In reality, this is Cute Overload 1.0, because it took place in 1972, long before Suri Cruise was a twinkle in L.Ron Hubbard’s eye. But it’s just ovary-imploding cute and so I post it here:
Yes, it’s that time of the year again: time for the annual Scared of Santa gallery online! Best caption wins a glamorous, festive, and entirely imaginary prize!
Meltdown on Santa’s Lap (sandy gallant )
Ben Jones, 13 months old, of Peoria, Illinois, has a meltdown during his first visit with Santa.
Date submitted: 11/13/2008
The fact that we had but a single entrant should be set aside in view of the quality of response. The fact is, people were just flat-out intimidated when the clicked to the comments and found this one:
La Petite Acadienne Says:
November 22nd, 2008 at 9:43 am
Young Geoffrey was traumatized when his well-meaning parents misunderstood his request for Big Bird for Christmas.
Those poor, poor children. It bears repeating that this image has inspired some very fine captions around the blogosphere, including that on the original article:
Paul and Veronica came to a startling realization. Could they be next?
Well, apparently Paul and Veronica lived to a ripe old age or if they became child stars and burned out at least we have no information in that regard, so no news is good news.
Still, if ever tempted to pose your adorable children amid a pile of carcasses, even a butcher should pause. I mean, dude, please!
In any case/event we have yet to award the prestigious, yet entirely imaginary, prize. What shall we give our bold captioneer/captionesque?
This Youtruche ostrich-skin pump (ecosensitive!) from the master, Christian Louboutin, and for once I can’t really complain about the red heel lining outsnazzing the rest of the design, because, quite frankly, and with excessive use of commatude, not only is it abbreviated but, in fact and in actuality, one must admit, nothing could.
Really, the puppycam was cute. They were adorable puppies. Puppies, my friends, are adorable.
But does the world really need another $500 Maltipoo, Puggle, Labradoodle, or (God help us all) Chihuanian, otherwise known as Knicknack-With-Teeth?
One thinks not. One very much thinks not. $500 seems to be the going rate for any crossbred you don’t get from the Pound and while you do get access to that hybrid vigor, you don’t usually get any work out of the darn things.
Ever tried to hitch a half a dozen Cockapoos to a sled and yell MUSH! and you’ll see what I mean.
But now, for the price of a purse dog, you can have your own jumbo cruiser. Why think small when you can now adopt a rescued horse for as little as $500 plus shipping and handling?
“The horse overpopulation is almost as bad as the dog and cat overpopulation.”
But this fall, more than ever before, her phone has been ringing off the hook with requests from horse owners who say they can no longer afford to keep their pets.
“It’s crazy. … The economy is so bad this year, people are just dumping them,” Macmillan said.
And, really, with the price of gas being so volatile, can you afford to turn down a bargain like this?
A great classic of the late 20th Century, presented live at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Sure, you’ve probably seen some version of it before, but this is one tradition I’m never gonna give up.
Passed along by Nancy Zimmerman
Fair warning: if you don’t like a good cry, do not read this post. And for once it’s not just because my writing’s so painful.
Brendan Foster of Bothell, Washington was, to all appearances, an ordinary American kid, hanging out with his pals, playing videogames, grumbling about homework. You wouldn’t know he was about to become a hero.
“I should be gone in a week or so,” he said calmly.
When I asked him what he thought were the best things in life, Brenden said, “Just having one.”
I didn’t understand how this child, who was a year younger than my own son, could be so courageous facing death.
“It happens. It’s natural,” Brenden told me.
Three years ago, doctors diagnosed Brenden with leukemia. The boy who once rushed through homework so he could play outside found himself confined to a bed. But there was no confining his spirit.
“I had a great time. And until my time comes, I’m going to keep having a great time,” he said.
Brenden’s selfless dying wish was to help the homeless.
And, more, his dying wish came true in time for him to watch. Moreover, the power of his inspiration spread, resulting in:
- 200 sandwiches for the homeless distributed by Emerald City Lights Bike Ride of Seattle
- a food drive by an LA television station
- Ohio schoolkids collected recycling and donated the proceeds
- people in Pensacola, Florida collected food and drygoods to give to the homeless
- KOMO tv viewers in Western Washington donated six and a half truckloads of food and goods and $60,000 to the Stuff the Truck drive for the Northwest Harvest and Food Lifeline in Brenden’s honour.
- a network of pilots, flight attendants and friends is sprinkling wildflower seeds all over the world because Brenden heard that the bees were dying and wanted to help feed them as well.
“He had the joy of seeing all of the beautiful response to his last wish,” said his grandmother, Patricia McMorrow. “It gives him great peace and he knows that his life has meaning.”
“He’s left a legacy and he’s only 11,” said his mother, Wendy Foster. “He’s done more than most people dream of doing just by making a wish.”
Plucked from the archives of Teeny Manolo:
I don’t know about your family, but with my Italian and German heritages, we are not shy about the eating. The holidays bring buffets laden with too many delectables to choose from on the first go-around. And if there was not enough for everyone to have seconds, well then, the dinner is deemed a failure in our book.
My son is definitely a big eater, but unfortunately, only of foods that meet his predetermined criteria. These criteria, uploaded into his DNA during his formation, have yet to be shared fully with me. I know it includes foods that are too wet, too dry, too mushy, too crunchy, or display too many grill marks. Don’t ask.
So when the holidays roll around, the opportunities for food rejection rise sharply, as there are certain dishes made only during these times (hello cranberry sauce!) that he isn’t familiar enough with to consider viable for consumption. He’s good about trying new things, but if he doesn’t like it, he won’t continue to eat it.
What do to?
I try to follow a few simple guidelines during the holidays for my picky eater. These are pieces of wisdom that have taken me over five years to gain, and you are reaping the benefits from all the tantrums I had to deal with. Lucky you.
1. Limit the exposure of new foods to three at a time. Don’t load their plate with unfamiliar foods and expect them to unquestioningly eat them. You should already know this will most likely lead to confrontation, but sometimes the holidays can mess with our minds and make us believe that miracles can indeed happen. Sorry Virginia, they usually don’t.
2. Do have them only eat what everyone else is eating. If that means they ingest a lone dinner roll and some fruit salad, so be it. With most families, holiday dishes are both traditional and meaningful, and serving them chicken nuggets undermines that. (also, see number 5)
3. Don’t expect a three year old to sit quietly at the table while the adults talk politics or behind Aunt Margo’s back about her drinking problem. When they are done, let them be done, as long as they have eaten a fairly reasonable (for them) amount of food. Then, allow them to go on to a pre-planned after dinner activity.
4. Don’t give in to the temptation to tie in how much they eat at dinner to getting dessert. This just creates overall unhealthy food associations. And as the mother of a child who dislikes melted cheese, there are enough food-related obstacles to overcome already without throwing that sort of stuff in there.
5. As long as you know that they have eaten enough to fuel them for the next few hours, relax. So what if their protein intake was minimal? It is one night out of many, and they are not going to keel over from malnutrition.
See, that wasn’t so hard!
It’s the rest of the 358 days out of the year that are gonna be a bitch.