We put the gross in grocery shopping

Pushing a wonky-wheeled cart through the market is always an adventure when there's a preschooler calling the shots as you go.

From deciding what vegetables to buy (red, orange and yellow peppers; red and "silver" potatoes; but NOT the asparagus, which I managed to slip into the cart unnoticed anyway) to what cheeses looked best, Ittybit has become a grocery guru.

There's something almost mystical about her talents:

For instance, as soon as the butcher handed us our pound of stew beef she had decided to cradle it in her arms and call it "her baby." She even told the cashier not to put her "baby" in the plastic bag, knowing full well that plastic is not a toy and not to be triffled with.

She had other, big sisterly plans: "I need to rock him to sleep."

The bagger gave me a look I instantly recognized as the trying-not-to-laugh face pinch.

I told her confidentially: "we save a lot of money on dolls, not to mention the added bonus of being to eat her babies."

In hindsight, I'm thinking it wasn't a really appropriate response.

Looking a gift horse in the mouth ...

I rarely complain about Blogger because it's free.

Who am I to rant an rave about outtages and other burps that seem to be temporary technical indigestion.



But, as you can see, I've tried to customize my templates and am having trouble getting my masthead back into place.

I'd already gone to Blogger in beta and hadn't really experienced much trouble, but I really wanted to get rid of those infernal DOTS. So sick of those dots.

Of course, when I updated the new Blogger template I immediately lost all the straight html changes I'd made. I was able to cobble together the sidebar after a few bleary hours late last night, but I don't know how to switch the plain-jane header for my old masthead and I'm afraid my use of Safari as a browser isn't helping. I use to be able to just paste the html code for the photo from flickr onto the top of the template and that was that: easy peasy. When I tried to do that now all I get is angry error messages.

So. If anyone has any advice, I'd be eternally grateful. I'll even send you cookies. The kind with chocolate chips in them.

A man for (almost) all seasons ...

7:30 p.m. -- a face full of popscicle stickiness -- she says, "I think it's bath night."

Who are we to argue?

8:10 p.m. -- Scrubbed, detubbed and encased in "PEE-JAMMAS," she brushes her teeth to the inner sounds of Black Eyed Peas.

8:13 p.m. -- Squeezed into bed next to her truck-driving dad (I had NO IDEA he could fit in her toddler bed) I enter her room to the sounds of them singing "Old MacDonald Had A Farm" and she sits straight up. She tells me I'm the "bestest mommy I ever had." She turns to her daddy and says "I like you, too."

8:30 p.m. -- Three books, one hot water bottle and a glass of water later we're on the couch -- multi-tasking. He's checking his e-mail and contemplating the night's offerings on HBO. I'm knitting and checking the forums online.

9 p.m. -- I wrestle the remote from his stubborn hands and choose "Bee Season."

10 p.m. -- He kisses my forehead and says: "I hate these people. I'm going to bed."

When imaginary worlds collide

Dear Annabel,

This week you decided you were, in fact, going to have a brother.

And that you are going to teach him how to jump. And how to play with puzzles. And how to eat doughnuts -- because there IS a preferred way to eat them that requires substantial face-washing elbow grease be administered by an adult-type being afterward.

You ask so often if your "brother is coming yet" that it seems as if we're on a months-long car ride to the grocery store.

"Is he is here yet?"

"Not yet, honey."

"Well, is he here NOW?"

"No, hon. Your brother isn't supposed to arrive until summer."

"When is that?"

"That's when Ama Linda travels from her house in Minnesota to her house in Maine; when the lettuce grows in her garden and when the wild blueberries start to sprout on the bush in her yard."

"Is that a long time away?"

"It won't be too long."

I have no doubt you will be a good and loving sister.

You have already made special Valentines and the generous offer of a space in your room for your brother.

You are always on the lookout for babies then making special efforts to tell their mommies that you are getting a baby, too. You smile broadly when they congratulate you.

I wish I could put myself in your world, Ittybit, because it’s a wonderful place.

Until you learn differently everything is soft and joyous and easy. Explanations are simple and straightforward, and follow a logical progression completely. It's shocking, at times, that they aren’t really logical: Why shouldn't it be true that if you will grow up to be a mommy that I could grow down and be your baby?

But then I realize that the more you learn the less magical it will all seem.

When your new brother appears, you will learn a new set of realities. Your parents will be sleep deprived again as we find ourselves awake at all hours; stubbing our toes as we grope through the darkness to turn on a light. Our patience will be tested, and I know there are times we will not make the grade. We're going to be saying that word we’re not supposed to say.

But we've been here before. This is your first time.

I was reminded of this when you told me last night that your brother won’t cry because he'll have you. And while I know it won't be because of you, I assure you, dear girl, he will cry wet, heartbreaking tears, just as you sometimes do.

I know you're going to learn fast, though. And I have no doubt you’ll be teaching us a thing or two, too.


Love,

Mommy

The big O

It's kind of strange when your spouse tells you the sordid details of his dreams.

Strange for me, especially, since I'm the type of person who can't really tell my dreams from reality. I mean, when you spend half a day searching every conceivable stow spot in the house for the roll of stamps you bought while you slept, you have a certain appreciation for the surreal.

But seriously, some things are just a little too surreal:

HIM: I just had the weirdest dream. ...

ME: ... yes?

HIM: I had an affair with Oprah.

ME Winfrey?

HIM: Do you know another Oprah?

ME: I don't even know THAT Oprah.

HIM: Well, you don't have to worry. We didn't do anything. We just kept running around her mansion looking for a place to do something.

ME: That's good to hear. I don't think I could compete with a mega media mogul.

Children are a pain in my ...

Apparently, children are a pain in my neck. ... Or throat to be more precise.

I had not thought it would be possible to experience worse heartburn with Thing 2 than I had with Annabel. I didn't think worse heartburn WAS possible. Surely, I must be remembering it it all wrong because last night as I lay awake for the third night in a row, wanting to cry and knowing there are FIVE MORE MONTHS of this to come, I couldn't believe it had been this bad.

I couldn't even find comfort sitting in an upright position. I know it sounds astounding, but the burning in my throat, the gagging on bile, the feeling of general sickness took me by complete surprise. How can I stand FIVE. MORE. MONTHS. of this?

I remember telling people that I had horrible heartburn with Annabel and that I'd gained only 12 pounds during the entire pregnancy because of it, but I'd truly forgotten how awful it was. Drinking water, even in small amounts, seems to produce the same general results of eating an Italian hoagie stuffed with sausage, onions and sauce. I don't remember feeling nausiated at the same time, though. That's new.

I also don't remember it sneaking up on me. The feeling of fullness decends upon me without warning: One minute you're asking for seconds of pasta and the next -- only one morsel later -- you're wishing you could vomit to feel some relief.

One of the first things that happened to make me think I might be pregnant this time around was that I woke up one morning to the undeniable horror of reflux; it was at least two weeks before I would be able to take a pregnancy test.

I hadn't had heartburn since Annabel was born ... I wonder if that means ...

Sure 'nuff. Strange, though, how I'd thought this pregnancy would be different.

******
Annabel isn't feeling well either. Poor thing is at the doctor as I write this, having woken up from her nap with a swollen, goopy purple eye. She's been fighting a cold all weekend and awoke this morning with crusty eyes. I thought it might be from sleep, but no. She is a mucus factory, and it's being produced from virtually every orifice.

So I'll just be sitting here swallowing fire and crossing my fingers that I'm the only one suffering tonight.

******
Well Jed called from Albany Tile (where he is trying to figure out if what he wants to do with surround of new tub/bathroom is even feasible **Blink, blink**) to say that Annabel is fine, and in the most graphic of technical explanations, there's a rather simple reason for the goopy gunk swelling up her eyes: The tear ducts usually drain through the nose but when mucus cloggs the nose as much as Annabel's nose is currently clogged it sometimes oozes out the eyes. Lovely, huh?

She sounds good, though. I could hear her prattling on in the backround, talking about all the ice cream she'll eat when it's summer.

Skipp(y)ing a generation

Sometimes Annabel points to my chest and says, "My baby's in there."

The "MY BABY" phrasing always makes me think of her as a mommy and me as a surrogate. I laugh at the visual in my head as I try to direct her index finger a bit lower, toward my expanding waistline.

"No, Honey. Your baby's in HERE," I say for emphasis.

"No! She's in there," she responds with a voice filled with confidence and a double pointed poke that simulaneously reinforces her belief that the baby is (a) really a girl, and (b) inside my breasts (which I must admit do appear as if they are making a more rapid increase in size than my uterus).

It's also amusing because so far I have yet to experience the fabled "pregnancy cravings" I've heard so much about.

When I was pregnant with Annabel I did eat a lot of spinach and chicken -- and ended up with an aversion to eggs in the last several months -- but I assumed my desires for different foods had more to do with what didn't burn as much when it was coming back up the tube in the form of acid reflux. It was all about trial and error, not genuine larder lust.

This time around I've noticed a desire for all kinds of cheese -- from American to Cottage -- but that's not unusual for me. Whenever I put anything into my mouth I wonder: Is this a pregnancy craving, really, or is it just the normal fluctuations of supply and demand? You know, like whenever Atomic Fireballs are stocked in the office vending machine -- Pregnant or not, they call to me.

But every day Annabel comes up with a new taste sensation that only she seems to be able to fathom.

"I really think I'm going to be sick," said Jed last night at dinner as she dipped green bean after green bean into grape juice and gobbled them down like candy.

"Why does she want her peas frozen?" he asked last week as he poured the peas directly from bag to plate.

"I don't know. I think it's because she's weird," I say, neglecting to mention the dessert of ice cream she demanded not long ago was to be drizzled with the green legumes instead of the traditional sugary sprinkles.

I thought perhaps it was the desire to shock and amuse that caused her to tell the sitter she didn't actually like peanut butter and celery, and instead dipped spoonfuls of corn into the little tub of Skippy I'd sent for snack.

But now I'm wondering if she didn't inherit the pregnancy cravings I've never had?

The groundhog is such a kidder

Yesterday I did the unthinkable for a person in the news business. I called in on account of snow. In the more than fifteen years I've been in this business, I missed exactly two days of work because of the white stuff. Once, in 1996, I had to turn around and go home when I got halfway to work and my car couldn't plow through the foot-high drifts that were sailing around the backcountry roads. It was a weekly and we weren't on deadline, so I didn't feel so bad.

This time however, I was all set to go. I was planning what to wear, and thinking about my still broken cell phone charger when Jed gave me the stern look that only FATHERS can muster: "YOU ARE NOT THINKING ABOUT GOING OUT IN THIS ARE YOU?"

"I have to," I say, feeling a little like a rebuked child.

"I have to go to work," I continue, with endless reasons at my disposal:

People are counting on me

At least TWO people are on vacation

I know some people just won't show up

and I know there might very well be only TWO people that DO show up. ...

And yet his reasons for staying by the warmth of the fire, petting our sweet ailing dog and forgoing the battle of a potential two-hour commute were equally compelling:

"YOU ARE PREGNANT,"

"YOU ARE SICK WITH A COLD,"

"AND THE STORM IS JUST GETTING WORSE."

So I acquiesed and got on the horn to work.

It was a good day, though: Annabel got to break in her new snow shovel, a valentine's gift from her dad who trudged out around noontime to go to the store on an errand for baking supplies and who ended up coming home with a new movie he bought on impulse while standing in the checkout line.

Professional guilt, as well as a need for toddler diversion, made me send him to the store for 18 ounces of bittersweet chocolate and enough eggs to get us through the week should I clean us out with my plan:
I was going to bring a "guilt" cake to work.

About 20 inches of snow (and seven hours later) Annabel was helping me put the finishing touches on the chocolate cake we made (only half of which I brought to work this morning because of theiving housemates).

"Look mommy, I'm snowing on the cake."

So here it is:
VALENTINE'S DAY SNOWED-IN FLOURLESS CHOCOLATE CAKE
Zero Flour, All the Guilt

1 cup water

3/4 cup granulated sugar

1/4 tsp. salt

18 ounces bittersweet chocolate (bar form) (We added half a bag of Ghirardelli milk chocolate chips because we were a tad short).

1 stick butter, cut into cubes

6 large eggs

Preheat over to 300 degrees F.

Melt chocolate in double boiler (are you nuts. USE THE MICROWAVE).

Combine water, sugar and salt in medium sauce pan and cook over medium-low heat until sugar is disolved, stirring continuously. (Annabel did this part).

Fold butter into melted chocolate one cube at a time. Add syrup mixture and blend in eggs one at a time. (I'm sure Annabel would have been more precise than I was in this endeavor; I dropped in two eggs at once, then dropped one egg on the floor).

Pour into 9" springform pan and place in oven in a water bath.

Bake 45 minutes.

When it had cooled, I filled a tea ball with confectioner's sugar and let Annabel make a blizzard on the cake ... and in the kitchen and all over her clothes.

Somebody poisoned the waterhole ...

For many folks, Valentine's Day is a day to be disdained. A manufactured holiday designed to pad the sales of florists, chocolatiers and card companies everywhere. It's a day lovers will look at their partners and either be delighted or disappointed.
Where love is symbolized as foil-wrapped truffles or see-through nighties.

I suppose you could take any occasion celebrated by the exchange of gifts and hold it up to the UV light and trace amounts of excrement in the water supply will be detected.

I've never been the sort (or even been with the sort) that takes this day too an extreme. A card here, a flower there maybe dinner and a movie.

I nearly had to consider the holiday this year, since Ittybit goes to preschool, and a note came home with her at the beginning of the month that said the school didn't encourage valentine exchanges, but that if a student felt strongly about it they should make enough for everyone.

Oh the dilemma of such a horific choice: If you don't make 10 cards for everyone -- nevermind that I've lost the most recent (and accurate) class roster with names, and that Annabel has a tendancy to manufacture her own names for classmates; bowmmeggo, blahblue and glugglug, I imagine, wouldn't be too pleased with their construction paper valentines from us, I'm afraid -- what happens when they make them for her and she has none to share?

It's not that we weren't making TONS of cards. We've done nothing but snip out construction paper hearts and glue them to ripped pieces of paper embellished with old watercolor paintings and crayon drawings for weeks. We mailed one to her cousin, her amahs and papas. We gave one to Lori and Tierney and Brianna. We popped them in the coat pockets of some of her friends and toted the rest around unaddressed.

It seems strange to me to be saying this now, but I've never really given much thought to Valentine's Day before this month of this year. It never seemed like anything terribly special.

But then came a turning point. Julie K in Taiwan started counting down the days.

When something is made with so much love that you can't help but see more of the love than the thing, you can't help but admire the holiday that inspired its creation. ... at least a little bit anyway.

An old dog, new tricks

Tucking her into bed

Jed is worried about Maggie. Her cough is getting worse and she's skinnier than ever.

He even mentioned yesterday that he thinks she's only got two weeks left in her.

After the diagnosis last summer, I spent an anguished few days feeling numb. The idea of a house without this old girl of ours begging for tasty morsels and smiling at us as only a good dog can smile, filled me with dread.

But then she didn't die. As the months went by we began to feel hot under the icy glares of the veterinary staff as we continued to stop by and pick up two-week supplies of Hydrocodone; Jed started bringing her with him to prove we weren't just pocketing the drugs for ourselves.

Her birthday (Thanksgiving) came and went, as did Christmas and New Year's Day. And now as Annabel and I gear up for Valentine's Day, Maggie is still underfoot and under the dining room table where hundreds of paper hearts -- knocked over accidentally as we busily made cards this past weekend -- fluttered down upon her.

I'd forgotten how sick she is; how little time is left. She still lumbers up and down the stairs, eats voraciously and drags hers and all bowls of dinner-time giveaways away from Madeline every chance she gets. She doesn't have any pain. And even though we know it's inevitable, her death will still be a shock.

I worry about Annabel, and how she will take the loss now that Maggie is routinely sleeping in her room and generally watching over her at night. I imagine Maggie's absence in the house will make it feel cavernous to her, especially. "Is Maggie feeling better?" she asked me last night at bedtime, "'cause I want her to sleep in my room. I want her with me all night."

Facts of life ... book form

Don't Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late, words and pictures by Mo Willems:

I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I think I may actually like this book even better than it's Caldecott Medal winning sibling, "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus." The busdriver makes a repeat performance, only this time he's holding a candle and wearing a nightcap and asking that readers NOT TO LET THE PIGEON stay up late. But as is his nature, Pigeon tries to worm his way out of going to sleep. This time Annabel stuck to her guns. She may be all for letting the Pigeon drive the bus, but no way is she letting the whirly bird stay up late.

Even though illustrator Stephen Michael King tells us in his delightful book, "Emily Loves to Bounce," that sometimes she eats and sometimes she sleeps, any reader can plainly see that Emily's singular purpose in life is to bounce. With lots of white space, this book leaves a lot to the imagination as it's quirky characters -- which include her dinosaur and Nana Pat -- hop and bounce and boing, looking for the best bounce of all -- which is mommy and daddy's bed, of course. Just becareful of the tummy bounces, they look like Emily fell on her head. No matter, she's up and bouncing on her feet in no time.

Each month Annabel comes home from preschool with Scholastic Book order forms, and every month I've felt a little like the book Scrooge, because I don't really find anything that floats my boat. So they've mostly gone into the recycling. That pains me a little because ordering books through school gives the little school house credit towards its own library. Apparently, all I needed was incentive. Recently, Lori told me that she'd like to place an order for her own collection, and I did book buying, too. While I wasn't terribly interested in television stars Clifford or Care Bears, I thought maybe it'd be good to try The Usborne's First Thousand Words in Spanish. I mean it couldn't hurt to for Annabel to have an understanding that English isn't the only language right?

Boy was I shocked when it quickly became her favorite book. She especially likes the medical pages for some reason, but also LOVES to see what's happening in the crazy kitchen. There are so many surprises in the pictures it somehow cancels out the fact that the book organized as a simple a picture book with Spanish words under their respective pictures. It also has a wonderful glossary for definition and pronounciation in the back. Of course, for a few months Annabel wouldn't let me refer to it while we were reading, so I was pronouncing LOTS of stuff incorrectly. I suppose I'll always be an ugly American.

From the moment I saw "Tub-Boo-Boo" at a local secondhand book store I was hooked. Something about Glin Dibbly's slightly freakish folks and Margie Palatini's fast paced, rhyming prose made me an instant fan. Of course, I bought the book when Annabel was only a few months old, but I had hope that in time she'd come to love it. What's not to love about a book narrated as if it were a news report by a knowing older sister about her little brother who gets his big toe stuck in the faucet of the tub. "A Tub-Boo-Boo? A Tub-what-who?" I can happily report that Annabel giggles like mad as the whole town gets trapped in the bath fiasco. This is a book that would make Laura Petry amused.

I can't believe I haven't mentioned "Homemade Love" before. Written by academic bell hooks, "Homemade Love" is a THE first book Annabel was ever mesmerized by. I kid you not, she was a two-month-old infant sitting quietly, eyes glued to the book. If she was crying the poetic words, read over and over, would put her at ease. This book is my favorite for all those early memories as well as it's sweet and loving message: "My Mama calls me girlpie, her sweet, sweet. Daddy's honeybun, chocolate dew drop. Homemade Love. All good, good." -- A perfect valentine.

The pleasure is all yours ...

Oh that look.

POSSIBLE TRANSLATIONS:

My mother is an alien from the planet ash-olio.

She obviously has me confused for the child that was separated at birth.

When she's gone I'm getting rid of all these infernal photographs ...

One by one, I will burn them in the sink.

And I don't care what she says, I will never spit out the toothpaste ...

Or finish my meal ...

Or wash my hair ...

Or sleep through the night.

NOT EVER.

Let's just forget TODAY and move on to tomorrow ... tonight we're taking the kid to the pub

Last month Meredith Vieira asked blogger Melissa Summers, on live television, to explain the difference between a mom and a babysitter when it came to drinking on the job.

She wanted to know why the double standard: If you wouldn't let a babysitter drink while they were watching your children why would you?

... AND the gloves came off.

All over the blogosphere mothers are wielding pitchforks and demanding blood. Many of them asking why the media is so insistent on holding mothers at arms length and dropping them in a pit together to see who survives?

The comment came out of a puff piece about moms who gather together at play dates and simultaneously pop the cork on a bottle of wine. Somehow it turned into a debate, lead by Vieira and flanked by "expert" Dr. Janet Taylor, about whether mothers should drink at all in the presence of their children (unless of course there's a man around, or in the event of a neighborhood/backyard barbecue ... you know, where men might be socializing, too).

The reasoning? Just in case these silly women all get schnockered, a kid falls on his head and requires a trip to the emergency room. Lordy, who would be able to drive? (I suppose no one ever considered an ambulance for that relatively rare scenario, but I digress.)

I've been watching the backlash with some degree of humor.

There are people applauding who admit to being raised by alcoholics, and who have themselves shunned the bottle. And there are mothers who are simply indignant about being compared to a babysitter.

It's was a boneheaded question to ask for sure, even if she can't admit it. (Viera has defended herself by saying she thought -- and still thinks -- it was a fair question.)

But what seems even more humorous to me is that today the show revisited the piece because they got such a HUGE response, presumably from "both sides."

Vieira had toned down her admonishment of the moms slightly, but the rhetoric is still there: Drinking is bad on a playdate; it means MOM COULD BE OUT OF CONTROL and SELF MEDICATING.

What it's also saying is there's only one way to drink: dangerously.

The idea that you could have a playdate for yourself as well as your kids, include an adult beverage and let it go at that is an alien concept, and yet is it?

Do I really think the people at TODAY believe this dreck their spinning onto the airwaves? Not in the least. I don't expect fair or balanced, because fair and balanced would require something other than "SHE says" and, in this case, "She responds." Some semblance of truth should be part of the equasion, too.

I suppose we'll all just have to bide our time and wait for the companion piece about dads having a beer at a ballgame with junior in tow. ... Let see what kind of ratings they get then ... Oh, wait. They're not going to do that story are they?

I for one am changing the channel. I refuse to listen to any more useless infotainment masquerading as journalism.

Out of the mouths of babes ... and their mothers ...

Don't you just love how cute they are?

Like just the other day, we're driving in the car, pretending to see all manner of forest flora and fauna, when, during a calm in the game, she comes out with this little gem:

"... and I just had to say shiT."

Oh yeah, she's been listening quietly all this time. Saying nothing but taking it all in.

Last week, when I dropped the glass and it shattered into a billion pieces on the kitchen floor?

What did I say?

You bet I did.

Last month, when I noticed someone other than me did the laundry and dried my wool sweater in the clothes dryer?

What did I say?

You guessed it.

And countless times before that?

So why did I think that she wasn't listening?

"I say shiT sometimes, too, mommy. shiT. You say shiT sometimes instead of 'Oh Bother.'"

I was practically crying I was laughing so hard.

There are no bad words (only words that will make your babysitter and your teachers swallow their tongues or send you to the principal's office). There are no bad words. There are no bad words. Okay. Stop laughing. Stop laughing. She hears that, too. It bolsters her resolve. There are no BAD words ...

"Ok. I don't want you to say that word. You say 'Oh bother.'"

"But sometimes you need to say Oh ShiT."

"I know that sometimes it slips out, but it's not a word that makes people happy. Some people may be offended by that word. A better word is Bother. Or Pooh. Or Drat. Why don't you say Oh, Pooh bother? I like the sound of that: Oh, Pooh bother!"

"But I like shiT."

"I know, but it's not a word you should use until you're older."

"When am I going to be older?"

"Too soon for us, not soon enough for you."

"ShiT."

Prescription: A dose of silly

Sometimes all you need is a little bit of silly to get through the day.

A little bit of silly will erase some of the eyerolls and the heavy sighs that accumulate during the winter confinement.

A dose of silly (and a pre-warmed car, stretchy mittens and a fleecy hat) will protect you from the -8 degree day when your spineless mom lets you leave the house wearing only those things, your too-small winter coat, shoes and tights. (Yes, I let her leave without her pants on).

A little more silly can make bathtime not so so much of a chore, bedtime not as excruciating and wake up time the best time in the world. Every day is something different: You never know how many penguins will be taking turns sliding down the neighbor's roof; or how many puppets the purple puppet eater will want to eat for breakfast or when Ernie and Bert will surprise you with a snowball fight as you head out to start the day.

Silly keeps it interesting.

Nothing like raging hormones and life changes to get that blood flowin' ...

And so it begins. Anxiety.

The myth people like to tell you, unsolicited, about two being just as easy as one ... the lie that at some point makes you realize you got it all wrong: That maybe you had actually heard "three are just as easy as two," or that "a half dozen are as easy as four." No matter, the reality we all tend to forget is that ONE isn't always that easy.

And so, along with this little nugget of psychosis, I will tell you that the 19th nervous breakdown of Ought Seven is about child care.

Innocently enough, Lori -- the woman I refer to as The Other Mommy -- asked me what my plans were now that Thing 2 has secured a spot in the pecking order. I had assumed (and we all know what happens to those who ASS U ME) that he would just squeak in under the radar.

I mean, hadn't we talked about the possibility of a second? Hadn't I planned and planned and been disappointed for fifteen months?

Hadn't I? Hadn't we?

But no. Lori has already taken on a second child - the most an unlicensed, in-home daycare is allowed to take without jumping through the flaming hoops of Big Brother. She's not interested in getting her yard fenced or having to have strangers in to inspect. She's happy with the status quo.

I can't blame her.

But this miracle that was fate more than three years ago seems to have evaporated.

Many of the same impediments returning to work that I discovered three years ago are still there. Infant placements are near impossible to come by; if you find one you have to take it and pray the people are well suited to their jobs.

While Lori's suggestion was to have Ittybit continue to be with her five days a week and the new baby come to her two days a week (when her other charge is elsewhere) I knew for my own mental health, the only scenario that would work (that still included her) was to have the baby come to her five days and find a new place entirely for Annabel.

Afterall, finding reliable toddler placements should be easier than finding an infant placement. None of the options, though, are ideal. Separating the siblings breaks my heart, and taking Lori away from Annabel tears it to pieces.

Of course the other option -- the one that REALLY scares the life out of me -- is that I quit my job, it's steady salary and insurance benefits and stay home.

That's where panic comes in.

My husband, while he makes a good income, works for himself in a potentially dangerous field. He moves and installs large-scale sculpture.

Maybe you can't imagine, but I think of nothing else besides the potential of an accident that ends his career, or worse.

But it's more than just worry about money and security. It's also the idea of identity. Jed has never considered packing up his small business to be the stay-at-home daddy. But it seems expected of me.

I have no qualms saying that I love being a mother but that I don't want my job description to be MOMMY. I don't want to stay home and sing songs and stop fights and try to entertain the kids while cleaning the house and trying to figure out dinner.

I don't want to let my IRA lie dormant and my savings dwindle. I don't want to risk our future, my future and the kids' future educations because one of us will be paying all the bills. I don't want to have to ask Jed for money to buy myself some little incidental.

In order for this one-income option to work, Jed will have to take more jobs, travel more often and just generally be away.

Jed has said he wants me to be happy, and that he will do anything he can to ensure that we are taken care of; that the insurance doesn't lapse and that I have help. But ... what happens then? What happens when, for the first time in nearly 20 years, no one is paying me to write or take photographs? What happens when I don't have money of my own? Income of my own?

It's not as if I have a killer job; but I have a comfortable one. A job I'm use to, and one that makes me feel secure even if it's not set in stone. Just the thought of pounding the pavement in a few years, trying to get a new job when the kids are back in school, when I'm in my mid to late 40s, makes me want to vomit.

It's been difficult enough to get jobs thus far. I can face the truth - I don't make stellar first impressions.

So while I was over having a heart attack for a little while, Jed bringing home information about private health insurance yesterday, smiling as if 'now everything will be alright,' made the bile rise right back up into my throat ... or was that just gestational heartburn?

I need someone to check my pulse ...

I think there may be something wrong with me.

I can't believe I'm standing with uber-conservative fundamentalist Christians on the topic of Merck's new wonder drug, even if our reasons may differ.

Since June when a federal advisory panel voted unanimously to recommend all girls and women ages 11 to 26 receive Merck's new vaccine for genital warts, Gardasil, which in clinical studies proved to prevent cervical cancers by preventing infection from four strains of the human papilloma virus, I have been waiting for government entities to mandate its use.

Now it seems Merck is pouring its money into pushing its revolutionary new drug -- which, for the record, costs $360 for the three-shot regimen needed for effectiveness -- on state legislatures across the country, hoping they will mandate the costly prevention for all girls beginning at age 11.

Merck isn't saying how much it's spending on this endeavor, but one might imagine such non-disclosure could mean the grand total is a boatload. Why just image, if even a small percentage of states pass measures to require parents vaccinate their girl children against HPV, the company stands to have a lucrative payday ... at least until its patent runs out or until the drug is approved for our boy children and the process starts all over again.

Let me just get a few things off my chest:

I know that HPV is the most common sexually transmitted disease in the world, and particularly devastating to underdeveloped and impoverished nations.

I believe Merck's vaccine is safe and effective.

I fully expect Ittybit to get this vaccine when she turns 11, even if I have to pay out of pocket for it (currently most insurance WILL* cover this preventive measure).

I think the idea that HPV can be completely prevented by morally responsible living is akin to sticking your head in the sand.

I think that discovering that cancer can be caused by a virus is INCREDIBLY exciting for the future of medical research.

BUT ...

Do I want government telling me how to raise my child?

What if I were afraid of the repercussions of vaccines on cognitive development?

What if I was convinced of anecdotal accounts of parents who believed their kids were adversly affected by innoculations instead of peer-reviewed research showing no link between childhood vaccinations and autism?

What if *shudder* I believed in my heart of hearts that giving her the shot would be akin to giving her the keys to a lifetime of debauchery and moral decay?

In short, what if I were someone else?

I suppose there are still choices I could make. I could pull my kid from school and take her education on at home.

Sure, I could fight the good fight and buck the laws of man. But should I have to, especially where medical decisions are concerned?

Mind you, I have no trouble with the use of the term "herding" as it relates to mass innocuations being the most effective way to irradicate dieases.

Yes! I think it's wonderful that this discovery has been made. I think it's a valuable health care tool that all people -- even boys when the drug is approved for use in the other 49 percent of our population -- should seriously consider. Like many have said, I feel there really ARE more pros than cons.

However I wonder if Gardasil, in it's current $360 form, will be made available to the developing world and those marginalized by inadequate medical coverage, where the need is arguably the greatest?

I know this issue may one day go the way of seat belts, the infant car seat and, most recently, the ban of trans fats in NYC restaurants, but I can't help but want government to make its recommendations, decide such discoveries are worth funding for those least likely to afford it, and then step off and let folks make their own decisions.

The last time I checked, the government has a lot on its plate. It has to figure out how the millions of uninsured in this country can get adequate health care; it has to deal with this mess it created in Iraq; the future of education; and what to do about global warming. I really wish it would make some headway on these issues before it goes and tells US how to raise our kids.

And to tell you the truth, I'd just feel a lot better if a single drug company didn't stand to reap the benefit.

*** UPDATE ***
This just in ... it would appear, according to Associated Press reports, that pediatricians and gynecologists from Arizona to New York are refusing to stock Gardasil because of its $360 price tag and what the doctors say is inadequate reimbursement from most insurers.

Surprise, surprise. ...

*** UPDATE II ***
Merck is completing testing of Gardasil on women ages 26 to 45 and will apply for approval for those groups by year’s end; it is testing it in young males and could seek approval in 2008.

*** UPDATE III ***
Rival drugmaker GlaxoSmithKline is developing its own vaccine, Cervarix, and could seek approval this year.

Laughter can make your stomach hurt, right?

This kid just cracks me up.

I mean it.

While Jed was off with his friends in Maine for a four-day drunken reunion with his childhood buddies -- doing unspeakable things with raw sewage and soft-sided luggage (I'll say no more) -- we were at home trying to amuse ourselves.

Yet, even though I am usually exhausted by the end of the day, it always seems as if she's the one doing all the work.

We started off our adventures on Saturday by meeting my parents for breakfast in Chatham, where Annabel managed to Hoover something from everyone -- a little bacon from Amah's plate, a little ham from Mama's and some -- wait, what is he eating? "I don't want that" from Papa's plate -- not to mention scarfing down enough pancake and sausage from her own dish to make a trucker sated.

Next we stopped by American Pie (just because I can't resist the place) and Annabel informed me she would like to buy a present for her sister.

"Honey, you do remember that you're getting a brother, right?"

At which point, she looked up at me sternly and said: "I TOLD you I wanted a sister, right?"

Impassively, and without further comment, she put back the porcelain pig with purple glittery tutu and matching spangled wand and reached for the shrink-wrapped snake hanging from a revolving display nearby.

"He'll like this dinoserosaur. Let's get this."

Later, a trip to New York State Museum's Terrace Gallery carousel burned up another two hours of prime television viewing zombie-anizm. Lucky for me -- and her grandparents who came along for the ride -- she’s not too fond of the horses, preferring to take every spin on the stationary benches. I say this 'cause if anything can make me feel a little woozy it's a carousel horse and the mighty (unexpected) spin of the wheel. (Anyone else notice how fast those things go after it’s too late to get off?)

Next we proved multi-tasking is possible for toddlers (and expectant mothers) by going home and simultaneously baking sugar cookies and making dinner. The latter of which I can proudly say she managed to consume before the former.

But of course the BEST came at 8 p.m., when for some strange reason my stomach started to hurt in a worrisome kind of way that made me think if it didn't let up by morning I'd have to give someone in the medical profession a call and ask them to see what's what. I told her that my tummy, where the baby was, wasn't feeling too well and we had to take it easy and get ready for bed so I could rest.

She made a huge effort to climb into bed from the other side, saying she didn't want to hurt my belly. We read for a while and she quietly went to sleep 30 minutes later, in her own bed, with little if any protest.

In the morning she slipped into my room and peered at me with a worried expression.

"Is your stomach still hurting mama," she asked as if time didn't elapse during the night.

"No, baby, it doesn't. It feels a lot better."

Yup. She's a keeper.

Tell mama ...

It's rare that anything ever turns out the way you think it will.

When you come to think of it, how often did whatever you planned for your life ever come to to pass?

If I had followed the roadmap I drew way back when, I'd be single, living on the west coast and doing something so fabulous with my life that the light from fabulous would take 18 million years to get to the place I am right now, which is still pretty darn good.

And yet, somehow, having a boy seems about as foriegn to me as having kittens.

Don't misunderstand, I'm excited at the thought of having a boy, it's just that I haven't ever lived in a house with boys (beside the occasional pre-pubescent behavior exhibited by my husband from time to time). I really don't know what to expect.

So I would really appreciate some thoughts from the internets. I know you have 'em. Tell me all about your boys and about their relationships with their sisters. Tell me about your own brothers and sisters. Tell me what surprised you and what made you glad it turned out as it did.

Go ahead, tell mama.

A bit of a sticky wicket

You may recall Annabel has mentioned a few (hundred) times that she would prefer a girl to any other brand of baby, including the cute a fuzzy puppy variety.

She's even offered names that she would happily accept: Lola, China, Brianna, Tierney, Ella and Maya are just a few on her short list.

So you might imagine my hesitation at telling her the news the ultrasound technition told me. Would it really be the worst thing in the world to name the boy China and dress him in pink? But no, honesty is the best policy.

The first chance I got, I told her that we had news. She was going to have a brother.

Her eyes fixed on me and started to tear up. "But I don't want and brodder. I don't WAAAAAN'T a BRODDER," she wailed.

This is not going well, I thought as I scooped her up into my arms and tried to comfort her.

"I know, I know. You had your heart set on a sister, but brothers are really better. They are. They are," I stammered, grasping at straws. "When you have a brother there are things you won't have to share. You'll have your own room and your own clothes. And you can still show him all kinds of things. You'll see."

She was still crying.

"If you had a sister you would have to share your room, and your clothes and your best toys," I continued fruitlessly.

"BUT I DON'T WAAAAAN'T A SISTER," she cried.

I was confused.

"I don't want a brodder or a sister, I wanted a baby," she scowled. "A baby this big," she explained, pinching the air with her fingers.

"Well honey, you will have that. You will have a baby."

"Ok, mommy," she sniffled. "Can I have some peanut butter, too?"

This is what best friends are for ...

ME: Guess what? We're officially in the mixed-bag club.

MARTHA: CONGRATS! Wait. What do you mean mixed-bag club?

ME: It's a boy. And we already have the girl ...

MARTHA: Oh good... I was fearing you were telling me it was a hermaphrodite.

Oh, the possibilities

An empty yoga studio on Sunday wasn't a total loss.

Sure Gwen, my most dedicated student, was feeling under the weather and had called to say she's wasn't going to make it to class but there was still the possibility that others would make their way to the studio on this cold, cold day. "Blustery" as Annabel so rightly puts it.

Nope. The wind, as it turns out, was too fierce.

So Annabel and I did some stretching, built a tower of bricks and hit the road early.

Ok, we hit the town to do a little window shopping.

I'm taking advantage of Annabel's new found amiability while I can. Last year the idea of browsing in stores (or even outside of stores), eating in restaurants and being out in the world seemed like a distant dream. Now it's a genuine possibility. I want to take advantage of it while the proverbial window is open. We're all feeling slightly isolated with all the catalog shopping. Every once in a while it's nice to see real faces and mirror real smiles.

We went to The Gifted Child and bought a Melissa & Doug stamp set as well as a Charmmy Kitty dishware set for the good little miss. Then we stopped into JWS Art Supplies and took advantage of its winter "white sale." We got two 16" x 16" prestretched canvases for $12: I have plans for artwork for the kids' room(s).

And then we moseyed over to Martin's for a late lunch. We split a hamburger and a fruit cup (she ate most of the burger ... I ate most of the fruit) and we people-watched.

She was quite taken with twin boys - 10 months old (I inquired) - at the next table. Neither of us could keep our eyes off them. They were twin bundles of joy.

Four adults juggled the twins, taking turns eating and performing amusements.

But Annabel wanted to make sure her interest in the boys was clear: "I'm going to have a sister soon," she told them as they bundled up the boys to leave.

"Well congratulations," they said. "I'm sure you're gonna be great."

Small miracles ...

Amazing beings, children. They never cease to astound.

Last week, while Jed was off doing art stuff with a big crane and dangerously sized sculpture, Annabel and I immersed ourselves in the children on the Web; the pride of flickr folks to be exact.

To be honest, I didn't really think about what I was doing. I turned on the computer, as I always do, to check in with my peeps in this photographic playground. There's always something new: Henry's cuddling with his new brother, Leo; Ella's jumping on a trampoline, a gift for her Second Birthday; "The Beast" is being a good mama to her baby doll, cooking in her play kitchen while wearing her dolly in a sling - just like her mommy and her sister Charlie. And Matilda is cleaning up in the shower.

I called Annabel over and reintroduced her to Matilda. She had met Matilda in person back in October, but it had been a while since she'd looked in on the computer to see what she was up to.

She looked at the photograph of Matilda showering, asked what her name was and told me she wanted some juice and a snack.

Every day since Annabel asked about Matilda, the girl who was washing in the inside rain.

And then, on Thursday, when I least expected it, Annabel wanted to know every possible detail about the showering Matilda. We were on the way home from Amah and Papa's house when she made me tell her Matilda's name again, what she was doing in the pictures and what parts of her body she was washing in the "pishers."

It was a kind of game. She knew all the answers but she wanted me to ask her the questions. Then she told me she wanted to take a shower, but that she didn't want to get sprayed.

When we got home she actually took off all her clothes and went into the bathroom. We adjusted the shower so it hit the wall and she eventually got totally soaked on her own. She even "washed her armpits just like Matilda."

It seemed like a small miracle, and it couldn't have come at a better time.

Pieces of the puzzle

I've always hated it when people tell you that there's something ominous brewing behind the scenes. They dance around the meat of the matter, but never elaborate on the specifics.

And so it is with amazing shame that I will tell you, my imaginary friends, that there are BIG things going on over here at Ittybits & Pieces; big things that are making me fall to pieces.

But I can't tell you what just now. I am sorry.

I can tell you that as far as I know, Thing 2, is right as rain and I'm even feeling the faint signs of a new life stretching around. I can tell you that I have another obstetrics appointment Tuesday, and perhaps then will know even more intimate details about the baby on board. I can tell you that everyone here is well and trying to keep warm since winter seems to have arrived finally.

But the big thing I can't say is potentially life changing; and I don't handle life changes well. It is something I have to think about before I make any real decisions but it is something I have to make note of here since I will be thinking of little else until I can sort it all out; if I can sort it all out.

I will have to discuss it here at some point during the next several months to the dismay of some, and I imagine my telling will be at length. This is how I make sense of it all; if at all. So it will have to come to pass. Just not now.

For now, I have to calm down, catch my breath and stop crying and wishing I'd done everything differently.

For now.

Myths and legends

10. "A carefree childhood"

9. "Anti-wrinkle cream"

8. "Self cleaning"

7. "A free lunch"

6. "Married bliss"

5. "I'm not trying to sell you anything"

4. "The last mop you will ever buy"

3. "New and Improved"

2. "Two are just as easy as one"

... and ... my personal favorite:

1. "You can be whatever you want to be."

It's official: I have the emotional maturity of an 8th grader - especially when my blood sugar is low

*** Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

ITTYBIT: (all wide eyed on the porch) What was that noise?

MOMMY: It's just your dad, he's in the kitchen pounding his meat. Why don't you go tell him to stop. It's too loud and we can't read.

ITTYBIT: (runs to the kitchen) DAAAAAD, STOP POUNDING YOUR MEAT!!!!

DADDY: Did your mommy tell you to say that?

ITTYBIT: Yep. (runs back to the porch).

ITTYBIT: Mommy? Are you crying?

MOMMY: No honey, I'm just laughing really hard.

This is a tough nut ...

Ok ... so according to this the only way President Bush will listen to reason with regard to the War (of deception) in Iraq is if Laura divorces him and Barney bites him.

Sounds like a reasonable man to me.

If only 'twer that easy

"If I concentrate really hard, the lady with the bowl of warm water will go away."

- If only 'twer that easy.

So operation NO NEW DEALS has had a glaring set back. Last night the schedule went all to hell. Late getting back from work, picking her up; Jed still in D.C. I could sense the makings of disaster.

Still, bath time should have been a cinch. She didn't require her hair to be washed. It was just a token scrub in warm suds. But she decided to surprise me and wash her own hair. Oh was she pleased with herself. She massaged away at the back of her head like a professional. Before I could stammer a protest, she had created enough foamy goodness there to hide a small treasure trove of toys.

I was truly impressed. But also truly dismayed, knowing that such a frothy mess would have to be rinsed -- the not-so-much-fun part of the shampooing process. It couldn't be avoided, and it threw her into a tizzy.

All roads lead to bedtime, and this was going to block it.

To make matters worse, her teachers at school had given me a book (that I tried to hide from her) called "Mommy, I Want To Sleep in Your Bed," or something or other, that I felt was akin to looking her in the eyes while she's playing happily with safe, respectable toys and instructing her 'Not to pull down the drapes.'

Not only was she NOT thinking of pulling down the drapes, but now that I've told her it's a possible diversion from a tea party with Panda, it seems like an idea that's more fun.

As I suspected, the book taught her the exact phrase -- "But, MOMMY, I WANNA SLEEP in YOOOOOOOOOOOOORR BED!" -- that awoke me at 2:30 in the morning.

I gave in. I was too tired to fight about it.

A little faerie dusting

About five years ago I decided enough was enough. If I was going to have to endure another northeast winter I was going to damn well enjoy it. So I did what any consumer-driven, non-diaper-buying newlywed would do: I plunked down a couple-a hundred bucks for a pair a cross-country skis.

I'd taken up the sport two years earlier when a friend suggested a trip to a local ski area she and her husband frequented. From my first wobbly decent down the hill in the freshly laid tracks (ending no doubt, precariously on my posterior) I was hooked.

• I was outdoors
• The air was cold
• I was warm
• It was fun

Up until that very moment I had forgotten all the days my mom had to physically haul my red-faced, blue-lipped, chattering teethed self back into the house to warm up against my protests of not being cold.

Up until that minute, I had forgotten how much I loved winter.

How could I have known paying $350 for a cross-country ski package would ensure the end of snow-covered hills in our region?

How could I have guessed that in the five years that followed - the snowiest of which occurred during 2003-2004, the year I was PREGNANT - I would be able to use the skis a grand total of six times?

I suppose it wasn't the wisest of things to impulse buy end-of-season snowshoes for Ittybit last year -- the only year I satisfied my jones to ski by standing in the storage room and trying them on -- since my superstitious mind now firmly believes such effrontery (and not merely global warming) could only explain the lack of wintry weather since.

But impulse buy I did.

And for 12 months, those green snowshoes have hung in the closet - tormenting me.

I had no idea they were tormenting her too:

MAMA: OH, ITTYBIT. ... Look it snowed. Let's go out an play.

ITTYBIT: It DID?!! Wait. I'll get my stuff.

(disappears and returns with her hat and snowshoes).

There may have been only a dusting ... but it's a start.

The house of polygamy

LORI to husband on phone: ... "Ok. Bye, Honey."

ITTYBIT: Honey?

LORI: Yes, that was Jeff.

ITTYBIT: That makes two honeys.

LORI: NO. There’s only one Honey here. Jeff is the ONLY Honey.

ITTYBIT: But Pooh has honey. That’s TWO honeys.

All is not quiet on the western front

This third year (starting from say August on) has been a struggle. Food she used to eat without complaint sits untouched on her plate, her arms crossed tighter than even her lips are clenched. Baths, never an easy proposition, have become sideshows of trickery and deception, yet none too entertaining. But it is the sleep issue that may put us over the edge.

Since the New Bed took up residence in our house, the idea of sleeping with us, starfish-style -- all spread out from the center -- has taken up residence in her head.

It all starts out good. We begin the process of decompression: calming down, brushing of teeth, reading of books. Snuggled into her own bed, we give in to the extra story and the calls for water and lights dimmed only so low.

But the needs are endless. First it was water, then juice then milk. At first I balked, knowing that she shouldn't have anything stronger than water for bed lest her teeth rot out of her head. But she didn't really WANT it. She wasn't hungry. She wasn't thirsty. She was stalling.

Eventually our routine got to be worthy of three rings:

PJs = check
Teeth brushed = check
Stories = read three, check
Lights dimmed = check
Monsters sprayed = check
One more story = check
I have to go to the potty = check
Music turned on = check
It's too dark = lights adjusted, check
I want a snack = goldfish procured, check
I want water = check
It's too cold = check
Now it's too hot = This is the last time. Water or no water?
The monsters came back = spray again
I have to pee again = another trip to the potty, check
I need the hotwater bottle ...

THIS IS THE LAST TIME I'M COMING INTO THIS ROOM

... ok, mommy ....

HOTWATER BOTTLE, check ... goodnight.

It all makes me pine for her terrible twos, which in retrospect didn't seem that terrible.

Truly, anyone with the least amount of time on the planet Earth can tell you what's happening here. It doesn't take Dr. Spock to figure it out.

She's testing us and we're getting failing grades.

So every night the time it takes to her to actually sleep gets longer. And in addition to this extended play, every night at midnight or so the monsters wake her up and send her into our room.

The seduction of sleep without the added gust of nighttime coldness of the hallway's hardwood floors makes letting her into bed an irresistible proposition. At first she even fell right to sleep. But then, increasingly, she'd wake up earlier and become more fidgety. She'd poke and prod, and talk.

No matter how cute it seems, no one wants to talk about the dietary needs of the Abominable Snowman at 4 in the morning.

The last straw happened Friday, when she woke us four times during the night. That's it; I need sleep. She's just playing now and it has to stop, I stammered as if Jed hadn't been thinking the same thing for the last six weeks.

So on Saturday a new plan was enacted.

We call it operation NO NEW DEALS.

Bathtime at 7 (and she gets her hair washed when it needs to be)
NO DEALS.

Bedtime starts at 8:30, she must brush her teeth, use the potty and change into pajamas. We read three to four books; she can have water and a hot water bottle and her music but she can not leave her room. NO DEALS.

As expected, the change was met with tears and tantrums.

By the time she fell asleep at 9:30 I was dreading the midnight call, which came early at 11:30 p.m.

I walked her back to bed and it would seem her head exploded. She did not want to stay in her room with the monsters and the dog farts.

The old me would have said 'who could blame her' but the new me said, "I'm sorry but that's the way it is sugar plum, we all have to stay in our own rooms and sleep."

No sooner had I walked away than I could hear her little pajamaed feet following me, screaming as if I'd torn out her toenails.

I brought her back into her room and shut the door, holding it closed. She threw her little self against it and screamed. I imagine, had she been a little bit older, every second word out of her mouth would have been an obscenity. Eventually she calmed down and commenced bargaining. She wanted the door open.

So we made a deal. The door would stay open as long as she stayed in her room.

I went back to bed.

But all was not quiet in the western wing of the house.

Her shreiking continued from the doorway. She rolled her toys across the floor, tore her clothes from their place in the dresser and yelled at the top of her lungs: YOU ARE MAKING ME VERY NERVOUS!!!!

When the ride-on-horse came rolling to our door I got up and investigated the damage.

It was less than I thought, but still impressive.

I put her back to bed, kissed her head and said: "That's enough for tonight. We'll talk about this tomorrow."

And with that, sleep.

It's been three days now of sleeping through the night. She's even waking up earlier, which has to mean that she's getting better sleep at night.

I'm still crossing my fingers ... If this works out perhaps next we'll attempt to tackle the shower.

The amazing weirdness of being

I had a bad feeling about this.

The "big day" rolled around and we were all sick.

Ittybit had been on the mend, but a belly full of cherry tomatoes came back to haunt her at midnight. I was in the throes of the worst of the vomiting, wondering if I should just postpone it until we all felt 100 percent.

The obstetrics appointment, that is.

The ultrasound; the prodding, the poking -- all of it might best be left to another day.

And yet, the guilty part of me that says you must not procrastinate; you must avoid the glaring voice at the other end of the phone -- the one whose job it is to reschedule these hard-fought appointments. The one who undoubtedly will say: "You know each one of these appointments is IMPORTANT!"

Oh, but bringing a clingy toddler because you really don't want to send her to daycare with an ounce of residual illness that she can lob in the direction of another unassuming preschooler, seemed worse.

Would it even be possible to see the newbie taking up residence in the womb Ittybit once shared through the clingy little girl who’d undoubtedly wrap her tiny body around me as soon as I tried to put her down?

I can do this, I thought optimistically. We can do this.

And so we did.

As usual, I arrived early (operating under the misguided premise that if you arrive early you have a chance of being seen early) and we waited. And waited. And waited.

After the second trip to the bathroom and the 100th "We'll be called when it's our turns," we were called.

To my surprise Ittybit sat quietly in the chair by the door where I'd put our things. She said she didn't want to see her baby on the television screen. She looked away as I turned to sit on the examining table.

The technician applied the gel and started probing around; looking first at the internal organs before going in for a gander at the real goods. I turned my head to ask Ittybit if she could see and she answered "no" with a scowl in her voice. It seemed she didn't want to look. I turned back to the monitor.

But just as the little baby appeared in the screen, a little hand took mine.

No words, just her hand in mine.

It was really the oddest thing.

She wouldn't talk about what happened in that darkened room for the rest of that day. She wouldn't look at the printouts the technician had given us. It was as if none of it ever happened.

But the next day, when we were both feeling better, she headed to school and me to work, she asked to see the pictures so she could show her friend "Elias," the new baby, whose "head was here and body was right there."

I listened at the door for a while as she explained about the "goop" they put on her mommy's belly, and how this was her little sister ...

She poked her head back into the room where I was listening and yelled ... "Hey, Ma? When is my baby sister coming?"

"In July, sweetie. In July."

And now, veee daunce ... (because, as it turns out, we are not one hit wonders after all)

Remember ... I don't know. ... say back in August, when I told you all about the heartbreaking experience of discovering Ittybit may, in fact, be an only child?

Yeah ...

... well ...

Nevermind.**



According to Annabel, her "sister is coming."

"She's very, very small (picture preschooler thumb and forefinger pressed tightly together) and we're going to name her 'Lola' or 'China.'"

Get that? She is NOT having a boy!

It's too early yet for an official word on whether her girl will actually BE a girl, however I pitty a boy named Lola.

There is uncertain proof, however, that Thing Two has already benefited from its big sister's love, albeit inadvertantly, via the binky Ittybit gave to Santa on Christmas.

Study the ultra sound printout carefully if you will ...

See that? In it's little mouth? No? Try tilting your head to the left and squint. See it now? Do you know what that is? I'm telling you this kid's entering the world with its own pacifier. My guess is Thing Two has overheard all the commotion around these parts concerning "binkectomies" and some oversized elf taking binkies and replacing them with something dumb like lip gloss and decided to take matters into its own hands. I imagine it astutely determined that a baby has very little use for Chapstick.


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**I actually went through a three-pack of pee sticks just to be sure, but I couldn't bear to post the photos of them all. Two should have sufficed but ya know, what does one do with the third, unused stick? Perhaps it would have made a good watering monitor for houseplants. We'll never know.

It's been a while ...

Christmas kinda of killed me.

I wish I were kidding.

Right after the excitment was over Annabel got her annual vomity illness, followed by Jed and then - the day I had to work a night shift for the holiday - I came down with the cruddy sickness.

So it's not that I've been ignoring the internets so much as I've really been hiding under a rock.

The good news is we're all on the mend, and we're slowly getting back to normal.

I can tell because today when I brought Annabel to Lori's house for the first time in little more than a week, it took her six minutes to push me out the door.

Twenty minutes later, though, I'm told she was either feeling remorseful or just garden-variety drama.

"I want my mommy. I have water in my eyes."