I mean seriously.  Aside from her pin straight brown hair (which is just like her father’s) and biting sarcasm, we really have little in common.  At least not when it comes to being little girls.

Growing up, I only had an older brother.  So deflecting WWE body slams and figure-fours was a matter of survival.

I hiked up his hand-me-down blue striped tube socks, and along with my unisex bowl cut and only-Asian girl status,  kids at school were not nice.  Good thing I knew how to pin someone down for a 10 second count.

Anyhow, my daughter could not be more different.  She is well versed in every Disney Princess story, along with each one’s full dress attire. Her bedroom and closet resembles the inside of a bottle of Pepto Bismol.  And every time a Barbie commercial or ad crosses her eyes, she suddenly folds her hands behind her back, tilts her head and says, “Mommy, I just LOVE Barbie! Can I have one?”

HELL to the NO.  At least that’s my immediate response inside my head.  But the answer is indeed always “no.”

Personally, I do not like Barbie.  At her age, I used to swing her by her luscious blond hair and turn her into an enemy helicopter attacking GI Joes.

I put her on the same tier as Bratz dolls. Both wear way too much make up, and do not set a great example for little girls.  I’m not crazy about the Disney Princesses either, but I can only do so much consumer deflecting.

But Barbie takes the cake. Especially now that they’ve decided she needs a redesign because her ankles are too fat.

Barbie has cankles?  Really? Does anyone actually notice anything besides her gargantuan hair and rack?

If this is an issue, how come Dora’s head is bigger than her entire body?

Anyhow, my daughter will not be receiving a Barbie from Santa. She will however, be receiving a baby doll that she has been eying for several weeks now.

I read that offering an older sibling a baby doll can help ease the transition of having a new baby at home.

Isn’t she cute?  Sure she has blue eyes and blond hair and looks nothing like anyone in our family, but who cares.  I’ve grown used to the nanny question, and I have all of my “I’m not the help” comebacks ready to go.

I managed to score her for 50% off on Amazon after Thanksgiving.

Only there is one caveat…

“Pee or poop?”

Awesome.

My daughter will soon appreciate the joys of diaper surprise, or she will become a master diaper changer by the age of five.

Win-Win.

At least the word “vomit” or “explosive” wasn’t included on the packaging.  That must be the more expensive line.

Dadisodes is going to love that our diaper bill just doubled.

Perhaps the plastic, bastard child will have to suffer from bouts of starvation from time to time.

At least it won’t grow up to have cankles.

Usually.

I mean, just the other day, my three year old said to me, ““Mommy, on my next burfday, I’m gonna be four, right? How old are you gonna be- Eleventeen?!”

Damn, I love that girl.

Sure there was a time when I saw thirty-something’s as early bird special regulars reeking of Bengay. I was a teenager, probably high on Noxzema fumes.

Though I would like to think that I’m still hip in some ways (never mind that my usage of the word “hip” already discounts all efforts). I have a blog. I talk on the phone with friends. I text slowly. I rock the skinny jeans with sheepskin boots. I even watch MTV (don’t judge).

But then, there are times when reality rears it’s ugly, uncool head into my world.

Like when I nearly drove past the Burger King drive thru cashier because he looked like his training wheels were just lifted from the bike he rode to work on.

Or yesterday, when Buddisodes told me that in my recent photo (upper right hand corner), I look just like my mother.

And how Dadisodes also pointed out that I have “neck wrinkles” in the photo.
Why, thank you, honey. You know Saturday is Valentine’s Day, right. I’ll be busy. CVS has 2 for 1 weekend coupons for Geritol, and then I’m off to bingo, K?

Just the other night, Dadisodes and I were lying in bed watching TV. Like clockwork, he dozed off and I immediately flipped the clicker to Real World on MTV (dude, leave me alone). Amidst the usual drunken, half-naked debauchery, one of the cast members began interviewing the band H.ey Monday.

And something….I don’t know…Something.…Something about them just struck a chord with me. Something from the past.

Oh yes. That’s it. Twenty years ago I had the sweetest, most adorable puppy ever. His name was Scrappy, and he looked very similar to them….I mean, this.

I loved that dog.  Like most kids, I begged and begged to bring home a furry, four- legged animal to ruin our shag carpets and destroy shoes.  I was barely a teenager, and was probably the last kid on our block to get a dog.  It never occurred to me that I would probably end up moving out before the dog reached middle age.  But I didn’t care.  I loved him anyway.  Well that, and the fact that I was a teenager.  A teenage girl with a limited ability to see life beyond 2 hours.  Hormone enraged and perpetually locked inside of my bedroom.  Teasing my bangs to achieve new heights while carving out my own hole in the ozone layer with Aqua Net.  Wistfully gazing up at my bedroom walls plastered with New Kids on the Block posters.  I sat on top of my twin bed, daydreaming about Jordan Knight, and how if we ever met, my tight-rolled stone washed jeans would swoon him.  And he would let me feel his braided tail.

What the hell was I thinking?

*sigh*

Perhaps I am getting old. Because the possibility of ever wearing my hair to resemble my pet is so totally out of the question.

Although, my hair can look rather disheveled and moppy in the morning.  I could just forgo brushing it all together.

I should do that.

And perhaps add bit of Purrwl Cream to my daily beauty regimen.

I would look so fly.

You see, I allow Babisodes to watch TV.

*gasp*

I know.  I know.  I’ve officially nixed any opportunity for a Mother of the Year award. And I’ve probably tarnished any refined mothering image you may have of me (seriously, c’mon.  It’s nearly 3pm and I still haven’t showered today).

Anyway, we let her watch children’s TV programming. Not a ton and not just any.  Thus far, she has only watched the Noggin network. They are geared towards preschoolers, and are completely commercial free.  Rather than the usual flashy, sugar loaded, kid geared commercial breaks, Noggin plays short music video clips from Children’s musical artists, or some sort of interactive quiz or puzzle game for kids to participate in.

So far Babisodes has enjoyed their programming. One of her favorite shows being The Backyardigans.  She adores their music (need I remind you of their library music CD fiasco), and they are also aired on Nick Jr.   However, Noggin is considered a premium cable channel and we have to pay extra for it (about two Starbucks coffees more per month). So today I decided to try a different kids TV channel.

Immediately, there was a commercial for this….

(I searched everywhere for the commercial but could not find it.  The there is actually a life-like brown turd in the toilet that is flushed)

Then a commercial for this immediately followed….

“….Disney Princess Talking Kitchen features realistic kitchen sounds…blah….blab… blah….
Available exclusively at Toys R Us!”

Babisodes: Mommy! Mommy! I want one of doze kitchens!  And the poo-poo doll!

May I have bofth.

Can you buy me dem at… TOYS…R…Us!?!?!?!?

*Dies*

With the Dadisodes’ lay-off and the arrival of in-your-face holiday ads, I’m making an executive decision in La Casa De Momisodes.

Babisodes will personally donate some of her toys this holiday season to charity, and will be receiving only a few small things from Santa.

One of them being a premium TV channel.

Whatever it takes to keep pink talking kitchens and fake turds out of my house.

Last night, after Babisodes was far off in the land of nod, Dadisodes and I camped on the couch watching Paranormal State.  Actually, we were both on our laptops, but I was burrowing my face into his shoulder in absolute fear.  Anyhow, as the program paused for a commercial break, I lifted my head to resume typing, ignoring the laundry detergent commercial on TV.  Of course, this is when Dadisodes decided to tune in.

Dadisodes:   Woolite, isn’t that to clean…Wool?

Me: Um…no.  It’s detergent to keep your…uh… delicate clothes from fading.

Dadisodes: *blink*

Me:  Ya know.  Things like lingerie, bras, panties….

Dadisodes: Oh!…

*Light bulb flickers above head*

Dadisodes:  I see. You mean…the nicer, fru-fru under wear.
*Nods head recalling what those used to look like*

It took a minute to process, but my husband is a sweetheart.  He still loves me, despite my lack of Woolite use.  Faded cotton panties and all.

See? I dug deep.