Mommy Ever After » Dirty Dancing

An Impossible-to-believe-“Dirty Dancing”-Moment, THE SEQUEL!!!

mommyeverafter — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 23:50:27 +0000

You see, tonight, as I was cleaning up dinner and picking up after the hurricane formerly known as my daughter,
I put on “Be My Baby” by the Ronnettes, so that we could slow dance together.
And as I held her, swaying back and forth,
she grabbed my face and kissed me, right smack on the mouth.
With her angel lips.
Yumazing.
So we danced
(And yes, I, of course, let her be Baby. But just this time.)
and she walked around swinging her little skirt to the music,
and she swayed and swished right on over to the corner.
Of the kitchen.
And stood there.
In the corner.
Yes.
Say it with me, now:
“Nobody puts baby in the corner!”
Oh, this child of mine. So much to learn, has she.

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“My sweet baby…”

mommyeverafter — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 23:35:19 +0000

Tonight, as we headed up to baby’s bed time,
she crawled up the stairs, as I crawled, trailing one step behind her,
this song came on the radio station that filled our house.
So yes,
we were crawling,
on the floor,
and we were not exactlydancing,
but with a face smeared with dark chocolate,
my girl was certainly dirty.
While it may not have lived up to my very favorite scene in my favorite movie,
I must say,
it wasn’t half bad.
In fact, you could even say I had the time of my life.

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And Oh, those summer nights.

mommyeverafter — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 22:55:06 +0000

dirty piggies
and porch swings
and all.

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I know that you won’t believe me when I tell you this,

mommyeverafter — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 22:36:39 +0000

but the baby and I are currently watching Dirty Dancing,
and, at just the right moment
my baby
(not to be confused with Baby Houseman)
pulled herself up,
pinned herself up to the back of her crib
and did a dip.
Just. Like. This.
(thank you to the beautiful Without Melissa for this image, as her site was the only place I could find it on these internets!)
I’m not kidding.
My baby did THE Baby.
I knew she was mine!
So, I called my dad.
And, he told me what I already knew.
“Nobody puts baby in the corner.”
True, dad.
So, so true.

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How To Install a Convertible Carseat

mommyeverafter — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 14:50:47 +0000

You know, I don’t consider myself an expert on many things
(besides, you know, Sex and the City and Dirty Dancing, and Disney Princesses.)
and therefore don’t write many “How To” guides.
However, this one, I’ve got in the bag.
How to Install a Convertible Carseat:
Step 1: Buy a cute carseat once your baby has grown out of her infant seat. (I mean, it may be called a Snugride, but once you’re unable to buckle the straps over her faux fur coat, you know you need to upgrade.)
Step 2: Wait, patiently for the new, cute carseat you’ve ordered to arrive on your doorstep.
Step 3: Race to the door once you hear the thud from the delivery man and tear open the giant, cardboard box with glee.
Step 4: Pout once you realize that the big brown box was actually your diaper order.
Step 5: Repeat Step 3.
Step 6: Jump up and down when the adorable new convertible seat does arrive, and get ready to begin installation.
Step 7: Tell husband that it is time to install the new carseat. Send him outside, during the blizzard, to do so.
Step 8: Wait 6 minutes before tapping on the front door to signal your husband and once you get his attention, tap your watch and shrug your shoulders, as if to say “Are you DONE yet?!”
Step 9: Go into the kitchen to refuel with some graham crackers.
Step 10: Peak out the dining room window to gauge the progress.
Step 11: Repeat Steps 8-10.
Step 12: Ask Questions. Suggestions include: “What’s taking so long?” and “Is this more difficult than the other carseat or something?”
Step 13: Repeat Step 9.
Step 14: ( And this is very important) Remember to brush the graham cracker crumbs off of your face and clothes before your husband comes back inside to tell you that he’s finished the installation, and that he continues to be the handiest Jewish man in the world. You must hide the evidence, as you’ve told your husband that you were busy working on “very important matters” inside and therefore were unable to help him in the car. Husbands don’t think that graham crackers are “very important matters”.
Step 15: Dress baby as a Disney Princess and take her for a joyride in her adorable, huge, safe new seat, while singing “I’ve Had the Time of my Life” and sipping on Mocktail Cosmopolitans.
Step 16: Just kidding
Step 17: But only about the Mocktails.

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nobody puts daddy in the corner

mommyeverafter — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 00:50:40 +0000

What does it mean to be the daddy of a little girl?
I know that in my house growing up, it meant many things.
My dad grew up with 3 sisters. He then had 2 daughters and a female dog. He was a life-long swimmer in the estrogen pond, so to speak.
In some ways, my dad is the consummate guy’s guy; he is an athlete, an avid sports fan, and he’s exceptionally good at math. Did I stereotype enough for you, there?
However, he is also the ultimate girl’s dad.
For him, being a daddy to two little girls meant dressing up as Miss America for Halloween. Let me tell you, a 6’2”, cobalt, lacy nightgown clad Miss America is not exactly inconspicuous.
Being a daddy to two little girls meant making up secret languages and games, like letting me hide in his small closet, over and over again, only so that he could find me and “throw me out like a sack of potatoes”. I must have played this with him for hours on end, each time believing that I would be able to go undiscovered in that tiny 2ftX2ft square of darkness.
Being a daddy to two little girls meant letting us do his makeup, forcing him to do ours, and becoming skilled at picking out which shoes go with which pants.
Being a daddy to two girls meant knowing when to hand over the telephone to our mom. (This happened to me just today, in fact.)
Being a daddy to two little girls meant helping me to pick out my Rolling Stones wedding song before I was out of elementary school.
Being a daddy to two little girls meant that in middle school, my dad made homemade milkshakes and chocolate chip cookies for us every.single.night before bed.
Being a daddy to two little girls means that my dad can school any of you in Dirty Dancing trivia. It means that instead of referring to Craig Bierko as Max Baer in Cinderella Man, my dad refers to him as Ray King, “Jazz Man” in Sex and the City.
My dad may be the ultimate man’s man, but he’s also the supreme girl’s daddy, and he has the pink shirts to prove it.
What does it mean to be the daddy of a little girl?
In my house it means many things.
It means that my husband has now purchased more than one two tutus.
It means that he now knows the difference between Aurora, Tiana, Jasmine and Ariel.
It means navigating through seas of pink and lace and tiaras and eyelashes and crazy, unimaginable love.
And, just today, it meant that I walked into the baby’s room to find my husband filing my daughter’s nails.
“So,” he began, as he leaned over the baby’s long, delicate fingers. “Time to gossip! That’s what ladies do when they get their nails done.”
That is what it means to be the daddy to a little girl,
and a very, very good one at that.

What does it mean to be the daddy of a little girl?
Let me tell you,
it means the world.

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And, the winner for the greatest question of all, goes to…

mommyeverafter — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 14:18:23 +0000

Yesterday, when I wrote about questions,
I mistakenly left out the most fantasticallyawful question of all.
Let me set the scene for you:
It was my birthday.
I was 39 weeks pregnant.
My belly was so large under my tank-top that someone described my shirt as having to “work really hard”.
Put it this way: I was giving Baby Housman a run for her money in the “I carried a watermelon” competition.
Anyway, I was supa pregnant and was doing everything in my power to get the baby out.
And so, I waddled around the block a few times, hoping that my water would break,
as I searched the ground for feathers.
We came across a nice, young family, and stopped for the kids to pet our doggies.
The mother smiled at me, and asked, sweetly,
“When are you expecting?”
Except, I couldn’t quite make out exactly what she had said.
I wasn’t sure if she had asked me “When are you expecting?” or “What are you expecting?” (which, by the way, is also a rather silly question, when you think about it. That same week, I asked another hugely pregnant woman that very question, and she looked at me, with a blank stare, and replied, “A human.”)
“I’m sorry?” I replied, wishing for her to repeat her question so that I could answer it properly.
All of the color drained from this poor woman’s face.
She was terrified that she had made the ultimate faux pas.
“Ummmm, are you expecting?” She whispered, shaking in her sandals.
Can you imagine? I literally had an XL sized bowling ball under my shirt.
And that, my friends, was the single greatest pregnancy question of all.

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