wound-up sort of gal like her mom. And Bobby gives her comfort. And then just last week I read a blog in which the blogger posted a pic of Suri Cruise to discuss her hair and whether it was dyed. And a commenter expressed concern over the bottle in the Cruiselet's hand. "Almost two and still on a bottle?" was her shocked reaction at the Holmes mothering style. And it occurred to me that it is a weird day in the world when what is shocking about the Tom Cruises is their toddler's bottle.

Thus commenced a back and forth over the bottle with the commenter expressing concern that my child would go to Kindergarten with her bottle. And there were dire warnings about jaw realignment and so forth. And I'm not knocking this woman's experience with her own kid, and certainly she would not be the first mom to think ill of baby bottles beyond the baby stage (never mind the Breast-Is-Besters who often diss all bottles altogether). But you know what? I'll take my chances. Because I can't take the hysteria. And frankly, the orthodontic nipple on Crabtot's Bobby doesn't look like something likely to inflict permanent damage on her face. So really, give me a break.

This kind of bottle talk just reminds me that Perfect Mommyhood is always out there. And I don't want to be in it anymore. Back to the bottle itself, sooner or later Crabtot will need to give it up. I suppose. Mind you, I still drink from my own Bobby and my teeth are fine!

Seriously, are bottles really bad beyond a certain age...or is this just another non-issue we moms create so we can judge each other? What's your take?

My child is terrified of volcanoes. At her last preschool in Crabtown, when they got to "v" in their alphabet studies, they did an amazing blow-up papier-mâché volcano thing in the classroom. The experiment sounded awesome. But Crabtot didn't like it one bit.

"Where's Hawaii?" she asked nervously, and on a regular basis, after that day. "I don't want to go there," she'd add. Thus began a routine of volcanic conversation. "Do we live near Hawaii?" was a repeat question. "Nowhere near!" we soothed. "Have you ever seen a volcano?" she'd ask me. "Never!" I responded. "Volcanoes are faaaaar away," I reassured her. "They can't hurt you."

"Are there people who live near volcanoes?" Crabtot pressed us, night after night, day after day. "Do you know lava? Is there lava in Hawaii?"

We all know that teaching your kids not to fear things is key, that teaching them to face their fears is important. In theory. But with our three-year-old, the Crabfamily solution was just plain denial: There were no volcanoes anywhere near us, no people living near them. Never mind that at the time of her classroom experiment, we lived less than an hour from Yellowstone National Park, which is the largest caldera, or volcanic pustule, on the planet. When it blows they say it will take out the whole of the west. And that's before the radiation aftermath.

And now we live in the northwest, where Crabtot's favorite playground is on top of a small mountain. But not just any old mount. It's an extinct volcano. Just don't tell her that because we certainly won't.

What's the lesson here? I guess that there aren't very many v-words to teach preschoolers in the alphabet. Or at least, none suitable for young ears.

What frightens your kids? And how do you handle their fears?

I'm going to share a motherhood tip that I hope will be useful to you. I'm going to tell you how to eat a donut right in front of your preschooler wi