But Back to the (Rhymes with "Rabies"): A Smug Mummy First

Not that my crisis of shoe conscience isn't vitally important, but today we turn to one of our other main points of (also painfully relevant) interest. To review, our goals here at PK (post-kid) Pretty are twofold: (1) to figure out how to be Prettier Than Everyone Else; or (2) to prove that my offspring makes goal (1) unlikely, given that he's just the handsomest thing you can't buy at Neiman Marcus:

Here's the bit where you all comment on how irritatingly perfect he is, please and thank you.

Master P gave me a unicorns n' rainbows sort of first today, which has (mostly) forced all superficial wardrobe thoughts from my brain; therefore, I will force you to read about it too. You're welcome!

Ahem.

Anywhoodle - for the first time & in a sure sign of early Oxford acceptance, Master P toddled up to me today with book in hand - a Dr. Seuss, which as we all know is a mere step away from Dickens - and, via his new point n' grunt style of communication, made it abundantly clear that he wanted me to read the book to him. As I thumbed through those much-nibbled cardboard pages, he gazed at the book with what I will force myself to describe un-ironically as delight. Sheer, perfect delight.

Seriously. Y'all who don't love books go on and skip ahead to the next "Kardashian" re-run (not that I won't be watching too, but I'm sternly making a point here)(Ahem)(Parentheses), but for us capital "R" Readers - I can't adequately convey my own joy in that moment. Something along the lines of when my husband gave in to my abusiv... er, enthusiastic literacy campaign, times one squillion.

I will live to regret these words once Master P is an older toddler and enlists the "But just one more book, Mom!!!" going-to-sleep defense. And maybe I'm just in a bookish way this week, between the Goodreads joining and the hilarious re-read I can't put down, again, but - for now, this is a favorite Smug Mummy first.

Master P & the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

*With heartfelt thanks to Blogger and my child for the simultaneous Friday the 13th meltdowns. At least one of you has infancy as an excuse. 

In my previous singleton life, I would have called today a total waste of makeup. Given that my makeup "routine" now is a mere ghost of its Bobbi Brown past, I'd more accurately describe the events of today as a waste of my nice Mom-ouflage.

Call it teething, Friday the 13th, the ongoing sniffles we can't quite figure out, or merely the art of being a baby, but for whatever reason poor Master P awoke on the wrong side of the crib this morning. His nose was runny and his eyes were leaky and he wanted to YELL and he wouldn't nap and he wanted Mama until he didn't want Mama and why don't I magically know that and he didn't want to eat until he did want to eat RIGHT NOW and I think I'll move to Australia.

I'm learning that there are halcyon Smug Mummy days when your sweet babe is nothing but happy gurgles and smiles, naps more or less when he's meant to, and is just generally delightful. I'm happy to report that most days here are largely comprised of such unicorns and rainbow-like moments.

And then there are the days when, despite your adoring every atom of your child, top to toes . . . those days when you fly the white burp cloth of defeat. When you furtively watch the clock for baby's bedtime hour, feeling helpless as to how to help your fussy babe and preserve your sanity, or whichever comes first.

You can gather which sort of day we had here at Pretty HQ today. Having pulled out my usual fussy baby tricks - car riding! illicit remote control nibbling! Infant Advil! - all with negligible result, I gave up around 3 pm and stomped off with Master P to our backyard, where at least one of us could attempt to enjoy the fine spring sunshine.  Hmmph.

Begrudgingly, Master P began to explore, showing me the business end consistent with our general theme today...

Mini-preps, eat your heart out at this madras, be-polo'd (if slightly crabby) goodness

 

 

As we meandered around the patio, watching the Pretty Pug bark and sticking our toes in the grass, he forgot to be mad for a minute, now exploring in earnest and giving me a reluctant half-smile...

Note the troublesome new tooth up top, which didn't prevent him from attempted camera theft

. . . as a few more lazy minutes rolled by, the Pug sniffing curiously us as we climbed over the patio furniture, the smile grew a tad despite himself:

Lest you think this story has too tidy a happy ending, my little dictator then abruptly decided we should return indoors, where he resumed not eating and getting into the crystal cabinet and randomly crying and going about the business of reminding me Who is in Charge.

And lo, bedtime finally came, I've taken to my couch (sadly, not a fainting one a la Betty Draper Francis, but...), and the Anonymous Husband and I are sitting. Very. Very. Still.  Because we all have rough days every now and again, presumably even in Australia.

Choose Your Own Adventure, Boring Adult Version

Class, please raise your hands if you're a book nerd highly literate like me & remember the "Choose Your Own Adventure" children's series.  These are the ones where the reader stars off with an thrilling, oh-so-slightly unrealistic adventure, such as a weekday shopping trip to Paris, and is presented with choices leading to different endings like:

- If you want to take a field trip to the Hermes factory and risk expiring from handbag happiness right then and there, turn to page 84;

- If you want to sit in your hotel and brood longingly at the Eiffel Tower in manner of that most American of tourists, Carrie Bradshaw, while your boyfriend ignores you, turn to page 52.*

*Yes, it's possible that I've watched too much HBO since my "Choose Your Own Adventure Days". 

Yesterday, layoffs struck at the Anonymous Husband's office.  Again.  He is still employed & absolutely fine - employed & fine, I promise! - but it's beginning to feel here at Pretty HQ like a Choose Your Adventure novel of a distinctly more grown-up, less entertaining variety:

- If you want to start panicking about the future and spending every last second checking the internet for more bad news, turn to page 36;

- If you want to keep perspective and recall that you both still have great jobs and there are many who need good thoughts and help, and those people aren't you, calmly turn to page 52.

I don't post this in hopes of stirring up more panic in These Difficult Times - this blog is about being prettier, not more paranoid, than nature intended - but just to say, I'm trying to keep hopes up & finding it difficult today to keep my characteristic perky, ebullient spirits**. I'm struggling to calmly turn to that theoretical page 52, count my blessings, AND ratchet up the savings. Because, unlike my favorite pulp fiction of youth, sometimes we have to take more than one ending into consideration before we turn the page.  

**Anyone buying the perky, ebullient bit?  Anyone?

On the Pretty Bookshelf . . .

It's been a while since we've discussed my reading habit, which has recently included such choice, ahem, literature as Miss Tori Spelling's personal memoir? As I've noted before, reading is perhaps my one redeeming quality - one that comes naturally, rather, unlike Hateful Exercise and the other stuff we do because That's What Grown-Ups Do. Bleurgh.

As I prepare for the upcoming Pretty Headquarters Temporary Relocation - swim-up bar ahoy! - I find myself in need of some quality vacation reading material. After all, one cannot survive on "US Weekly" "The Economist" and "Vogue" "Harvard Business Review" alone. This is where you, Gentle (or Un-Gentle; we're feeling rather magnanimous today) Readers, come in. I'll show you what I'm reading now, in hopes that you'll also share what's on your nightstand (to sorta rip off the music theme that SLynnRo recently did - thanks, and let me know if you still want the Tori book!) Sort of like a glamorous virtual book club, absent the catty gossip and political chicanery. Come to think, must find myself a book club in my new town here . . .

In any event, here's what's on my current reading list, which may as well be titled "Once Again, Pretty Is a Giant Anglophile and Who'd Rather Be Swanning Around an Imaginary Tea Party and Faking a Terrible Accent in Manner of Madonna or Gwyneth" - classify that, Dewey Decimal System! Ahem:

(Credit: Barnes & Noble)

The trickest Austen of all, in my rarely to be humble opinion, and surely the one with the most horrid movie adaptations. No, I'm not just saying that I'm reading this to make up for the Tori Spelling bit.

(Credit: Barnes & Noble)

Thanks to my fabulous BF-J, the International Woman of Mystery, I just started listening to this Audible book. If you're a fan of "Gosford Park" (the same screenwriter penned this book) & the comedy of manners genre like I am, this is fantastic so far.

Ok, ladies and gentlemen, have at it - what am I missing? What's the fin-de-2008 read I simply must put in my Alibris cart? Yes, yes - in actual fact, I'm extremely open to titles not involving England, smelling salts, or weekends horsing around some country estate, although surely those things aren't a negative?