Another one bites the dust

Before becoming parents, everyone has a list of "I will never..."s. Here are just a couple samples (and status updates) from my list.

I will never bed share. (I'm working on a post about this.)

I will never be part of a mommy group. (Part of at least two and I love them!)

I will never nurse a baby who can walk. (Who knew my kid would start walking at 9 months!??!?!)

I will never let my kid lick gross things (At the supermarket on Tuesday, she was really quiet and well-behaved. By the time I realized what she was doing -sucking every. little. crevice of the shopping cart clean-, I figured she'd already sucked the germs off!)

I will never give my baby unhealthy snacks. (Thank you Gerber Puffs aka sugary snacks. They keep her happy while we finish our meal in peace!)

I will never sit my kid in front of TV just so I can take a break. (read on...)

Last night, our inconsiderate lovely neighbor turned our WHOLE house into a discotheque, light show and all. I’ve lived in Latin America for six years now and have come to tolerate what my mother refers to as “Friday night in Latin America” fairly well. So, believe me when I tell you that this was over. the. top. We’re not talking about a little bass or even the 3 AM karaoke we’re blessed with from time to time.

R and I could have invited 50 of our closest friends over to have a dance party in our bedroom and it would have been a rockin’ good time, but alas, we have a 9 month old. So, instead of being an excuse to stay up and act like fools (which we like to do), we were anxious to go to bed so we could deal with said 9 month old when she woke up at 7, which she was bound to do.

After three hours, two white noise machines, the bathroom fan, ear plugs, and everything else that might drown it out a little bit, plus a couple calls to the paz ciudadana (yes, I am THAT old neighbor raining on the parade), we were still grooving to every word of the reggaeton they had going on over there. After entertaining thoughts of garden hoses accidentally watering their speakers, early morning megaphones and extended lawn mowing starting at 7AM, I decided it was more mature and neighborly to get dressed and go to talk to them (REALLY nicely). I held back everything I wanted to say and literally begged them to turn it down. Finally, after pulling out the “Golden Rule” and promising them that if the situation were reversed, I would cede their request without a second thought, they agreed to turn it down.

Oh.sweet. sleep. until Ely was ready to start the day. Trudge, trudge through our morning routine. I could barely keep my eyes open. I was desperate for ANYTHING that required minimal maernal participation to keep her entertained. Enter: Baby Crack TV! Ely has seen a soccer game or two and more daytime soaps than I care to know about (at 'buela's). But, I have never been the lazy/guilty one, until this morning!

I picked up the paper that I’d been meaning to read, sat her on my lap, turned it on and she sat. Silent. Content. Enthrawled. (I have to admit, the drawing part is pretty cool!) Ialmost felt guilty for subjecting her to the mind-numbing, trance-inducing crack, but then it started.

Anyone recognize these guys?

These two harmless, hamburger-looking goobs are called Booby and Booba. That’s right. Not Bobby, Booby. The script went something like “Hola, Booby, ¿Como estás? Blah blah blah” followed by Booba’s hunt for Booby, during which he calls out “Boooooooby? Booooooby?” Maybe it was being overtired or maybe just immaturity, but I giggled to myself every single time.

Next up, a vocabulary program that used words that I remember from Spanish class, but have NEVER heard in Chile. I couldn’t help but think about what a riot it will be to hear Ely using those words with her grandparents, who will undoubtedly mistake them for English.

So, I’ll try to limit her exposure, but Baby TV’s cool drawing skits, semi-pornographic character names and random vocabulary have won my heart.

I'm beginning to think that my list of "I will never..."s should really just be treated as a list of prophecies that I am eventually destined to fulfill. Thinking of it this way will save me mental anguish as I systematically violate all of my own rules.

The new motto is: “Everything in moderation.” But don’t worry Dad! I remember the lessons of the 7^th grade SnoopDogg incident: “As her parent, I have a responsibility to be the gate-keeper of her mind until she is mature enough to make her own decisions.” And “Garbage in. Garbage out.”