You know, 9 months is a really long time to come up with a baby name. But apparently, not long enough for me.

Because when my daughter was about a month-old, I looked down at that sweet, scrunched up face and thought, “This baby is absolutely, definitely not a Presley.” Oh man. We gave our kid the wrong name.

But I said nothing. I just figured I would get used to it. Presley just needed to grow into her name. Or I needed to grow into it. Or something.

My husband, along with our family and friends, would call her Presley and I would just bristle in silence. Although in all fairness, you really can’t blame them because that was her name. I pretty much just called her “the baby” or sometimes tried out names like Lila or Harper when no one was around.

Months passed.

And then one day, I ever-so-casually mention to my husband, “Hey, what do you think about us changing Presley’s name?”

And he looks at me like I am CRAZY because our daughter is 6 months-old now. But he knew I was crazy when he married me so isn’t this really his fault?

After debating this issue for two MORE months, we finally start calling her a new name when she is 8 months-old. Yes, 8 months-old.

This kind of thing happens to everyone, right?

So that’s how “Presley” became “Summer.”

I totally stole the name Summer from the now-canceled Fox TV show, “The O.C..” Sure, some people name their kids after famous sports stars or silver screen legends, but I personally think characters from cheesy teen dramas are more the way to go.

Unless you’re a newlywed, legally changing a name is not easy in this post 9-11 world. At least not in New York City. They wanted to make sure my child wasn’t a terrorist or perhaps changing her name to try to avoid some kind of prison sentence, debt or IRS investigation. Now I can’t account for every moment when she’s napping but I think she’s led a pretty honest life so far.

It took six visits to civil court to officially change her name to Summer.

On one visit, I sat in the courtroom and each person got up to request his or her name change.

There was Woo Wo who wants to flip things around and change his name to Wo Woo.

There was a transvestite who wants a more feminine name.

There was an Asian man who wants to change the first names of his 5, 7 and 11 year-old kids so their first names sound more American.

And finally, a woman who wants to change her name but couldn’t tell the Judge whether her middle initial “H” stood for Harriet or Hazel. She simply can’t remember anymore.

And I suddenly realized two things…

1. Being a judge in New York City must be one hell of an entertaining job.
2. And it turns out, I’m not so crazy after all.

You’re never going to find a bunch of recipes on this website. I’m just not that girl. But my kids still need to eat.

So I was intrigued to try out a new children’s food delivery service, Susie’s Supper Club. The meals are prepared with organic and natural ingredients (good!), with mild flavors to make them kid friendly.

Before I even had a chance to try out some of the dishes on my girls, my husband was already digging in. Let’s just say he’s now a big fan of  Susie and her yummy meals.

And the girls are pleased too. 4 year-old Dylan loved the Asian fish cakes, the spinach squares and the polenta fries! And 2 year-old Summer, who pretty much only hearts carbs, really liked the chicken milanese.

My biggest concern was the take-out containers that the food is delivered in. These containers are reusable but you can not recycle them in New York City. And how many containers do we all need in our little apartments?!

But the company is happy to pick up the containers from their customers and deliver them monthly to a recycling area outside the city. A company with a social conscious. That might be what I like about Susie’s Supper Club most of all.

Currently only delivering in Manhattan. Expanding to Brooklyn soon.

By Contributing Mama Robin Singer

I’m all washed out.  I’ve had it.  Please… no more laundry.

Last week we discovered we have mice.  Those little buggers seem to be cuddling up in the bottom of my laundry piles (clean laundry only of course!).

So we call the exterminator.  I absolutely hate the idea of killing them, but I feel helpless.  We put traps out.  Catch three.

Then… more “evidence” appears in the linen closet upstairs.  Boy, can those guys spread it out – they’ve hit every towel and sheet in there. And this closet is jam packed. As we begin to pull out the piles upon piles of linens that we hardly ever use, we discover the mice have made beds… by pulling the cotton from the insides of tampons and then lining them with cough drops for convenient little midnight snacks.  Clever little shits.

Needless to say, I’ve been doing laundry for about a week straight. Forget any regular clothing.

Then, just the other night, I’m lying in bed when I see movement – a quick scurry across the top of my cabinet  (where I stuff all my shoes and purses).  I get a glimpse of a tiny little mouse coming out of the shoe pile and heading right back in.  “Eeeeek!” I scream, waking my husband. He doesn’t appreciate it. But I don’t care. This is an INVASION.

Upon further examination, I discover that three of my shoes and one of my purses is filled… with droppings? Nope.

With cough drops? Tampons? Nope.

Dog food!  How the —- did dog food get into my closet!? From downstairs!

A little hoarding action.  Those thieves were actually carrying the dog food from the kitchen to my closet! Holy moly, this is disgusting.  But I laugh a little.  And curse the little buggers again.

On Monday, I am finally getting on top of this laundry situation.  Then later that evening, when I get home, my husband tells me that my 5-year-old daughter Tess vomited twice. Oh I hope it’s just junkfood.

Five minutes have passed when she arrives in the kitchen to tell me she just vomited all over her bed.  I strip the bed (comforter and all).

And then she throws up again. Another quilt.  Another set of sheets.  Another pillow.  Added to the pile.

Last set of clean sheets go on the bed.  She vomits again.  Some of it makes it into the bucket I provided four hours earlier.  I cover the small spot with towels and tuck her in again.  The next three times, she manages to find the bucket.  Thank you for your mercy, oh lord.

Would it be okay to tell my family not to wear anything until I catch up?

Robin Singer is a mother of two girls, an aspiring author/illustrator of children’s books, and an upcoming hom mouseicide expert.  She spends most of her days planning insanely complicated girl scout meetings or updating the PTO blog, ignoring both her dreams to finish the illustrations for her first book and her responsibilities to take care of the home.  She is married and lives in northern central New Jersey.

6:30 am: Rick and I leave our kids with my in-laws in Cherry Hill, NJ and depart via car to attend the inauguration of Barack Obama.

Come on Rick! This is historic. This is momentous. Let’s see some enthusiasm.

There you go babe.

We park our car in Maryland and take the metro up to the Capitol. And that’s where things get a little hairy. Because there are massive amounts of crowds.

Like “I’m getting really goddamn nervous” kind of crowds. We HOLD TICKETS but can’t even get to the security checkpoint because of the throngs of people pressed up against us and absolutely no crowd control. And we aren’t the only ones shut out.

Here I am, longing to be on the other side of this security fence…

Here’s Rick when he realizes that we can’t get in before the ceremony starts…

11:30 am: We’re screwed and abandon all efforts to get to our ticket area. We decide to look for a hotel or bar where we can AT LEAST see the speech.

Except we can’t get in anywhere. The hotels are only letting in guests and the restaurants are all holding private parties. We finally, desperately, make our way to Union Station where we sneak into a private party at America Restaurant and witness history on this…

Yes, a TV.  And it’s sort of like watching it at home, except for the mean hostess who’s pacing back and forth, kicking out inaugural party crashers. Somehow Rick and I stay under the radar.

As I watch the new President speak, tears fill my eyes. Hope and joy overwhelm me.

And heck, at least I’m not cold.

After the speech, we thank the party coordinators on our way out, “Great party! We had a wonderful time. See you in four years!”

And then we have lunch at the Union Station food court. And by the way, in case you’re wondering, they do not accept unused inauguration tickets in lieu of cash.

Remember back in October when I was calling all those voters in Ohio and Pennsylvania and North Carolina and I thought they’d be really mean to me but they were all just the sweetest, well, except for the ones who hung up on me but in my heart I believe they only hung up on me because they knew change was coming to America and who wants to be tied up on the phone during such a momentous occasion.

Turns out, all that phone stalking of swing voters might have worked because Obama won and the non-stop blooper reel presidency of George W. Bush is very close to being over.

So Rick and I road tripped to Washington, DC this weekend to take part in the inaugural festivities. On Saturday night, we attended a reunion for former staff of the Clinton-Gore administration.

Yes, before writing this delightful blog and finding employment as a personal assistant for a 2 and 4 year-old, I worked in politics.

Anyway, I really wish reunions were more like speed dating. You know, two minutes to get caught up on each other’s lives and then it’s on to the next person.

But instead, you always have an additional 10 minutes  or so to fill where, in a desperate effort to keep the conversation going,  you eventually tell some former colleague from the Department of Interior about your deep cravings for I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter Light.

I really understand why people skip these reunions. When you connect on Facebook, you just never end up babbling endlessly about butter.

Then on Sunday, we attended the concert at the Lincoln Memorial with performers like U2, Garth Brooks, Usher, Sheryl Crow and Bruce Springsteen.

Who would have been the celebrity line-up for a McCain inaugural celebration? Elizabeth Hasselbeck, Heidi Montag and Charlton Heston? Wait, Heston may not have been available.

Thank you to Rick’s kick arse cousin Wendi who got us the tickets.

And here is me and my man Obama at the big event…

And by “me and Obama,” I mean, my hair posing with Obama on the jumbotron.

I can’t believe that guy is about to become President. How completely awesome.