The Anthopodgedy Catalogue, as Read by a 2-Year-Old

March 2016, Dresses

(and Spring Shoe Preview)


“She wants a boat.”


“What’s he doing?”

“She wants a sweater.”

“She’s going to jump in the water.”

“Woah! Look at those ones!”

“I’m reading it, Mom!”

“I’m all done reading it.”

This has been your March 2016 Anthopodgedy Catalogue.

Inconsolable: Bluth’s Banana Stand Edition


I mean, it IS a pretty great t-shirt

Charlie will be two on the 22nd of this month. I hear tell that the twos are terrible. He’s been foreshadowing the events to come, most recently with this evening’s freakout. While helping me put away laundry, I pointed out that I was folding my banana shirt, one of his favorites. 


“You don’t want me to put it away?”


“You want me to wear it instead?”

(Through sudden hiccup tears), “Okay.”

So, wardrobe change. He’s down to a simmering wimper, but still clearly upset. You know what would make him feel better, if he changed into a new shirt too, prolly! One that doesn’t have encrusted tomato seeds on it, maybe! So I changed his shirt. 

Fury. Sadness. Confusion. Ennui. But mostly rage, through the wailing tears.

This goes on for a solid 20-30 minutes, unabated. Like, surely I accidentally broke his finger or something during our costume change, but he doesn’t seem to be nursing any particular injuries. He hits me in the boob a couple times, to see if that makes him feel better. It does not. I ask him to use his words to tell me why he’s upset, but there are no words. Thrashing on my bed, where I’ve taken him to calm down, his tears flow like a river. Mouth wide open, I can investigate his dental and tonsil health as he screams. (His tonsils seem fine.)

Grandad comes upstairs to see what must surely be the bookcase that fell upon Charlie and I both, rendering me unconscious and and insensible to the cries of my mamed son, who is screaming like he’s taken a hardback copy of Infinite Jest to the skull. Grandad sees me holding Charlie, both of us conscious and neither of us visibly bleeding, and gives me a “what-the-hell?” look. I explain that I think Charlie’s mad about our t-shirts. Grandad takes him from my arms, and Charlie immediately stops crying. 

The problem, apart from wardrobe design, was just too much Mom. It’s the tail-end of a long weekend, after all. Charlie and his grandad are playing in the basement right now. I’m laying on the living room couch, drinking a beer. For the time being, everyone is happy. 

Charlie is awesome and hilarious, but dude. Get it together, kid. 

Tutus, Trucks. End of List.

Thanks to the largess and generosity of my baby-having friends, Charlie has been set for wardrobe up to this point in his life. The dapper hand-me-downs and fresh apparel from his baby showers have kept me from having to really invest in or think much about his clothing. Andy and I completed the bulk of our registry before we knew if we were having a girl or a boy, because we wanted to give our child at least a couple months of freedom from the confines of gender expectations. Fortunately, there are enough people who wait to find out the sex of their baby that you can actually purchase gender-neutral infant gear. We registered for lots of turquoise stripes, cream-colored onesies, and duckie apparel. Well, Charlie is barely squeezing into his 12-month pants now. This means that my outfit stockpile is gone.

The other night, I had to stop at the labyrinthine Target in Columbia Heights to pick up some diapers (as we were in between deliveries from the glorious, formula (since the stockpile of breast milk in the freezer had run out and I’ve been working long days), bottle brushes (because you’re apparently supposed to get new ones every 30 days. Wut?), and a couple pairs of stretchy baby pants (because I’d been squeezing him into the 9-month size, and that’s not going to fly for much longer.)

It turns out that once you move into size 12 month and up, the clothing manufacturers expect that you’re well acquainted with the gender identity of your child and that you really want to drive it home in the form of your apparel choices. My pants options for Charlie in the boy section were grey or blue, or a multi-pack of both grey AND blue. If I’d wanted to buy him tops, I would be able to select from an array of red or blue t-shirts with pictures of oversized vehicles on them.
I checked out the pants in the girls’ section. Mostly pink, natch, but I spotted some yellow stripes and blue polka-dots in the mix. Victory! Except, wait, these have lace and bows and shit all over them. And if Charlie decides he’d like some lace flair by the time he’s old enough to pick out his apparel, I’ll support him; but I don’t want to be That Mom Who Dresses Her Infant Boy Like a Girl to Make a Political Statement. Nor do I want to be the mom who buys all the Truckasaurus apparel before my son even understands that machines are a thing because he’s a boy and that’s what boys are into. Why can’t I just buy my baby some fucking pants without it having to be a whole thing?

The labyrinthine Columbia Heights Target: Miles and miles of questionable fashion choices for you and your baby.

The labyrinthine Columbia Heights Target: Miles and miles of questionable fashion choices for you and your baby.

I swear to God, I was in this Target for an hour, with a goodly portion of that time devoted to the pants conundrum. Yes, part of that conundrum was due to the fact that I didn’t know this Target had an upstairs and I couldn’t figure out where the baby stuff lived, but still. My tiny child already has an overly abundant selection of grey and blue apparel from the Junior Civil War Reenactor Collection, so I was really hoping to branch out. Can someone provide me with some beige? Or at least that light grey that’s less militant looking? It became an exercise in finding the least offensive pants.
In the end, I went with some black leggings from the toddler girls’ section. They were meant to be paired with a frilly pink dress. They were $5. I know if I were willing to drop some cash, Charlie could be a stylish individual, independent of society’s expectations. And I could support all the small businesses and be a better human. But I wasn’t gonna spend more than $12.50 on baby clothes that night, so that’s on me. When Charlie and I are rich, we’ll shop on Etsy and be fabulous. Until then, we’re pairing our black leggings with our red Truckasaurus tees and feeling okay-ish about it.

Fashion Tips for Pregos: Compression Sock Edition

I’ve done more traveling in the last few weeks than I’d done in the previous couple years. Which is to say I took two trips on airplanes. You’ve already seen the magnificent photo of my in my maternity swimsuit in Florida, so your life should pretty much be complete. But clearly you crave more information about the fashion choices of a jet-setting 6-month pregnant lady. In that case, you should know about the prominent role played by compression socks.

Me and Andy at the airport on our way out of Florida. We're sad because vacation is over, and also because it's time to put on my compression socks.

Me and Andy at the airport on our way out of Florida. We’re sad because vacation is over, and also because it’s time to put on my compression socks.

These need to be worn by pregnant ladies traveling by air to reduce the risk of blood clots, and, more importantly for me, to keep those varicose veins from becoming any more heinous than they already are. The socks are pretty much made of seat belts, and at least in our household, it’s a two-person job to get them on. I recommend undertaking this activity in the waiting area by the gate of your flight, because it’s quite the show and you’ll be wanting a captive audience. I was flying solo to and from California for my shower last weekend though, so I had to adapt the double act to a graceful, one-person ballet. It got the job done, but this particular airport-based physical comedy routine works better with two players. I look forward to getting the act back together for future flights (of which I hope there are none, since I’m in my third trimester now and would prefer to stay on the couch/not go into labor while connecting at Dallas Fort Worth).

Compression socks and stockings are recommended for daily use in those of us who are knocked up, and officially you’re supposed to put them on first thing in the morning and take them off before you go to bed. Unofficially, you just need to wear them on airplanes so that your legs don’t explode. I did buy the recommended maternity compression tights. I wore them once. I shan’t wear them again. I used all my physical strength getting them on the first time and now I’m dead.

At this point, my plan for dealing with my truly marvelous varicose veins is to have this child, and then promptly attack my legs with laser beams.

My baby shower in California last weekend, by the way, was super lovely. I may or may not post more about it later; I haven’t yet figured out the most appropriate and entertaining way to blog about it yet. Top contenders are “It was lovely! Here are pictures!” (appropriate) and “Here’s the story about the guest(s) whose behavior was comically terrible!” (entertaining). I’m leaning towards the one with the pretty pictures.