happy birthday, baby daddy

The other short people took quite a while to warm up to him.
But Sweets?
That boy loves him some Daddy.

And I know you know what I mean when I say
there's nothing like a Daddy and his baby.
*****
Except maybe a Daddy and his babies.

Happy birthday, Mister.

the sling and swaddle fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants

So I was in this Twitter contest... Have I mentioned that?

Yeah, well, it's over. The winner was announced July 8th, and she is a lovely, lovely mama from Boston with a lovely, lovely daughter. And I am very happy for her.

Really, I am. I love my pinko-liberal-bleeding-heart sisters, and I think we'd have a lot in common if we knew each other in real life. I think lots of the mamas in the contest would be friends if we were close enough to actually hang.

I am thankful for the free product I got to use for the contest (and that I get to keep!). I really, really appreciate all of you who followed me, and Follow Friday-ed me, or otherwise encouraged other people to follow me. I truly appreciate your time.

I am glad I got to meet a bunch of cloth diapering mamas, and a bunch of babywearing mamas, and that I now have a good understanding of the social medium that is Twitter.

However? Not so happy with the running of the contest. At the beginning, each participant was required to sign an agreement that outlined the three criteria that would be used to determine the winner: number of updates, number of followers, and creative content.

I did not have the most updates. I did have the most followers, and my content was pretty decent.

I spent a lot, and I mean A LOT of time twittering, and maintaining my followers list in order to get as many followers as I could. I neglected some of my housework, spent WAY too much time on the computer, not as much time with my husband... and I'm not complaining. I made choices. I chose to enter the contest, I chose to play to win.

I didn't win. And I'm okay with not winning.

What I'm not okay with is the ambiguous process that decided the winner. I emailed the person who ran the contest and I asked how they had determined the winner, because I was playing for my local teen MOPS group, and wanted to explain to them why I wasn't the winner.

Turns out, two additional criteria were added without informing contestants, and the number of followers was basically discounted, because some mamas had non-legitimate followers.

That's right, I said non-legitimate followers, thereby violating the stipulation that... oh wait. There were no stipulations. There were no rules about how people got followers. Really, the only rule that was mentioned was that you couldn't post inappropriate content.

So the top three or four people, in terms of the actually measurable criteria (followers and updates) were pretty much out of the running.

Lots of the mamas had done numerous blog posts with pictures of themselves using the product, pictures of the babies wearing product, wrapped in product. Many of the mamas used yfrog and twitpic to post pictures to their Twitter accounts. It seems that did not really weigh into the evaluations, either.

And at the end of last week, the question was raised about the age of the winning baby. Well, not about what her age is, her mama talks about her age on her blog. But the baby is older than the rules of the contest allowed. I'm going to go not that far out on a limb and speculate that there was no dishonesty on the part of the winning mama. She doesn't seem like that sort of person. I think the people in charge of the contest are at fault. They put conflicting information on the agreement and on the application info, and coupled with the other inconsistancies, I think it's logical to hold them accountable for this, too.

When the age of the baby deal was brought to their attention, the response of Sling and Swaddle was, "You're correct. That's something that we'll handle with that mom. Thnx for your concern." The next question posed to them was to the effect of, "That's great, but how are you going to handle it fairly in regards to the other 29 moms?" To which Sling and Swaddle has yet to reply. I even sent them an email asking how this would be handled, and haven't heard back.

Ummm, people? That is just not a good way to do business. When you make a mistake, own up to it, and make it right. If you can't make it right, at least do something to make it look like you're trying. Don't just leave things hanging.

The Sling and Swaddle Journey was fun while it lasted, but I get the impression it has ended on a sour note for some of the mamas involved due to the lack of planning, the hosts' lack of knowledge of Twitter, the disorganization, the lack of rules for the contestants to follow, and the change in expectations which was not passed on to the contestants.

A little more planning and attention to detail could have helped this contest be a fun month-long journey. Instead, they took us for a ride.

dear karen...

Dangit if I don't know a whole mess of people named Karen and now you go and leave me a comment about the homeschooling and I have no idea which Karen to talk to. As if I don't have enough to think about.

Out yourself, woman! Or man named Karen! In which case the list of Karens suddenly became much, much shorter.

And yes, we are homeschooling, and I will address that in a future postage.

how i got my neighborhood black-listed

I think it's safe to say that I was fairly surly when the end of my pregnancy with Miss O rolled around.

Or, when I rolled around at the end of my pregnancy with Miss O.

Either way, and also? Moving on.

I was a long-term substitute for a middle school music teacher in a suburb of Buffalo, and if you missed it the ninetyeleven times I mentioned this so far? Teaching was not for me. Teaching is the opposite of what I should do when I grow up.

Says the mama who will be homeschooling next year.

I'm getting to the point, I swear.

But first? A brief commercial. I love Cheez-Its. The kind with two flavors in one box? All parmesanish and cheddarish? Hello, lover.

Anyway. I was fat and pissed off and my feet hurt. And it was dinner time (but with that pregnancy, it was ALWAYS dinner time...I will make it through this post if it kills me). Also, it was about 5 degrees outside, and while we measure temperature with the F, 5 degrees C sucks, too.

Someone knocked on my door, which was the result of a serious effort, because it was January, and there was about eighty-nine inches of snow on my sidewalk. Or four. I can't be held accountable for accurately describing things that happen to me when I'm pregnant.

I think I had changed out of my work clothes into my pajamas and bathrobe, so I was very excited to answer the door and find a gaggle of sort-of-well-ish-dressed twenty-somethings standing there.

Score.

I opened the door and asked if I could help them.

THEM: We're volunteers, and we would like to talk to you about some important information.

ANGRY PREGNANT LADY: Oh, really? Who do you volunteer for?

THEM: Ummm, uh, well, we're just, ummm.... volunteers.

PREGGERPANTS McGEE: No, seriously. You must be associated with somebody.

THEM: Well, we are volunteers. (Kind of the way one might say, I'm a MOUSEKETEER!)

MOI: That's great. I volunteer, too, with my local Habitat for Humanity affiliate. Except when I volunteer with them? I SAY SO.

THEM: We'd like to give you this information about God.

PREGNANT SMART-ASS: I know God.

The poor kids looked hopeful for a minute.

PREGNANT SMART-ASS: Do you work for God? How's that going? And why is He sending you out in weather like this?

The poor kids looked sad.

ME: Have a nice day.

I closed the door. And then my crazy hormone brain kicked in. If you have ever had crazy hormone brain, you know there's just nothing for it.

The poor, poor Mister. He has endured so much crazy.

I followed them out to their car. In my bathrobe, pajamas, and slippers.

The poor kids looked scared.

ME: Yeah, so here's the thing. If you have balls enough to go door to door in a strange community "volunteering" (yes, I did the air quotes), you should be able to muster up enough balls to say who sent you.

I also said something about standing on their soapbox, and if they truly believed in what they were doing they wouldn't be secretive and hide information... and I said a bunch of other things which quite possibly included something slightly more offensive than, "Get the hell out of Dodge and don't ever come back, you pansy-assed proselytizers."

To their credit? They follow directions wonderfully.

*******************

Much thanks to cIII at The Goat and Tater for the inspiration. He scared 'em off with his tattoos. Word.

welcome.

Hi. I'm Pamela, and I'm the blogger round these here parts.

Except for when I'm not the blogger, then I perform a variety of other services, including, but not limited to the following:

1. wife
2. mama
3. nursemaid
4. coffee-drinker
5. applier of all things band-aid
6. remover of all things band-aid
7. chef
8. babywearer
9. lawn mower
10. ass-wiper
11. ass-wiper
12. ass-wiper
13. ass-wiper
14. yes, I have included my own in the tally
15. laundress
16. bed maker
17. toy tripper-onner
18. toy kicker
19. toy thrower-awayer
20. gardener
21. nose wiper
22. all night diner
23. all night water service
24. cat hater
25. cat tripper-onner
26. cat kicker
27. not all the cats, just the one who asks for it by wrapping his nasty self around my feet and ankles, and I don't kick him *that* hard, but I did throw a high-heeled shoe in his general direction the other day, don't bother calling PETA, I'll kick and throw shoes at them, too.
28. because I can, that's why.
29. raw pea-pod eater
30. raspberry picker
31. currant picker
32. not a nose picker
33. diaper washer
34. chauffeur
35. sometime adult
36. ummm...
37. brainiac. or something.

Thanks for stopping by. If you're new here, please know that my usual offerings are slightly better than this measly peasly list. Which, if I may say so myself, is NOT all inclusive, however the omission of both lap-dancer and pole-dancer is not a mistake.

Because the list is all the stuff I do for free.

there's nothing for it

My boy is sad. His Special Bwankey, Bewovey, or as the tall people say, Belovey, has been missing for almost a week. He cried himself to sleep tonight. The substitute Belovey is unacceptable. He can't even suck his thumb properly because he doesn't have his Belovey to help. And nothing smells the way Belovey smells (for this, I am thankful...there was no hope for making it smell fresh ever again).

He cries like his heart is broken.

Because it is broken.

And that makes me very, very sad.

Because three is too young to have an unfixable hurt.

driving back from le maison well-read

It went a little something like this:

POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 67 MINUTES.

Stop for an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, to the bathroom, diapers changed, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, refill the water, dole out the snacks, buckle the seatbelts, curse under the breath, start car and go.

POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 22 MINUTES.

Stop for way more than an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, to the bathroom, diapers changed, play on the playground, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, refill the water, dole out the snacks, buckle the seatbelts, pray for bourbon, start car and go.

POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 53 MINUTES.

Stop for an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, to the bathroom, diapers changed, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, refill the water, dole out the snacks, buckle the seatbelts, curse under the breath, start car and go.

POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 47 MINUTES.

Stop for an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, in the Waffle House, ordered, fed (except not really, because they didn't eat), to the bathroom, diapers changed, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, buckle the seatbelts, curse under the breath, start car and go across the parking lot to the Calico Corners outlet to look for a Substitute Beloved Blanket. Which? No dice. In the car, buckle up, unbuckle, change a diaper, serve cheese to accompany the WHINE.

POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 24 MINUTES.

Purchase dramamine.

POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 84 MINUTES, WHILST CURSING THE MAKERS OF DRAMAMINE.

silence.

PINCHING MY EARLOBES TO STAY AWAKE.

The End.

****************************
Epilogue: I got into bed and was so exhausted I was dreaming I was still driving, and if I closed my eyes and went to sleep I'd crash my car and die. It was messed up.