I know what it looks like, but ambulance chasers need not apply. Daisy is wearing that collar because she didn’t get rear-ended.

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My youngest child turned seven in May. When he came along, with the exception of a new high chair and a new stroller which were gifts from generous friends, everything he used was a hand-me-down from his big sister.

And when his big sister was born, in 1998, a lot of the things she used were hand-me-down as well. She even had a crib that belonged to one of my nieces…who was born in 1986.

They used those things, because the products on the market weren’t much different. At that time, a crib was a crib, a stroller was a stroller and a car seat was a car seat.

In the time since then, however, all these people went and invented super-cool stuff! Which is so not fair, but is completely my luck and, therefore, not surprising in the least.

When my kids were babies, they had teethers and rattles just like every other child does. They were made of colored rubber, or plastic, or who knows what man-made material. There was nothing natural about the stuff my children chewed on.

But now, as my luck would have it, my friend Amy and her husband make the most beautiful, all-natural, wooden teethers. They are carved from Ohio maple, sanded with love in their backyard workshop and finished with organic flax seed oil.

They are pretty to look at and completely safe to bite. My kids totally missed out.

But, your baby or someone you know doesn’t have to. Leave a comment on this post and I will draw a winner who will receive a lovely wee wood teether from Amy’s Little Alouette store.

Someones child is going to be very lucky.

Winner will be chosen, at random, on August 28th at 6:00 PM EST.

8/28 UPDATE: CONGRATULATIONS TO LAURA BENSON!

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A long, long time ago I had a career. I left that life when my daughter was born and since that time I have tried my best to bring money in. I have run my own business, sold merchandise on e-bay, worked on a contract basis for a local company and was employed by my husband. Now I have this blog, which really helps pay the bills. The gumball bills.

Almost a year ago, I wrote a post about my new job as a second-grade teacher’s aide. I worked the 2008/2009 school year in a classroom where I checked papers, listened to reading homework and helped 30 kids make abacuses out of pipe cleaners and Froot Loops. Where is Toucan Sam when you really need him?

That job served a great purpose. My son, with all his issues, had me right there in the building with him. If the teacher needed me, if my son needed me, if he was following the principal around like a mime…I could easily help.

My boy made it through half-day kindergarten like a champ and I’m certain he is ready for first grade, but there is still this one problem. He sometimes chokes when he eats.

And that is why I am starting another new job today. In the cafeteria.

That’s right. I own it. But, check out these benefits! I get more hours, I might learn something about cooking, I get to talk to adults, I still have the same days off as my children which means I never have to worry about child-care, I get to wear jeans, I will don a baseball cap instead of a hairnet…and I might just get to save my kid’s life.

You can’t really ask for a better job than that.

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My family has always used Portuguese words when referring to things you wouldn’t want other people to hear you say in public. Mainly, this is done for private body parts and private body functions.

Though a Brazilian neighbor of my sister recently told us we were pronouncing almost everything incorrectly, and that the endearing phrase we use with our toddlers doesn’t sound as sweet when you find out that we are not saying, “Come here and let me pinch your behind.” Instead we are saying, “Come here and let me pinch your ass.”

My husband has accepted this odd vernacular, with the exception of a couple of “boy parts”. Instead of using (mangled) Portuguese, he has taught our seven year old son to say, “balls” as if the kid has morphed into a 45 year old Italian. It’s like having a miniature Marlon Brando standing in my living room. “Mom, the lining of my sailboat bathing suit is really hurting my BAWLZ.”

But last week, things changed a little. At the cabin where we were vacationing, there was a hot tub. My husband explained that it isn’t okay for boys to spend time lounging in a hot tub because the extreme temperature can hurt the “little babies” he has inside him.

When we said there were babies our son took us literally. Though he didn’t grasp the concept that there were millions of them, but instead assumed that each testicle was a child. He even named them. Racer and Jennifer. I spent an entire evening trying to get him to understand that Racer and Jennifer would not come out when he pees.

The next day, we were at the pool when my husband noticed our son had stopped swimming and was talking to a woman sitting on the edge. She kept looking over her shoulder at us and smiling. Eventually, I called to him, “Go back to swimming and let that nice lady relax.”

The woman turned and waved. Then she said, “It’s okay! He’s telling me about his babies.”

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