Let’s begin with the really important things.

I fear that Maybelline has changed the formula of their Great Lash Mascara.

Now, if you know me you will realize that I am not generally known as an authority on mascara, or indeed makeup of any sort. But last week I had a mascara-induced crisis which I can set fair and square at Maybelline’s  door. It happened when I switched from using my own Great Lash Mascara to using Baby Sister’s more impressive Great Lash Mascara. You know, the one with the curved brush! which ensures longer stronger lashes! And this is the point where you inform me that Maybelline brought out the curved brush one, no two years ago. Yes, how sad - I have probably owned my own, superior (but most likely germ-ridden) Great Lash Mascara for far longer. It was time to make the change.

So I did. I wore Baby Sister’s Great Lash Mascara to a party. And when I next checked my look in the mirror (a fair way into the party, I might add) I saw I was suffering from an affliction never wrought on me by my own, superior Great Lash Mascara.

Raccoon Eyes.

Well, that’s not too bad, you murmur in reassuring tones. Raccoon eyes at a party? Why, that’s almost de rigeur these days.

It was a childrens’ party.

Which brings me to the reason why Baby Sister even owned a Great Lash Mascara in the first place. In fact, owned more makeup than I have ever bought even for myself in one time.

Well, obviously because I bought it off a list.

A very precise list provided by the dance school, complete with numbers, shades and brands. No dollar store makeup for my little princess! No!

For her foray onto the big stage, she had to have Revlon! and L’Oreal! and … Maybelline!

She wore it and she loved it.

And it’s mine now.

Except for the Great Lash Mascara. She’s welcome to it.

P.S I refuse to relive the horror that was the ballet/tap recital itself. And the boys (all three) are also still traumatized by their experience, which for them involved sitting on the floor of the auditorium for 3 hours, no magic involved. Except for the half hour or so when they managed to escape the hall to roam the neighborhood. Here’s what they were doing while Baby Sister was waiting backstage for her 2.5 (X2) minutes of fame:

Anyhow, back to the subject of beauty stuff. My mother recently introduced me to facial serums (specifically Olay because it’s cheap cough cheaper) and I was surprised to find that they actually work on those little wrinkles around the eyes. Although I do wonder sometimes why I bother, when I could pop down the road and get a 17 year old beauty school dropout to inject Botox for half the price. I have been rubbing in that cream every morning and I swear I look at least a year younger. Maybe even two.

According to my mother, the hassle with these creams though is that you have to keep using them or else Pop! your Old Hag face pops right back out of your Beautiful New Young One like the miracle treatment never was.

Luckily the T-Bot has the solution to this problem. He built a Time Machine!

All I have to do is sit on the chair and I will be transported back to my teens… no my twenties… no my early thirties… oh never mind.

Another sign of age - forgetfulness. I forgot to blog The Wictor’s birthday! He is so proud to be 5, I swear these days he is carrying himself a little taller.

For his party, he wanted ” …a Cars2 party, and all my friends to play with my toys”.

So that’s what he got.

Oh, and of course a pinata.

Preparations for The Wictor’s birthday always signal the start of summer vacation Inzaburbs. I looked at the calendar this week and was shocked to discover we are already 6 weeks in! Which means only a month to go until I start sending all three children off on that big yellow bus. The Wictor has already started counting down.

With the children home, things have been busier than usual. And look to get even busier. If you want our news, email me!! I may not be back for a while…

… and it starts off mostly about ME.

Don’t ask me why, but this week has been a strange one for yours truly and a totally normal boring average unremarkable one for everybody else in the family. Even the cats have not fighted! I mean, fought.

MONDAY:

I break a tooth on a Skittle. Less noble things have happened - but rarely.

As an aside - recently we watched ET and I discovered that Elliott left Skittles out for ET, and not M&Ms. I have spent decades being wrong. I do not like to be wrong.

There is something supremely wrong about ET munching on Skittles when in my heart and my mind he is eating M&Ms. I may never recover.

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TUESDAY:

At the gym I get to beat the sh*t out of Bob:

Which is great. I like to get him in the ribs with a baseball bat.

Except then I am supposed to knee him in the guts.

Only I am a bit of a shorty pants (in case you haven’t noticed) and so am forced to knee him, a-hem, further down.

Yes! You noticed! Bob doesn’t have a further down!

I don’t like to complain but OW! I hurt my knees! Every time.

And then I went to Bob’s website to get you this picture and what did I discover?

Bob is adjustable. All this time I could have been moving his guts .. um .. further down.

Also on Tuesday…

…the dermatologist calls to tell me the two moles she removed are not mela-gnomes (as we affectionately call them here inzaburbs) but the kind of mole with a fancy name which are commonly found on people who do develop mela-gnomes. Which puts me in a higher risk group. I thank her nicely and it is only after I hang up that I realise I have just paid $200 to be told something I have known since I was 12. Although better safe than sorry, I guess.

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WEDNESDAY:

On Wednesday I discover I am practically superhuman. The dentist and the dental assistant huddle over my x-rays and then ask me incredulously, if I am sure I haven’t had any pain? I shrug. I did have a little toothache back in December, but it went away. It turns out I have a QUOTE UNQUOTE ENORMOUS infection in the tooth, which has broken off along the infected area to the gumline.  Later, they show me how it is all brown and grotty along the break. That mush did not get there in the two days since my Skittle encounter.

They show me this after they have extracted it of course. I am only slightly disappointed to discover that, all rumours to the contrary, losing a back molar does not mean you immediately acquire a sunken cheeked look a la Joan Crawford.

I do feel a tiny bit trailer trash with my missing tooth, but only for a moment, because when I tell my friends that with our new super-dooper health insurance this whole episode only cost me 2 hours and $46, they all start to chime in with their tooth-pulling stories and it even turns out my $46 wasn’t such a good deal, because one person only paid $13.50. So I guess starting to lose your teeth in your 30s isn’t so uncommon after all.

(And I can hear you all muttering out there so I will precise that none of said friends are American).

I wonder how many more I will have to lose to look like la Crawford?

I think Wednesday is also the day I find myself telling my bathing children sternly to “Please pretend the bubbles are acid in a non-screamy way”. Which has us all in fits of giggles.

And then I go away and spit some blood.

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THURSDAY:

I am not supposed to be exercising but I was also not supposed to be eating pizza last night. What can I say? I was hungry and apple sauce didn’t cut it.

I decide only to do the non-aerobic portions of today’s workout but it turns out that sumo squats with 50 pounds of weights is actually quite aerobic. And stair stepper machines look like nothing but if you go fast for 15 minutes you can taste blood in your mouth afterwards. At least, you can if you are me. And you have, you know, just “lost” a tooth the day before.

I go home and tell The Daddy I wasn’t very clever and he points out that they don’t give you a little information sheet with all the things you are supposed not to do for nothing. Way to be supportive.

No panic though! All is OK! Thursday night is a night for kicking back and drinking some wine! Surely that wasn’t on the information sh-

Damn.

Children! Always brush your teeth!

Thursday evening…

…Baby Sister jumps off the bus all excited. Her friend (the one who didn’t invite her to her party last week and then proceeded to tell her about it the day before, along with vivid descriptions of how much fun they would have, specifically without her) joined a club another girl started up called  (I am not making this up) The Popular Girls Club. And this friend (grr I am still very very mad, mostly that Baby Sister still wants to be her friend) told Baby Sister that she would get her into the club too!

Squeee! It’s so exciting! But first said nameless friend will have to teach Baby Sister “how to act popular”.

“Mommy!” says Baby Sister “I’ll only act popular at school, OK? Not at home… I know you don’t like me to act popular…”

Too right, my girl!

(I may one day feel the need to stage an intervention. Until then we have a rule. No vacant behavior in the house.)

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FRIDAY:

I don’t know why I haven’t really noticed the June Bugs before. Maybe I was busier the last 5 years, or maybe this is just a year for June Bugs.

The June Bugs, they are trying to get in. Like a tame horror movie, they spend the evening throwing their hard little bodies at the window. And in the morning, when our children put on every light in the house at some ungodly hour, they start again with their tap tap tapping. By school bus time the front step is littered with June Bug bodies, their little spiky legs in the air, and when we open the door the few surviving specimens try to claw their way over the metal sill. It’s quite macabre.

They are quite harmless, but that doesn’t convince my children they won’t get their toes pinched. Through their sneakers.

Friday night…

…is school fair night. I love school fair night and I know it is not always easy to tell when I am being sarcastic so I will add a smiley face. And a few exclamation marks for good measure !!!!!

I loved last years event so much that this year I took the plunge and ordered 20 tickets each in advance. A train ride last year cost 4 tickets, and one ticket for the little games, so I figured with waiting in line that would get us through an hour or so of activities, and then the hot dogs I also ordered in advance would soak up another 20 minutes until bedtime.

I was wrong, so wrong.

This year they cut the cost of the train ride to one ticket, and the most they were charging for any ride was 2 tickets. Another smiley face and extra exclamation marks   !!!! I now love the school fair even more.

So the kids rode the train, jumped on the various bouncy castles, played the games to win incredible! (cr*ppy) prizes and did all the things fair-goers do. I forced them to sit for 5 minutes and eat their hot dogs. I gave the T-Bot some tickets to go play while The Wictor finished his meal, and he came back instead with drinks for everyone. Then they played more games to win candy. Highlight of the evening: The T-Bot played the Cake Walk game which involves walking in a circle while the music plays and ending up on the right chalk number when the music stops. He was desperate to win us a cake and as it turns out, he has inherited the luck of the Irish.

(He was so proud at winning that even the discovery it was a red velvet cake didn’t phase him. He just decided to like red velvet cake from now on. )

So… We have been at the fair for 2 1/2 hours.

It is dark.

The volunteers are starting to pack up their stalls.

The Daddy is looking alternately blank and constipated.

The Wictor is running around the place like a dervish.

Emergency! We still have tickets left!

I thrust a handful at each kid. “Baby Sister!” I say, “look! There isn’t a line anymore for the nails. Go get your nails painted!”.

You don’t have to ask her twice. I blink and she is sitting happily getting pink applied to her fingers. We wait. The boys come back with more plastic toys and candy. The nails are seeming to take a long time. I go over to see what is going on. Almost done! Baby Sister is glowing. She stands up and we admire her gloopy nails. Then she gives me back the tickets. “The lady says I don’t have to pay!” she beams. I turn to confirm with the nail painter in question.

“Oh!” she says happily, “I wouldn’t know what to do with those! I am not supposed to be working here. I don’t know where the manicurists went. I was actually just sitting on this chair to rest my feet!”

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SATURDAY:

Yes, I am still going.

Are you still with me?

Stay, because I am here to regale you with tales of the local Folk Life Festival.

You may recall that we went last year and it was great.

Well, we went again this year and it was exactly the same. The stalls were set up in the same place, doing the same things. There were no new animals. We made the same rag dolls as last year, wrote with nib pens and ink like last year, looked at the ducks and chickens and bunnies and horses like last year…

And it was still great!

Sometimes you don’t mess with perfection.

Especially when baby alligators are involved.

Of course, I do always feel the need to change things up a little.

For 2011 I helped The Wictor make a male rag doll instead of a female one.

But apparently that wasn’t enough for me, so for an encore I lost two of my children.

Baby Sister and The Wictor set off hand in hand to watch a pioneer-era play not ten metres up the path while I hung back to issue instructions to the T-Bot to join us and snap a few hurried-but-potentially-hilarious photos.

But when I turned around, they were gone.

So, I left the T-Bot at the antique rifle display, hoping none of the shiny guns were loaded, and trudged off to the Lost and Found. Where I knew they would be because they were lost and there was no question they would have been found. Baby Sister knows to “tell a responsible adult” and in any case something about her seems to scream “little lost child” even under normal circumstances. Maybe it is the constantly quivering lip or maybe the attempts to “act popular”, what do I know. What I do know is this would not have been the first time  responsible adults have tried to take her to Lost and Found when I was standing right there.

In my defense, I got to that Lost and Found so fast that the responsible adult was still hanging around.  I will just say I just hope this is the last time I have to pick up my children from the care of the police.

And that folks, was our week.

Now I am exhausted. You may not hear from me for a while…

Happy April!!

As of three days ago, Fiji is officially off the Happy Pills.

It is a pity, because the little blue pills made him content. They made him behave like a real cat.

By that I mean, he was no longer scared of squirrels. He chased them!

He was no longer scared of lizards. He chased them!

(And then caught them and brought them in the house…

…Gingerly, as if holding a little baby kitten by the scruff of the neck.

So gently and so carefully that when we took the lizards away and released them outside, they had nothing to show for their experience but a little drool around their heads and/or tails. See the cat drool?).

Plus, he was no longer scared of birds. He chased them!

THE DOWNSIDE:

He was no longer scared of the little gray cat. He chased her! And attacked her! And I poured a whole jug of water over his head and he still wouldn’t stop, he was that angry!

As if that wasn’t enough, he constantly had the munchies and it became very very very very ANNOYING to have him always underfoot, miaowing CONSTANTLY. And there was also that habit he developed of jumping up onto the dinner table and trying to eat the food out of our plates right from under our noses.

So, interesting experiment. Whisper will now get Fiji’s dose so she can stay drugged  up for longer. The medication seems to suit her. Until the Night of the Big Attack she was becoming happier, stronger, more confident. We’ve taken a little step back (again) but from experience she will soon feel better and go right back to taking over enemy territory.

The Daddy wants to try one more experiment, but I think I am resigning myself now to her always being an Upstairs Cat.

You would think from reading all this that our whole lives revolved around our little feline friends.

So I think that’s enough about that for now.

And here are some  non-cat-related photos to prove we do other things. Because we do, you know!

Like-

Absorb Vietnamese culture!

Practise Equestrian Sports!

Lead Armies Into Battle!

Help Less Fortunate Marine Mammals!

Umm…….

Dammit.

Q: How do you know when you have truly become American?

A: When you put your cats on anti-anxiety meds.

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Actually that is not some kind of sick joke, on Friday both the cats went in for checkups and came out with their own little green bottle of kitty prozac.

Don’t judge us for this and certainly don’t judge our vet, who thought it was an interesting proposition but never would have thought to dope up our cats to make them get along. For this idea you can blame me, the Internetz who gave me the idea and probably some high falutin doctor in Manhattan for first starting the trend.

Apparently the drugs take a few weeks to build up in the system so in a month we will evaluate things and see if there has been any change in the situation. Which is currently:

Whisper lays claim to one room upstairs: Baby Sister’s bedroom.

Baby Sister wants here out of there because she is sick to death of her wallpaper and notepads getting ripped up.

Also, she gets woken up several times a night by Whisper playing Hunter and Prey with Baby Sister’s delicate little toes.

Whisper shares one room with Fiji: The TV room.

Unfortunately this is also the guest room. When poor Tom was visiting in January he woke up several times to find his arm in the process of being torn to shreds.

Also, the cats will tolerate each others presence in this room to some extent, until one of them makes sudden move and then It’s All On!

It’s getting really boring listening to hissing and yowling (Whisper’s) each time Fiji gets too close. And then she will jump at him and (yawn) there will be another fight.

Fiji has obviously been getting bored too because he is also attacking her more and more.

And he always wins.

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Like this morning when he got very upset at me grabbing him and shoving a little blue pill down this throat.

And then, in a totally unexpected and out-of-character move, he appeared from nowhere and attacked Whisper while she was in my arms, wrapped in a blanket.

I was trying to shove a little blue pill down her throat at the time. Now she is terrified of me, Fiji, blankets and little blue pills, in one foul swoop.

Yeah. Well. It seems like the meds are going to be totally a success then.

The T-Bot is still busy creating. He is like a little creationary whirlwind.

And yes, apparently creationary is a word.

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My Mummy is a Mummy

Meme and Granpa sent along a book for Christmas.

Called “The Family Book”, it’s full of fun stuff to do with your family.

Some of it involves toilet paper.

The T-Bot wanted desperately to do this. My other children didn’t need asking twice.

I should add that this Mummy got the full treatment, including being “washed down” with moisturizer. Thankfully the T-Bot judged the whole organ removal process unnecessary.

Gee thanks, Mum and Dad.

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Office Space

The Mommy works hard to keep order around here, but with 4 (sic) messy children and two cats, things often get out of control.

The  T-Bot’s current desk is just too small to hold all the clutter.

One day he will get a bigger desk. In the meantime, when he runs out of table space, he just builds himself a new one.

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Poetry

“What I Sing When My Papers Fall Out of My Desk at School and Onto the Floor”

- by The T-Bot

Homework, Homework, don’t run away from me

Homework, Homework, don’t run away from me

Don’t run away, I’ll spank you if you do

Wait - you don’t have a bottom!

I’ll have to draw one on you.

Poor The Wictor was sick the other week.

For two days. Which happened to be both bootcamp days but The Mommy is selfless so of course she did not find this at all frustrating, no! In fact she thought the whole Florence Nightingale lark was very fulfilling. Nothing she likes better than wandering the house all day cleaning up sick from carpets and walls and wiping sweaty brows.

So anyway. Poor The Wictor. Luckily he was better after two days, although frighteningly bonier. And very very tired. For the next week he took to falling asleep all over the place.

On Mommy’s lap while she tried to type…

On Mommy’s lap while she wondered when The Daddy would be finished running his marathon…

While stroking the cat…

Doesn’t he make the cutest sleeper?

{I certainly enjoyed the quiet }

… Which brings me to the cats. Look how close they are sitting! This is almost a triumph! Whisper still looks really, really resentful that Fiji dares to be anywhere in the vicinity, and Fiji can’t quite bring himself to close his eyes… just in case. But it’s progress. Give us another couple of years and they may even be friends.

Today The T-Bot had a Mad Science party.

And we outdid ourselves on the Birthday Photo front.

Here is the best shot we have of the Tron cake I ran all around town looking for:

And here is our Mad Scientist.

I cannot stress enough how great she was.

She kept the kids entranced for 45 non-stop minutes of science and wonder.

Also, in real life she is not blurry.

In my defense, the lighting was kept low because of the pyrotechnics.

Obviously, this is not a photo of the pyrotechnics.

Why would we take a picture of such things?

*Sigh* The pyrotechnics will just have to live on in our hearts and our minds.

Anyhow, it was a great party. The kids ran wild and had a lot of fun, the Mad Scientist was worth every penny, and all the presents were the T-Bot through and through (which makes me feel good because it means his friends really thought about what he would enjoy).

There are no more photos.

The End.

So, for my thirtymumble birthday, in a totally out of character move, I decided to treat myself to some exercise.

Actually, it was nothing to do with turning 29 yet again, more to do with the fact my friend wanted me to go with her, and in a sudden fit of optimism I said Yes! Sounds like Fun!

Also, this was in November (remember November?), back when January seemed so far, far away.

Of course, when I got home I began to have second thoughts, so I approached The Daddy to talk me out of this foolish plan.

“Sounds like a great idea! ” he said enthusiastically.

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It’s calling itself a bootcamp, but in fact it is nothing like a bootcamp, more like sharing a personal trainer with three other people. To my relief, instead of a drill sergeant barking orders and humiliating us we just get someone whooping and calling us superstars (which come to think of it is just as disturbing) and also he used to be a fighter of some kind (I don’t dare ask which ) so we get to punch and kick things a lot. I like to punch and kick.

I am actually enjoying it.

Apart from one thing:  Now I know what it feels like to be 95 years old. Or the victim of a hammer-wielding maniac. Take your pick, the end result is the same and that result is I hurt! All over!

Now I remember why I haven’t been to the gym since 1989. Oh, wait. Could it be because I haven’t been to the gym since 1989 that I can no longer do a single unaided situp. It also can’t help that  4 1/2 years ago a couple of doctors sliced through all my stomach muscles and pulled out a baby and somehow in the intervening time my fairly flat stomach has fooled everyone, including me, into thinking I didn’t have to exercise those muscles at all. Those new, never-used muscles. That is going to take some work. I don’t remember, how long does it take a baby to learn to sit up? About 6-8 months? Get back to me in 6 months and I will let you know how its going.

The legs were a surprise though. They are not working right now. They were working fine before I tried serious exercise but only for things like running up and down stairs and sprinting after children. Now they barely work for running - or walking. Or standing up after sitting down. Or sitting down after standing up. I have learned the secret to C3PO’s awkward walk - exercise!

I have no idea how I managed to get through the week but if I make it to the end of this thing I am sure I will be capable of leaping off tall buildings in a single bound. Watch this space.

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In the meantime, The Daddy is reaching the end of his marathon training. The marathon is sometime at the end of January. I don’t remember when exactly but I must check my calendar because The Daddy has never forgiven me for not being at the finish line of his last 10K run to cheer him on and bring him a towel and a sweatshirt. Instead he had to make his way back to his car, all sad and alone. So we will be there, all of us, waving and cheering him on like perky bunnies.

His training his been derailed more than a little by injury and The Holiday Season but I still expect him to make a reasonable time. And then never ever train for a marathon again because, man, it is a total pain in the rear end.  First he disappears for hours  when he could be making himself useful doing useful things. Then when he returns he has to ice and elevate his knee for the rest of the day,which means someone else has to bring him constant supplies of ice water, snacks, books, cups of tea… because “uh.. my knee?”

It’s true The Knee is on everyone’s mind recently. If his knee gives out again in the next two weeks it will be a disaster, because then he will have to start training for the next marathon, all over again.

When I tried “Uh.. my legs?” last night it got me no sympathy. But I have a secret weapon - dust bunnies. You see, this week I have had to - much to my chagrin of course - abandon all housework. My fragile muscular condition just won’t allow it. Loading the washing machine or dryer? Requires bending down. Vacuuming? Walking and bending. Tidying? Dusting? Well, all that punching made my arms tired. (I have been loading the dishwasher because I do like to eat, and preferably off clean plates). When The Daddy runs out of clean underwear - I win!

Exercise. It has so much to recommend it.

Don’t go thinking I am one of those “crafty mothers” constantly buying brushes and paints and setting up the ideal art studio environment for my little darlings.

Don’t get the idea either that I greet them brightly every afternoon with “Well sweethearts, what delicious concoction shall we bake together today?”

95% of the stuff my kids make is their own idea.

Because personally, I hate tidying up and I hate cleaning, yet I like things to be tidy and clean.

Are you starting to see how cutting and pasting and drawing and painting and baking and cooking don’t quite fit into this equation?

So mostly, I initiate none of this. But I fight every day to be a supportive mother and smile sweetly when they appear at the office door - grr yet again - asking me to help them open bottles of glue or paint or find a water receptacle to wash their brushes, or cut a hole in this  precious old cereal box with a sharp knife, actually Mommy can you make that 25 holes because I want it to have lots of windows?

But I am happy my kids are creating instead of sitting in front of the TV, and so I do it. And then I go back over their ineffective attempts at cleaning up. And like all parents I am always amazed at what they make. Yes, it is worthwhile.

Baby Sister loves to draw. She fills page after page with unicorns and princesses and cats, and sometimes she staples them together into a story.

The T-Bot draws a lot too. He creates some great things in art class, and takes quite an interest in art (”real art not modern art though for example Leonardo painted stuff that looked real but a cow in a bath IS NOT art, OK?”) but at home he draws mostly blueprints.

Many of his designs are never made due to technological issues, ie we are proud owners of neither a chip maker nor a plastics factory.

Others do get built. Like this Companion Cube from Portal he made this morning.

Having exhausted the possiblities of World of Goo and Cat Physics, the T-Bot’s has moved onto Portal as game of choice and - I don’t know quite how because after 3 minutes of playing it I felt an enormous inferiority complex and also very dizzy - he has managed to get to the last level.

He is now eagerly awaiting Portal 2, to be released in March.

In the meantime, every cake has to be a Portal cake. Here is one we baked recently:

Sorta. Mommy didn’t quite come through with the right sized baking pans. But we did eat the cake, and the cake was good.

And what about the Wictor, you ask?

Well, for a start, he is four.

And for a finish, bless his little cotton socks, he has spent the last 4 years drawing nothing but “hurricanes”.

Until the other day, when he drew a mutant and then steadfastly denied that it was a mutant.

He insisted it was a bear.

Still, his big brother and sister rallied around him in support.

Baby Sister wrote the bear’s name on the paper so nobody else could make the same mistake as his mother (ie drive the Wictor to tears of rage and frustration by innocently asking if it was a mutant) and the T-Bot graded the paper with a 200%.

And I quietly took down all the hurricanes off the fridge

A couple of months back The Daddy was channel surfing and introduced the kids to the Qubo channel on TV.

It only took a few short days to remember exactly why my kids have only been allowed to watch PBS Kids for the last three years, since we ditched the cable.

There is nothing wrong with Qubo. They have some good kids programs! Many of them are even educational!  Others are from the BBC!

Mostly, they have The Magic Schoolbus which is otherwise almost impossible to obtain without remortgaging the house or praying to the gods of Netflix that it will actually be in stock this week.

The kids are over the moon.

But Qubo does have a downside. And here it is. Courtesy of The Wictor, what now passes for conversation in our house:

Mommy! There’s a thing you can put on your wall and when you pull it out it doesn’t damage your wall! It’s from 3M! It’s a Command Project! (sic)

Guess What! Let me tell you something! You can put your gold in the package and then you put it in the mailbox and they will send it back and it will turn into dollar bills!

Yes! And there’s a wallet which will fit in every pocket! And if a car runs over it, it won’t get squashed! And you can wash it. Yeah! It’s $14.99.

That other thing can even clean under doors but it’s very spensive Mommy. It’s $99.99. Can we get it Mommy? Can we? It cleans under the doors!

But the very worst thing is Baby Sister also watches Qubo and Baby Sister doesn’t give a hoot about 3M strips or turn-your-jewelry-into-cash scams.

You see, Qubo also carries advertisements for that Lalaloopsy doll, the one all the girls want this year…

No, not all those other sub-par Lalaloopsy dolls, with no jewels on their dress and an owl or a mouse for a pet. There is a reason they are still sitting on the shelves at Toys R Us.

It has to be Jewel Sparkles, the best doll, like, eva! and the one  cynically chosen to be manufactured in limited quantities so that desperate parents with an eye on the calendar will be forced to fork out $50 and upwards for a $30 toy.

Baby Sister is quietly convinced Jewel Sparkles will be under the tree this year. She has faith in Santa, and in the knowledge that even if the dolls are missing from the stores, it doesn’t matter because the Elves will make her one….

Well that solves that then, doesn’t it?

Um … actually no. You know how we have a really ditzy Tooth Fairy?

Yeah well, now we have a really mean Santa as well.