“(Name) called me a baby,” LittleBrother said as he took another bite of his sammich.

I paused, mid-bite. “What?” He repeated himself. I looked at FireDad.

“What did you say to (name),” FireDad asked.

“I’m not a baby! I’m a big boy!” He smiled, white bread sticking through his teeth.

He got some hugs from us. Why a nine year old has to call a three year old a baby, I’m not really sure. But the fact that my little, er, big boy was confident enough in himself to set the record straight made my heart swell with pride. He didn’t come running upstairs with tears in his eyes. He didn’t punch the kid in the face. He didn’t send his older brother after the kid. He just stated the truth: He’s not a baby.

I could really use to swipe some of that confidence from my youngest child.

Probably at the exact same time some kid was picking on my precious LittleBrother downstairs at the Super Bowl party, I was getting the same riot act upstairs. That’s right. I was getting teased for being the youngest in the room as well. (Except that I wasn’t; FireDad is a year younger than me. No one said a word to him.)

“Were you even alive when that movie was made?”

“You do know who Guns N’Roses is, don’t you?”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you weren’t even 30 yet.”

I don’t know on what planet three or five or even ten years makes a lot of difference as an adult, but apparently it does. And while I would never dare to tease my friend who is turning 40 this year for “being old,” it’s apparently okay to tease me for “being young.” Because I had control over when I was conceived. Or when my parents met or when they were conceived. Or when The Bad News Bears was actually made the first time around.

I get that I’m young. I turn 30 in April, and in the Grand Scheme of Aging, it is young. But I don’t see why my age needs to be constantly brought up, rehashed and poked fun of by friends and strangers alike. Making fun of my young age negates all of the accomplishments I have made in those few short years. Making fun of my age dismisses all of the things I have been through to arrive at this point in my life as a whole person who happens to be proud of herself, proud of her journey. Making fun of my age takes me back to the days when I struggled with age, and doing the right thing and not being who I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be her. I already try to beat back the ghosts of failure on a daily basis; they don’t need help haunting me by people who are supposed to be my friends.

I know it doesn’t help that I look young either, but I’m not about to start donning the clothes that my Grandmother wears just to get people to show me a little respect. My Grandma is a fashionable lady, but it’s not my style. I’m also not going to wish away my healthy skin. If you want me to point out my gray hairs, I can as they are quite numerous, but the truth is that I’ve had those since I was 18 years old. I’ve always been an old soul, I suppose. Maybe people would be less likely to make fun of my age if I let my hair go gray. Or if I drew in deep wrinkles. Or if I wore granny style clothes. But probably not.

If this had been the first occurrence with friends, maybe I would have shrugged it off and it wouldn’t be nagging me two days later. But it wasn’t. And if random new people I meet in my life balk at the fact that I have two kids until they learn my age, maybe I wouldn’t mind. And if I wasn’t asked if I’m old enough to drive. Or vote. Or have a drink. And if people didn’t just assume that it’s okay to flip ageism and use my young age against me, I might have just gone back to watching commercials and bemoaning my teams’ march toward The Big Loss. But I have four different drafts of this post, having written and saved them at four different times last year. People just keep pushing the age thing. And for the life of me I can’t figure out why it’s not okay to disrespect an older woman but it’s okay to disrespect a younger one. In public. Talk about putting me on the spot. Let’s just be thankful my anxiety is in an okay place these days. Younger me wasn’t able to handle things like that.

But I didn’t really defend myself on Sunday evening. I blinked back a tear or two, driven to the brink of frustration that my age had come up again. I didn’t point out my accomplishments. I didn’t point out the hell I have been through in those thirty years — overcoming an eating disorder, the grief associated with relinquishment, three pregnancies that all put my life in danger, postpartum depression that did the same, starting a new life in a new place, various job hells and so on. I didn’t point out that I may not have been born when x-movie or x-song was made, but I also wasn’t alive when Handel, Mozart or Beethoven were around, but I still know and appreciate music from their eras. I didn’t realize it was a prerequisite to have been alive when something was made to know of and appreciate or like it. But I said nothing. I eventually made a quip about kicking one of the almost 40 year olds in the shin and something about shattering his old leg, but it didn’t feel right. That’s not who I am. And I regretted saying it immediately. Because 40? Is still so young.

I refuse to wear a nametag that says: “I’m (almost) 30, have accomplished more than most of you while still maintaining a youthful look so STUFF IT.” That’s not who I am either. I simply respect others for their place in life — younger than me or older — and am silly enough to expect it in return. So I’m going to just have to reinvest in some thick skin, remind myself that it takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown as I paste that smile on my face and take a confidence lesson from my youngest son. Because I am amazing. I am accomplished. I am beautiful. And, yes, I am young and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. I own my beauty and, darn it, I’m going to own my age too. And I don’t need the approval of the Age Police to be who I am, inside and out.

I may be young, but I’m not a baby.

“I’m Not a Baby!” is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

So when Christmas time came around last year and the Grandparents started asking what the boys wanted, I happily replied, “Hungry, Hungry Hippos!” I even convinced LittleBrother that he wanted the game on a trip to the store. (May I add that I love the Power of Suggestion that parents still have over young children?) When he opened the game, I was so excited to add it to our game library. My very own Hungry, Hungry Hippos! Er, uh, LittleBrother’s very own. You know.

When we finally got around to our first round of family game night after Christmas, we made a horrific discovery: They changed Hungry, Hungry Hippos.

Now, granted, I expected a few changes. As an example, the “board” is now a bright turquoise blue as opposed to the original red. And the original was sturdier than the crazy, cheap, nearly fragile plastic of today’s version. And? The original? Fit in the box. That’s right. To put the new version away in the box in which it came, you have to take it apart. And it never really fits back in the box the right way, so you not only have to take it apart but you kind of have to shove it back in the box at odd angles to get the dang thing to close and fit on the shelf. Know what that creates?

Broken hippos.

To be fair, this was our first broken hippo in just under a month. I expected these awful, cheap excuses for hippos to break within days of our first game. Nope. We made it almost a month. To be fair, FireDad was able to fix the hippo.

But, let’s be honest, it shouldn’t come apart in less than a month… even when you’re playing a, uh, heated game of Hungry, Hungry Hippos.

By the way, guess whose hippo broke?

Yeah. Me. Figures.

And, by the way, the boys both love the game. I mean, it is still a fun game. So they want to play it. Constantly. Which means FireDad and I have to put it together. Constantly. And take it apart. Constantly. I think I’ve had my fair share of hippos despite my earlier denied years.

It’s probably because I’m so grumpy that the game I so longed for is now nothing more than a piece of crap. That’s right, I said piece of crap. How do you go from this awesome:

To this awful:

Then again, I guess the end of the 2009 Hungry, Hungry Hippos commercial does say, “Adult assembly required.” What it should say is this: “Adult assembly required because we changed the old version and this one sucks. In fact, you’re likely going to break this one and have to buy a new one. Which is our Grand Master Plan: Sell more hippos.”

The old commercial is better. The old game is better. In fact, like the kid in the original commercial, I win! Or I will. There are a few original versions on eBay, and I’m gonna win me one. So there, “Elefun and Friends.” Pfft.

Have you experienced the Hungry, Hungry Hippos disaster? Or do you have another old favorite that has been so drastically changed that it surely is a National Tragedy? Warn us. Now.

The “New” and “Improved” Hungry, Hungry Hippos Is Crap is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

Because it gave away the story.

I went home and read through the book I got for BigBrother. It was your typical level 2 type reader: short sentences and easy words. I had figured it was like some of the other movie based readers we have in our library; instead of telling the full story of the movie that it either told a sub-story or a completely different story all together. Not this one.

I now know the full story of Toy Story 3. More than the trailer gives away.

But I won’t spoil it for you. Just like I didn’t spoil it for the boys. Because I took it away. BigBrother is mad. I mean, who could blame him? I gave him something he loved twice over: a book about Toy Story. And then I took it back. FireDad supported this venture though he feels equally Scrooge-like. We have made promises to read the book the night we get home from seeing the movie on June 18th. He doesn’t care. He’s mad.

I’m mad, too.

When it comes to the new Toy Story movie, marketers are in heaven. Not only do they know that kids are in love with the movie and characters (and expensive toys) but parents like me have also been in love with the movie for years. We’re equally excited about the next chapter in the toys’ journey. We want to buy the toys. We want to buy the books. And the games. And to catch the movie on opening day. We want to share our love of the movie with our children. And marketers know that. The toys are everywhere right now. Taunting us. And it’s working. I get it. I understand. Really, I do.

But could we leave the spoilers out of it until the movie is released?

Put the rocket ship sprinkler in the store. And the movie editions of Connect 4, Buckaroo, Memory and Operation (!). Please, pretty please, release the Buzz, Woody and Jessie costumes for Mr. Potato Head. If you could drop the price on Buzz and Woody themselves, I’d be thrilled. I think perhaps that bubbles and boogie boards are slight overkill but I’m okay with all of those things. Just stop putting out things with spoilers until after we’ve seen the movie. Pretty please?

Or I may have to make BigBrother and LittleBrother laser you. And nobody wants that, now do they?

Toy Story Merchandise Spoiler Warning is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

In fact, I struck out repeatedly. One store did have something that wasn’t quite what I was looking for but would have worked… but… of course, not in his size. I got desperate on Wednesday, knowing that he needed something appropriate for this weekend, and brought it up with my friends over coffee. They informed me that they had found a similar sandal at Payless last year. So, after running some errands, we drove 25 miles to the nearest Payless. I had promised BigBrother a treat if he was on his best behavior when we went into the store and so he excitedly followed me in the store, ready to try on a shoe. Anything for a treat, right?

But there was a problem.

In his size, toddler 9, there were approximately six pair of boys shoes. I wish I was joking. There were multiple pairs of the same sparkly little girl dressy sandals. There were multiple pairs of dressy girly sandals. The boys? Their options were some sneakers or some play-sandals featuring licensed characters. An associate popped into the aisle to ask if I needed anything. When I inquired about a boy’s dressier sandal in my son’s size, she said that everything they had was already out.

Really? Because the girls had over 30 pairs in size 9 and you only had six pairs for boys?

Frustrated, I took BigBrother’s hand and lead him out the door. This, of course, was met with a small meltdown as he assumed that the lack of shoe-trying-on meant that he wouldn’t get a treat. I assured him that he was not the one in trouble and he quite sniffling. Thankfully, two stores down was a Famous Footwear store. Not only did they have a wider selection of shoes for boys in general but they had a brown sandal in BigBrother’s size. And it fit. He did ask to hold the Lightning McQueen croc while I tried the intended shoe on his foot but replaced it happily when I said that we were done and he figured that meant it was treat time. I paid twice what I would have at Payless and left, happy that the search was finally over.

It’s not exactly the price issue. I don’t mind paying more for shoes as shoes are important because taking good care of your child’s feet is a good investment. However, I’m just constantly aggravated with the lack of selection when it comes to any form of clothing for boys.

Why do stores, especially discount-type stores, assume that we want our boys to be dressed in junk at all times? Why do girls get frilly, semi-dressy things for a reasonable price while boys are offered nothing more than junk for the same cost? Why do I have to spend more to achieve the same “level” of look for my boys? When did people stop caring what their boys looked like? I know. You get what you pay for. I understand that concept. And that if I want quality, I will pay more. But for Pete’s sake, why can my friends with girls pay less to dress their children the same way?

Now, don’t get me wrong. The boys have play clothes. In fact, they have a lot of play clothes because at 3.5 and 1.5 they do a lot of playing. I do have to search, still, as I don’t like overly junky play clothes. I still like them to look presentable (until they stain the front of their shirts with whatever it is they’re doing that day like, just the other day, rolling down our hill and getting grass stains). But, seriously, if it wasn’t for the Internet most of the time, I’d never be able to dress these children up. (Do you remember my Easter debacle?) All I wanted was a pair of brown sandals to go with his khaki shorts (of which they only had one pair that wasn’t a sloppy cargo pair) and polo shirts (of which don’t have junk printed all over them) so he could look like a well-dressed child when the situation calls for it this summer.

Surely we are not the only parents of boys who dress them in more than a Lightning McQueen shirt (which he does own as fun shirts do have their place) and shorts all summer. Right?

I suppose I should calm down. They’ve both got their dressy sandals and their nice clothes for the summer. (LittleBrother’s were a random find late last year.) But I know it will be an issue next year. And the following year. (We don’t hand-me-down shoes as their feet are vastly different: short and wide versus thin and long respectively.) I can only hope that some discount stores catch on that they’re not offering the same things for boys that they are for girls and/or the the economy improves and/or I become a child’s shoe and clothing designer before next summer.

[(Speaking of clothes, I have a rant coming up about finding something appropriate and fun for my class reunion. Help?)]

The Quest for Dress(y) Sandals is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

We’re kind of picky about your yard. Our back yard, through which the children run, isn’t exactly high maintenance, but we still take care of it rather well. My day lilies line the back fence row. Last summer, I didn’t get one bloom because the birds, rabbits, deer (yes, deer in the suburbs) and children ate and picked off the tops of my stalks. I was not a happy pregnant lady. Also, we keep our backyard free of sticks and what not as BigBrother and I are often barefoot. (What? I grew up on a farm. Why does this surprise you?)

Here’s the thing about life in the suburbs: other people’s lack of maintenance affects your maintenance.

The house behind us doesn’t believe in trimming all that often. The last time that they did it? The lady left all of her (many, many) grass clippings on our side of the fence. All over my lilies, mind you. And, to boot, as they have a bunch of berries along their fence row, she left a bunch of stickers/jaggers/briars. (What do people call these?) More than making my lawn look horrendous and more than possibly harming my lilies that I love so very much, this lady put my son in danger.

You can argue that he should be wearing shoes outside. I get it. He could step on a bee. And I can’t protect him from everything. But I can’t keep shoes on the child. If he gets in his sandbox, his shoes come off. He likes the feel of sand on his feet. And with some of his texture issues, I’ll gladly let him enjoy anything on his feet. Suggesting that he put his shoes on for the three seconds that it takes him to run from his sandbox to his slide just so he doesn’t step on something seems somewhat ridiculous, no? More over, did I mention that it is our yard? We don’t even rent. We own. Our. Yard.

So, while the lady was still mowing in another part of her yard, I cleaned up the clippings. I made a neat pile. And early the next morning, since I wake up with the birds, I tossed them back over the fence. (I think this is far more acceptable than tossing a can, which is not biodegradable and which was not ours, back over our side of the fence like they did the month we moved in over two and a half years ago. No. I don’t forget.) Turns out, they didn’t even notice. And did it again a few weeks later.

So, I’m eating all of their berries.

Won’t You Be My Neighbor? No? GOOD! is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

I grew up in Western Pennsylvania, for those who aren’t in the know, and as such, I am a Pittsburgh Pirates fan. It’s true. They’re awful. But when you’re from Pittsburgh, you tend to look past the doom and gloom and find that silver lining. The silver lining, of course, being PNC Park. (Of course, I was still able to find that silver lining at Three Rivers, but, you’ve got to admit… PNC Park is swanky.) FireDad somehow escaped the love of the heinous teams of the state in which he was born and raised and in which we now live and raise our children. He, too, is a Pirates fan.

He’s also a fan of sandwiches with french fries on them, so, it’s really win-win. (Yes, Primanti Brothers has a restaurant at the stadium. See? Totally win-win.)

And while we had a great night (because the Pirates won in extra innings!), I’ve been mulling something over since we left the stadium that night. And by mulling it over, I do mean that I’ve been stewing over it and getting angrier and angrier. And now? It’s time to rant.

The past two years that we have made it out for a game, we have been seated in front of, next two and/or behind the Most Inconsiderate Fans Ever. This year, as we attended the game on Fire Fighter’s Night, I figured there would be some camaraderie, some laughter and a night of baseball among brothers. The guy seated directly behind me had a different idea. Apparently he and his crew had been drinking in the parking lot for four hours prior to the first pitch. And his language showed it.

FireDad and I decided, even prior to that first pitch, that if we took one sip of beer every time the guy behind us called the Cubs, the Pirates, his friends, other fans, the umpire or the Parrot a “bum,” we would have been rip-roaring drunk by the bottom of the first inning. Everything that happened warranted use of the word “bum.” Cubs pitcher walked our guy? He was a bum. Umpire called a Pirate out? He was a bum. Pirates batter struck out? He was a bum. The Cubs fans seated in front of FireDad and I stood up to cheer? They were bums.

Now, the word itself doesn’t really strike me, while writing this, as overly offensive. And, by itself, even at the loud volume with which it was screamed, it would have been tolerable. But it wasn’t just the word all by its lonesome. We had some big-f-word bums. And you know if he’s dropping the f-bomb, all other words are “fair play” as well. You know, even though the announcer says, prior to that first pitch, that the ball park is a family environment and foul language will not be tolerated.

I never said anything to the bum himself because I learned never to fight with someone who is drunk. But I started to think. And as I thought, I started to get mad.

I went to Three Rivers with regularity as I was growing up. My Dad loved a baseball game and I loved anything that my Dad took me to, especially if it involved nachos. I grew up understanding the game and played softball myself (pitcher) for eleven years. I want to share that same kind of love with my boys. But how am I supposed to take them to a game when bums like that are always sitting around us? Now, granted, we were sitting pretty darn close on the first base line (no foul balls; bummer). Looking up to “Peanut Heaven,” I saw some seats that we could have sat in without being bothered by any bums. But is this fair? Should children and their heights-wary Moms have to be forced to sit at the tippy-top of a stadium just to avoid something that the announcer said not to do in the first place?

I’m not talking about taking BigBrother to the game this year. Or even next year. Our goal was the summer that he is four (two summers) as that will be his first year playing T-Ball (should he choose to actually stick with it after they start). And I realize that I can’t shield him from foul language for all eternity (have you heard what I say when I step on a tiny, sharp and pointy fire truck?) but I really don’t want him walking out of PNC Park calling everyone he sees a big-f-word bum!

True. To protect my child (and my ear drums) (and my sanity) (and the guy’s face), I could be the Language Police and go find security to whine about the guy’s language behind me. But do you know what? They don’t always eject those guys. Most often they just come and tell them to tone it down. Do you know then gets nasty things said to them? Yeah. The Language Police. It’s a lose-lose situation right there; one that surely won’t make the kid’s game more enjoyable.

And so, it looks like two summers from now, you will find our family in the tippy-top row. I guess we’ll find out if BigBrother has good eyesight, right? It’s a shame we don’t… and that heights make me squeamish. Oh, it’s all for the love of the game, right?

You Sir, Are the Bum! is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

We received a bill two weeks ago for LittleBrother’s four month WellBaby checkup. Not an explanation of benefits that says, “This is not a bill.” No. We received a bill-bill. For $282.00. FireDad opened it first and asked me, without me viewing it first, why insurance didn’t cover anything. I got up, walked across the room, looked at the bill and began yelling.

After a number of phone calls, one of which a customer service representative from our health insurance laughed at me when I asked for a manager, I found out that my Husband’s employer chose a coverage program in which WellBaby visits are “capped.” That’s right. Capped. What’s the cap?

$500.00. For the entire first year.

To give you an idea, especially if you don’t deal with bills, have great (read: better than ours) insurance or don’t yet have children, the first WellBaby appointment, at two months of age, was $467.00. What exactly was $500.00 supposed to do for us? How exactly was $500.00 supposed to last for an entire year? If the CDC is so gung-ho on vaccinating all children, why are health insurance companies allowed to place a cap that makes it impossible for families who make too much money to receive said vaccinations at a clinic to get said vaccinations? Shouldn’t they just simply be covered, caps be darned?

After talking with a few insurance reps who happen to be friends of mine, our only option would be to take it up with FireDad’s employer. That’s not something that would be wise to do. If you’re not familiar with city government jobs, if you want to keep your job and, as such, your pension through your retirement, making waves is not the way to go about it.

And yes, I “should have known” about the cap. I should have read the certificate of benefits book from cover to cover. (Have you?) But I have never even heard of a cap on WellBaby visits. I didn’t know to look for such a thing! To be honest, if I had read it prior to this mess, I would have thought that was so people couldn’t schedule extra visits, meaning that as long as you stuck to your normal WellBaby schedule of 2, 4, 6 and 12 months, all would be well. I would have been wrong. As a side note, this was not in place during BigBrother’s first year. We further confirmed this with old EOB’s and a discussion with another Fire Family whose older daughter is the same age as BigBrother. Their family is now expecting a new baby and they are grateful that we let them know about this cap ahead of time so they can budget properly. I mean, they’re properly ticked off, too, but happy that they know.

And so, we’re rebudgeting our entire year. To be honest, I’m taking this as a sign to further delay certain vaccinations. What started out as a reduced rate approach to vaccinations is suddenly turning into a turtle’s pace. And no, we can’t just jam them all into next year because every year after the first year has a $150 cap (which is fine for one vaccination and one visit).

Quite honestly, I think it’s lower than low that our insurance company is even offering this as an option for businesses to choose. Perhaps the person choosing the benefit plan for my husband’s employer doesn’t have children or parented their children umpteen years ago when $500.00 would have covered a year’s worth of appointments and vaccinations. Perhaps they parented children so long ago that WellBaby visits didn’t exist. And so insurance companies are making out because people aren’t understanding what they’re signing their employees up for… and we’re left with mounting bills and customer service representatives who laugh at us and tell us “that’s too bad.”

I chose to write this, after much hemming and hawing, because I decided that my experience could benefit other parents. Check your insurance now. Call and ask if there is a cap on your WellBaby visits (for any year). If there is, ask why. If you have the cap and won’t risk losing your job if you fight it, fight it. And if not, at least you now know to budget appropriately. There’s nothing worse than being caught blind and having people tell you that you should have known to look for something that you didn’t even know existed. Now you know. Make the best use of that knowledge.

Warning to Parents About Health Insurance & WellBaby Visits is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

The next one of you to refer to LittleBrother as “tiny” will be on the receiving end of a knuckle sandwich provided by yours truly. And, boy-oh-boy, do I know how to cook up a mean knuckle sandwich. As you can see by the picture, I’ve been training LittleBrother to do the same thing. Don’t mess with him.

I realize that you mean well. I bet that 99.99% of you who offer up this backhanded compliment mean it in a loving, cute fashion. But every last one of you are driving me insane. Friends, family members and strangers alike. Of note, no one is exempt from the knuckle sandwich so don’t consider yourself safe.

Fact. LittleBrother is smaller than BigBrother. That’s because they’re two years and one week apart, genius. He’s also smaller than you. This does not make him “tiny.” Truth be told, the child is in the 95thpercentile for height and the 50-60th percentile for weight. If the two percentiles were closer, he’d be a little more round, much like BigBrother was back in the day (as he was 75th for weight but only 25th for height!). Instead, his weight is distributed over a much longer area and, as such, he looks thinner.

But he is NOT tiny. In fact, he weighed in at exactly what BigBrother weighed in at when he was four months old. And LittleBrother started out one pound and one ounce lighter! The difference, you ask? The length. LittleBrother was two full inches longer than BigBrother. Hence the difference! If you read that again, LittleBrother is actually BIGGER than BigBrother was at this point in time. Shocker, eh?

For your future reference in hopes that you may avoid knuckle sandwiches from other equally annoyed parents, “tiny” is only acceptable within the first twenty-four hours or so of birth. Newborns, even larger ones, do seem especially small in our big, adult-sized hands. However, once home from the hospital, start commenting on the growth, not the alleged small stature. Another tip: I would avoid the word “tiny” all together with parents of a child born prematurely. If they use it, fine. You, on the other hand, should comment on how awesomely the baby is growing.

LittleBrother is growing along just fine. He is well within an appropriate growth curve, is hitting all of his milestones and is wearing clothing one to two sizes bigger than his age range because he is so long. If you would please remove your foot from your mouth, you could comment on something positive. Like how unique his eye color is or perhaps make a light-hearted joke about his one really long hair atop his head or, even better, tell me that he’s a beautiful boy.

Oh, and for mothers who have children that fall within “acceptable comparing range” to LittleBrother, I need you to back off. You’re all making me twitchy. Don’t ask me what he is doing milestone wise and then follow up with, “Oh, my Perfect Angel has been doing that for weeks.” I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care! (Which means I DO care and it makes me have actual anxiety attacks so, please, just back off.) This small aside brought to you by, as you guessed, my anxiety.

But back to size: LittleBrother has ridiculously long feet, toes and fingers. Perhaps he’ll be 6’6″ and call you tiny someday. And when he does, he’ll have to answer to his Mother for giving people backhanded compliments. No one is exempt!

Think before you speak.

Kindly but Darn Freaking Serious About the Knuckle Sandwiches,
FireMom

An Open Letter to Well-Meaning Friends, Family & Strangers is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

Amen. N’at. is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

Maryland Sucks is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.