Why I can't ride the merry-go-round ...

somewhat educated grafitti, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Silly mommy! You can't go ON it, you have to go OFFice!

I'm Hating It ...

I hate McDonalds.

With the fire of a thousands suns does this hatred burn in my soul. Hate, I tell you. H-A-T-E.

I didn't have such a remarkable odium for the place until Ittybit was born and the lure of easy pancake breakfasts on the run attracted me like a mackerel to a live anchovy.

Because, you see, my failure as a mother is directly and concretely measured by the number of times we visit "Old MacDonald" each week instead of firing up the stove.

This week I'm 0 for 3.

However, from now until April 19th, it's not laziness and an inability to subvert the "cheese and whine" that's steering my car to the formidable Golden Arches – it's a fear of the warning: "while supplies last."

You see the Alexander Doll Company, makers of Madame Alexander dolls, has again teamed up with the fast food giant. This year the Happy Meal giveaway is one of eight, 4 ½ inch Wizard of Oz-themed dolls.

While I can resist the remarkably fragrant hotcakes and sausage biscuit sandwiches, and can forgo Big Macs and Chicken Nuggets completely, I can't pass up the toys. For decades I have had an addiction to the cutesy things all wrapped in plastic that Mickey D's been putting in its Happy Meals.

I'm so hooked, in fact, that the one thing I regret about my New Zealand honeymoon was passing up an opportunity to visit a makeshift Happy Meal toy museum in the little drinkwater town of Foxton, which boasted a million exhibits in its collection.

Until this latest promotion, though, I was able to resist temptation. The weird aliens and My Little Ponies didn't reach out and grab me with their wily plastic charms. I successfully adhered to a self-imposed rule of "only on days when the pancake batter runs out," usually a planned occurrence once a week.

But this Madame Alexander thing -- this nostalgic trip back to girlhood, a behind-the-glass plaything, something to admired more than played with if you were lucky enough to own one -– is too seductive. I NEED to collect all eight.

And that's what they want me to do. They want me to indulge my inner child while I indulge her growing one. They want to pamper the little girl hiding in the pockets of my maternity wear who, as a youngster, coveted the super expensive baby dolls that's only purpose is to decorate beds. These dolls, mothers would explain, are not for touching. They are not for dragging around by the hair. They are special.

My childhood Madame Alexander Doll – "Beth" from the Little Women series – is still in its original box in my parents' bedroom closet. It was stored there throughout my formative years, taken down once in a while and shown to me so I could ‘ooh and ah’ at its beauty. But it was clear, the doll was not to be molested in any way.

It was similar to my dealings with the Lionel train set in my father's collection, which came out each Christmas and circled the tree. The only difference was we got to play with the train eventually once my dad had given us the refresher course on engineering, which usually lasted at least a week and included various tests in the art of breaking and reversing.

Now it was my turn.

When I opened the bag to dispense the breakfast fare and complementary toy and saw the doll staring up at me I froze. It was Dorothy. She even had Ruby Slippers. I threw the napkins over the package and hauled out the hotcakes before she had time to inquire after the prize.

She was so famished she forgot all about the toy, and my greedy self decided not to remind her. "That doll is special," I thought with the squinty eyes of calculation.

Eventually she remembered the loot. Grudgingly, I hauled Dorothy out of the package and handed it over. She named her new treasure "Pollycina, her crunchy doll," and immediately "combed" her hair into a do remarkably similar to an ’80s-era Flock of Seagulls catastrophy.

I watched in horror but could say nothing. I knew what I had to do. ... As soon as I dropped her off at the sitter's house I had a rendez-vous with a Drive-Thru.

Day (don't) care ...

favorite colors, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Maybe I just didn't get enough sleep last night. Or maybe I'm feeling the effects of four days without Jed and the promise of at least four more, but whatever I'm feeling it's surely not a favorable color.

Since finding out we're losing our PERFECT day care situation now that our family is expanding, I've been scouring the area for placements.

It feels as if I've gotten the vibe from lots of people I discuss it with that there's not a lot of empathy out there for people like me; people who chose to work rather than sacrifice the false hope of stability for the joys of raising their children in a loving and homey environment.

Day care, you see, isn't rocket science. It's a simple fact of life that many, many, many families deal with on a daily basis. You pay a premium that's too high for your monthy budget, perhaps, but still not high enough for a living wage.

As I expected, infant placements are like gold, and family day care situations have wait lists miles long or are too out of the way for timely pickups.

The three facilities I've toured thus far seem to encompass the entire gamut institutional day care has to offer.

First, there was McEducation: A meandering cement block academy for tots as young as weeks old, with brightly painted walls and whose staff wear the cheery uniform of corporate governance. Everything in it's place, everything with a plan ... even a guru of academic philosophy to follow.

Since it was the first place we looked at, and so different from what I am used to, I disintegrated into a puddle of jiggling guilt in the parking lot after keeping my chin up during the visit. For some reason I just felt the place, despite kids appearing to have a wonderful time, was a joy and life suck with its cookie-cutter appearance and its everybody is a "smart body" mantra.

The next place, Shab-o-Rama, was more my cup of tea. Seriously. It was an old church education building, seemingly disorganized and in need of minor repairs. The staff was dressed comfortably in their own clothes and seemed to smile naturally. At 9:30 a.m. the kids were together reading in some rooms, eating a snack separately or playing in other rooms of the day care. It was still a "day care" but just felt laid back and REAL.

But, of course, fate would dictate that Shab-o Rama doesn't take infants until they're 18 months, at which point Ittybit will be ready for Kindergarten. Jed wisely counseled that two different day care facilities might just be the straw that breaks the camel's back ... me being the camel.

And today, with visions of being able to visit my munchkins at lunchtime, I traveled a few dozen blocks away from work and ended up in Afganistan, or at least its dank, cavernous small city equivalent. It went beyond shabby into wartorn. The place smelled of mildew and was pitch black at naptime. Mops laying in sinks in the "art" room seemed to show how nothing, not even cleaning, was completed in the place. In the nursery, babies in cribs lined the walls -- sleeping or crying -- as a heavily-eyelined worker huddled on the floor under a hot pink coat, seemingly trying to take a snooze herself.

So back to square one, or should I say back to pseudo-school.

Can't argue with logic

Picture the scene if you will: County Route 83, a carcass of a rabbit lying on the road in front of us, a crow (that had been feasting) lifts into the sky as we pass by.

ITTYBIT: Mommy, what was THAT?!

MOMMY: It was a crow.

ITTYBIT: I don't like crows.

MOMMY: What's not to like about crows?

ITTYBIT: They scare away the chickadee-dee-dees. And I don't like that.

MOMMY: Well, I suppose that could be a problem.

ITTYBIT: Mom? There's a crow in Little Badger, right?

MOMMY: Yes, there is. And he's a nice crow. Remember, he brought the shiny stone for Badger's just-about birthday. I'm sure he doesn't scare chickadees.

ITTYBIT: But there aren't any chickadee-dee-dees in that book ...

Another cause for concern

Do you remember when I said this about the last days of our beloved Maggie?

Well, had you been living in our house at the time or speaking with me in person, I would have told you "it was the strangest thing" the way she just stopped eating.

I would have told you that while she wouldn't touch her food bowls all of a sudden, she would still drool over table food and gobble down pancakes or homemade cookies or even the hard dog biscuits we'd been refraining from giving her because the tumor in her lung was pressing on her esophagus.

Well, guess what she'd been eating since August?

Blink and you miss it

A friend of mine recently relayed a story about how, at 27 weeks gestation with her second child, she'd attended her first prenatal yoga class and nearly cried at the thought of how this time around she hadn't been taking care of herself.

How is it possible, she wondered, that it had taken so long to check in with herself and connect with the newbie? Just one hour a week, that's all she needed.

That's what it's been like for me this whole winter. The weeks just seem to fly by, bringing with them one niggling sickness after another. From one head cold to a stomach ailment and right back to nasty head cold, I've been coping since November with this cyclical suffering.

If it weren't for monthly obstetrics appointments I'm sure I'd forget I was pregnant at all. I can't help but feel sad that I haven't been as present with Thing 2 as I was with Ittybit. I haven't enjoyed it as well.

If I say that aloud I instantly feel the cold gazes of women and the incredulous looks from their menfolk. To many of them enjoying pregnancy is a contradiction in terms.

But I readily admit that I am one of those oddballs who LOVES being pregnant.

For the most part, I feel fine if not better than I normally do during my regular, single-serve existence.

Even the not-so-nice parts -- the heartburn, nosebleeds and itchy skin -- are merely momentary inconveniences easily explained and easily set aside. I know it's the pregnancy that causes it, and as such I can let it go. No worries.

With Ittybit I attended my regular, weekly yoga class religiously; I went to the gym after work three days a week and walked my legs tired on the treadmill; I took time most every morning to follow Shiva Rea's lead on a prenatal exercise tape I vowed would become a staple in my life, even after the pregnancy was over, because I enjoyed its flow.

But my life is markedly different this time around. I come straight home from work, feeling the weight of guilt for having spent so much time away. Every weekend is set aside for "Mommy" time.

"Me" time is what I steal late at night and early in the morning, and cheat my husband out of whenever I get the chance. Me time is for writing about HER, and processing photographs of HER life, and checking in with other moms to reassure myself that I'm at least getting a quarter of it right.

That's the ME I've become. A mother. And not even an efficient one at that. Every morning I pat myself on the back for being able to get out of the house with a kid who's only partially dressed and fed a mere 20 minutes past the time I'd really wanted to leave.

What pains me, though, isn't the "ME" time I'm missing. It's the "HE" time.

I've been making due by keeping score during the morning and evening kickfest game that the inside of my belly has become. I lift my shirt and look down in amusement as one quadrant of my blue-veined abdomen jumps and squirms.

I may not feel as if I'm in this game, but at least I'm cheering it on.

... That's what I tell myself, anyway.

Truth and fiction

kill bill, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Annabel,

There are days when I just don't know who you are. Always lovely and amazing, you are also forever changing. Evolving. Becoming someone with distinct ideas all your own.

More self possessed, you are able to entertain yourself for long periods of time. Creating your beloved projects or making up imaginary worlds peopled with a growing community of bedroom toys, you seem to have cultivated a secret life complete with anthems; silly songs that combine familiar tunes with made up stories.

Often when I try to sing along, you sigh a long sigh and shush me: "This is MY song, Mommy. I was singing it." Your eyes tell me you're not entirely serious, but your hand will venture over my lips if I persist. "SHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Last night you pressed tickly kisses onto my belly, telling the baby inside (through my navel) that you loved him. Your eyes glittered as you patted a little more enthusiastically than necessary, telling me you were hitting ... er, patting his little head because he was sooooo cute.

Much of what we talk about sounds like this:

"When my baby comes, I am going to be a big sister and he is going to have teeth," you tell me assuredly. "He can share my snacks. He's going to like ice cream. I'll show him how to eat it. Mom? Do you think he'll like blueberries? I dreamed about dragons last night, flying in my room. They were nice though. They were looking for butterflies. We should call my brother D.W. I think that would be a good idea. He's going to be a girl, though."

It seems all I ever do lately is try to parse the real from the imagined. And it saddens me, really. I am reminded of all the "magic moments" of my childhood that never took place; all the things that my mother later told me never really happened. At least not the way I remembered, anyway.

But I am not constantly at your side as you maneuver through your days. For nine hours or more, five days a week, you are with other people. Until recently, and still on occasion, you'll ignore my attempts to get you to talk about your adventures at preschool or at Lori's house.

I hated myself for indulging your penchant for Eddie Haskellism by asking you to tell me who misbehaved in school just to get a reply that seems newsy. I know you have a thing for being on your best behavior, especially when someone else is acting up.

"Cole was eating the shovel rice, and Marcia said 'we don't eat shovel rice, only cooked rice. Please don't eat my shovel rice'. And then Madeline didn't sit on her bottom. I sat on my bottom though."

Lately, and with equal amounts of enthusiasm, you tell me that you had peas for snack or that the frog prince ate the fish you had caught in the bead bin or that Kaydn broke her leg and can't walk unless she scoots around like a crab. Lori fills me in on the "real" stories, with considerable eye-rolling or laughter to punctuate the explainations.

Of course, while I'm taking everything you say and examining it with the force of a 10X magnifying glass, trying to find the key that will translate fantasy into reality, something remarkable will happen.

It was your special day at school (which means it's my day to learn about all the places I, as an assistant to the seasoned teachers, should not stand, hang paintings or allow children to play: "Oh, we hang paintings to dry on this rack over here, not that rack." OR "We don't use our fingers to paint, only the brushes."

As I'm juggling car seat snaps and preschool snacks, preparing for the carnage I will create with my uninitiated presence, you crane your neck past the heap of winter clothes I'm trying to bring with us in one trip ... "Is that Kaydn? I think that's Kaydn."

And sure enough, Kaydn's mom lifts her from the car parked behind ours. The first thing I notice is the writing on her cast.

Now I suppose I'll have to go looking for a fish eating frog prince, too, as I wonder why I ever doubted you.


Admiringly,

Mommy

For our next trick ...

For those of you (including myself) who needed proof that a 225-pound man can fit into a toddler bed with a 26-pound kiddo, albeit not as comfortably as the entire family can fit into the KING sized bed two rooms away, but that's beside the point.

Although it's sweet an all, I have to admit to being just a tiny bit jealous of that smile she can't hide as they pretend to snooze for the camera. Also a little miffed that the K-Mart bed, rated for a child 50 pounds or less, held up without complaint during this particular exercise in silliness.

Go figure: I'm mad that something is actually worth the $50 I paid for it.

There I was, feeling all special (and petite) as I've been fitting my pregnant body into the tiny bed along with the veritable library of books and toys and other possessions the little miss has to have with her as she drifts off to the Land of Nodd. I squirm only a little while I read "Nate the Great," or "If I Ran the Circus," and I've sometimes even fallen asleep as I wait for sleep to catch up with her.

And all along it turns out the Incredible Hulk can sleep there, too. ...

Hmmmm I wonder if the doll's bed will hold me?

Yeah, on second thought ... better not.

We have Chuck envy around here

chuck wannabe, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

But Maddy won't stand for the things dooce's dog does.

Real moms make mistakes

night and day, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

They lose their tempers

They stand their ground when they should let it slide

They give up the fight too soon

They zig when they should zag

Real moms learn from their blunders

And they slip up again anyway



Kristen's Real Moms Meme brought to me by Whirlwind.

... And now, over to you KimmyK, Supa and Stefanierj.

A little night light

sweetie pie, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

3 a.m.: A little peep awakened me. Annabel, smelling fresh from her bath only a few hours earlier, was standing at my bedside, wide awake but silent.

She raised her arms. I lifted her and she slid effortlessly under the covers beside me.

"Oh, mama. I forgot my water. I'll be right back," she said as she wiggled away, slipping off the bed and back into the darkness. I heard her feet pound confidently through the hallway.

Only a few weeks ago she would have insisted I get out of bed and accompany her on the quest because she was "too afraid."

I didn't ask what brought her in; all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. She returned with her cup and climbed back into bed, settling easily into a comfortable position and became still.

In the morning I asked her why she had gotten out of bed in the middle of the night.

"All the dreams are in this bed. My bed doesn't have any dreams."

The big 5 (for posterity)

Gingajoy and Her Bad Mother are embarking on a more academic look at how blogging is affecting women and culture, and it's something that interests me immensely. As a person who is about as far from academic as humanly possible, and as someone whose wardrobe (since my mom stopped dressing me anyway) will NEVER be sufficient to bump her into even the smallest of small professional circles, I am nevertheless interested in how the savory stew of life, influence and understanding is concocted.

So, for what it's worth here are my answers to the five questions posed by these thoughtful women:

1. Who are we?
In the most clinical of explanations, I am a small-town journalist who works as a copy editor at a small city daily. I identify as a writer, photographer and a mother. I am white and middleclass. I'm not sure anyone of privilege would call me privileged, but for the most part I feel financially stable if not secure, and able to afford small luxuries.

In more artful terms, I feel as if I'm still the kid I was in elementary school: shy and inarticulate, coming to terms with everything around me as if it was critical for the future. I never intended on being a wife or a mother. I never dreamed of being famous or even notable. I have difficulty making choices but not long-term decisions. I wanted to collect every thought in case I ever needed it again. It didn't matter if it had significance for anyone else. In many ways, I was and still am a "thought" packrat.

2. Who are we writing to? Who is our audience?
When I started this blog, and previously a Web site dedicated to the birth and first year of Ittybit (and even prior to that a Web site dedicated to the details of our wedding) I was writing for myself and for any members of the family who wished to check in. Although these "life" transitions were important to me, and I needed to work them out in words, I didn't expect others to actually want to be a part of my internal monologue. I figured if I gave out the Web address and people visited, they'd want read and wouldn't just be patiently (and politely) listening to me drone on and on.

Answering who I am, of course, is a difficult proposition. Who am I? Isn't that what we are all trying to find out? Isn't that why we jot things down on the blank pages of little flowered books in a practiced script from the time we first learn to scribble?

3. Why are we writing? What is our purpose?
I think part of why I write in this blog, as well as another, is to leave a record of who I was. Perhaps I won't be able to define myself, but I hope to leave something behind for my children and their children to get to know me. So often we lament not having asked questions, not having paid attention, when we had the opportunity. And yet, even now, even at an advanced age, I'm not sure I'd be any better at getting to know my grandparents than I was when I was small. As soon as I had a child my mortality came at me with a force I didn't expect. What if something unforseen and terrible happend to me. Would she ever know me?

4. What is the context for our writing? What are we saying? What is our message?
The context of my writing is to capture in words (and photographs) a snapshot of life as I see it. Thoughts, feelings, ideas. Mostly it centers on the life change that is motherhood, but it also takes on ideas from media and society that make me stop and think and put each into my own perspective. And it changes. I allow myself to grow on these pages, to entertain, to inform and to wonder, but ultimately it is about my life, my children and my family. It is my auxiliary memory.

5. How does the medium of blogging affect all this?
The public nature of blogging -- the media goal of getting readership and engaging in dialog -- often makes writing a constant learning process and a challenge. As someone who writes for a readership, there is a constant checking and re-checking of goals. Do I want to be a columnist or a diarist? Am I out there for recognition or for exploration?

Simply speaking, though, the medium -- a computer keyboard, storage space out in the ethosphere, and one address that ties it all together -- makes it possible for me continue gathering these observations faithfully. As someone who's never liked their handwriting, never felt comfortable with the inked out marks of revision, and who is vaguely nauseated by the sight of a blank page, the miracle of the backspace has made me a more fluid thinker and more confident scribe.

Of course even this concerns me in a conflicting way, not so much as a matter of privacy but rather a matter of permanance. Yes, all these thoughts are out in the world and open to anyone, but they are also on servers that could feasibly crash and be lost to me, the author. And let's face it, as someone who still doesn't totally understand how the fax machine works, I have no problem envisioning all this mind melt disappearing into the void. Talk about impermanent permanence.

Selective memory

Sometimes when I'm feeling low and not too productive, I click through the archives to see what was going on a year ago today. Turns out this time last year, in the flickrsphere anyway, we were also in Concord for Great Grandfather's birthday. His 99th.

I think about "family" a lot more than I used to. It shouldn't be surprising seeing as how time seems to march at break-neck speed once you decide to spawn. All of a sudden heartache and mortality loom large on an otherwise unincumbered psyche.

Not that I wasn't a fatalist BEFORE deciding motherhood might actually be a good idea, just that when time is marked by a child's metamorphosis time marks you, too.

Yet, as I count on my fingers the three months left until Thing 2 will be hatched into this world, it all seems so incongruous. So incomprehensible. How is it possible that time moves with the speed of both molasses and lightning?

Lately, we've been "shopping" daycare facilities, and it's been nothing short of culture shock (for me). Giant, multi-colored complexes in professional parks. Cinderblock walls, locked doors and intercom security. Everything is colored with learning speak: "The we-prepare-your-kids to-be-the-brightest they-can-be" slogan marketed to modern parents.

Instead of "free play" kids engage in excercising their "gross motor skills."
These great bastions of early childhood education build "problem-solving" and "critical thinking skills." Instead of story time they delve headlong into literacy achievement.

The critic in me wants to smack myself over the head and say this is why Mommy's supposed to stay home: so that Junior can learn about family before he has to learn his ABCs. So he can get hugs and kisses instead of lessons and progress reports. Yet the phobic in me knows that without my stable income, we are only one out-of-commission truck or lost client closer to destitute. And worse, we are one nervous breakdown away from total chaos. And in the end, nothing really changes.

No matter what they call it this week -- story time, literacy readiness or whatever catchphrase sounds like it will net the most cash from stricken parents -- in the end it's still about sitting around on a carpet somewhere reading "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish."

It's just that it's so easy to pine for a simpler time; a time when health care wasn't a three-ringed circus, groceries for the month didn't cost a week's pay and heating a home didn't include budget plans.

And yet, when you really look into it, when you are reminded of the kitchens and cafeterias our grandmothers worked in or the assembly lines, it's entirely possible the golden age had its tarnish, too.

A century later ...

family, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

This is the bunch of us -- artists, administrators, academics, actors, bankers, barristers, brewers, entrepreneurs, computer geeks, dancers, professionals, parents, ponderers and poets.

All of this from a Bell Labs inventor, who was honored Saturday for turning 100, and a school teacher, whom he married 72 years ago.

Although the event -- a party with dozens of family members from across the country -- offered a glimpse into his life, and a newspaper article in the Concord Journal offered more fascinating facts, it was clear that Great Grandfather's life that was nothing short of charmed:

"After graduating from Kansas State University, (Ralph) Miller went to work of Bell Telephone Laboratories. Just before the beginning of WWII, Miller's company was called upon to tighten up security withing in the overseas communication systems.

By extending the bandwith and creating secure connections, Miller was part of the revolution of high-speed digital transmission. Much of Miller's work for the Bell Telephone Laboratories was kept in secret governmental files until the 1970s.

In the end Miller invented five of the the 30 patents held in secrecy by the United States' government.

Relatives and friends offered even more insight into the man who, with his wife, Peggy, raised three children in the New Jersey suburbs. They spoke not only about his professional achievements but also about the personal inventiveness and generosity that has made him such a beloved member of the community and endeared him to generations.

All and all, an inspirational life. And something else that didn't occur to me until after we'd gathered our families and headed back to the places we were staying: All of a sudden the "generation gap" that seems insurmountable evaporated. After the littlest children were tucked into bed, the grandchildren gathered around the livingroom for nightcaps and late-night snacks. We shared experiences, we listened to each other's thoughts and lives; and though only part of what was said that night directly related to Ralph and Peggy, it all seemed connected. It all became evident where these people came from and where there were going. And for an evening, all of life's little mysteries made perfect sense.

All the signs were there ...

Lately I've been thinking the universe is thumbing its nose at me. Crazy, right? Maybe it's just the stress of everyday life, or the reality that I've just gone from one needling virus to another since Thanksgiving. Maybe I'm just tired of thinking. Like the character Henry Chinaski in the movie "Barfly" said: "Sometimes I just get tired of thinking of all the things that I don't wanna do. All the things that I don't wanna be. Places I don't wanna go, like India, like getting my teeth cleaned. Save the whale, all that, I don't understand that."

Yet somehow -- as I wallow in self pity -- we've managed to raise a sensitive child, who seems to know how to take care of us when we are feeling low.

Sunday was a hard day for all of us; I was sore all over, and thinking that perhaps the stress of Maggie's demise and some other tasks I'd managed to get done during the day had taken their toll on me. I was tired. Still I managed to rouse myself from an impromptu nap in time to vacate the premises (as Jed wanted to be alone with Maggie) taking Annabel away with me.

I really had no clue where to go before I left. What to do with a hour on a blustery day. But then Annabel stole the last piece of bacon Jed had made to help Maggie choke down her pills.

There was a fight. There were tears and hurt feelings.

She wanted the last piece; he wanted it for Maggie. She didn't understand.

At least I knew what to do: We went to the diner to get bacon.

She ate five of the six pieces on her plate, saving the last one for daddy.

When we got home Jed was in the shower and she was eager to give him the bacon. I wanted to know how it went and started crying. How did it go? Where did it happen? How did he wrap her?

Something about it all was just overwhelming. Yet Annabel stood there with the bacon, looking concerned for me. "I'm not sad, Mommy. Maggie's OK now."

At 4 a.m. that morning I woke up and had to vomit. It was official, the achyness and dreadful tired wasn't from overdoing anything. It was a bug that people tell me is going around. And so, dear Internets, I've been wallowing on the couch these last two days and wishing I felt better. Wishing winter were at an end and the end of sick were within reach.

It's been really helpful that Ittybit knows just the right thing to say.

"Mama, I hoped you were feeling better. I hoped you were feeling really better."

Goodnight, baby dog ...

At 5 p.m. this evening a friend and veterinarian made a house call, and we said goodbye to our sweet dog Maggie for the last time. She was 13 years old.

She was our first baby.

She was not in pain.

She stopped eating almost completely two days ago but she had not gotten lethargic.

It was time.

Last night she spent a lot of time standing in the snow in the backyard just staring off into the distance. She did not sleep where she usually does, at Annabel's bedside, but in the hallway between the kitchen and the "great outdoors." I went to check on her at 4 a.m. and found her in the yard again looking off into the distance.

I had a dream a few days ago that we'd taken her to the vet, telling her the vet would make her better but knowing it was impossible. Her eyes were almost human; relieved and willing it to be true. It broke my heart.

We were never going to be ready to let her go or say goodbye. But we knew it would be best to do it before discomfort or pain took hold.

It was such a wonderful thing, for us, that her last moment on this Earth would be at home and not in a clinic that she had tolerated dutifully but a place that always made her shiver fearfully. This friend traveled more than an hour to do that for us when our vet would not, and we are indebted to him.

He adminstered the last treatment downstairs in front of the woodstove with Maddy laying next to her. She went peacefully as if she just fell asleep. Jed wrapped her in a warm blanket and buried her in the backyard under the honeysuckle.

She will now be a part of this place just as she was once a part of us.

You are a good dog, Maggie. We love you.

Dear big box hardware store with the orange logo ...

You know who you are. You rhyme with "Loam Cheapo."

We've got this kid, and she's three. And she's really cute if I do say so myself. Some of your employees say so, too, when she visits your enormous store with her dad and they shop for tools and building supplies.

I know that YOU are not a parent, and you are not responsible for any behavior-related rewards a parent of such a child -- who was being EXCEEDINGLY charming just sitting in the shopping cart, singing to herself and talking with other shoppers, as her dad filled it up with all kinds of widgets and gizmos that a kid her age isn't allowed to touch. You know, in order to prevent electric shock. In other words: NOT TOYS -- might wish to bestow.

And those balloons ... with the festive spring colors you had littered about the store sure looked good to a kid like that. In fact, the dad asked one of your orange-vested mules if it would be alright to take one of the resplendent orbs.

"NO."

"Well, can I buy one."

"They're not for sale. NO."

Jaysus.

When someone spends $600 in electrical supplies at your cavernous warehouse, it seems a gratis balloon would be nothing short of beneficient customer service.

So for the cost of a balloon and two teary eyes, we'd like you to know that we'll be spending our big-box home improvement money at Lowes. It will be worth the trip.

Systems Normal ... All F***** Up ...

You ever hear of this Mercury in Retrograde thing?

Well I don't believe in curses, but Jaysus Christ! The old "trickster" sure seems to be giving me a run for my money this week. And I am definitely NOT rolling with the punches.

I may not be speaking to anyone until this whole backward-facing planet thing turns itself around. And by that time, I'm fairly certain they won't be speaking to me, either.

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?