What Does Mommy Do All Day?

Why did I just spend a half-hour of precious naptime repairing a 40-year-old book? (When this book is available "new" on Amazon.com with Super Saver Shipping?)

Well, I'll tell you.

In 1968, Random House published a book called "What Do People Do All Day?" by Richard Scarry. It's a terrific book, and it shows the interesting daily life of people like a letter carrier and a police officer and a farmer. It's classic Richard Scarry, with a bear as the chief road engineer and a cat leading a boat crew.

But sometime in the last few decades, Random House "abridged" the book and cut out a few sequences. And if other stay-at-home moms knew about the scandalous abridgement, they'd be up in arms (or up in tape, as I am).

They cut out the MOM section! Every other section features little animals building houses and running the sewers, but in the current edition, moms get the shaft.

In the original version, Mommy Pig gets up at the crack of down with her kids. She smooches Daddy and grabs at least $100 from him before he races out the door to work. This is my kind of sow!

Then Mommy does the dishes and makes the beds, cleans the house and buys a bunch of groceries. (Note: she hands the grocer just $50. What has she done with the other money? A hoof-pedicure? Anyway...) Mommy Pig then makes lunch for her kids, and wards off a door-to-door salesman, gets a load of wash done then starts working on supper.

When Daddy comes home, she gets another awesome make-out session with him before sitting down to supper, then scrubbing her hollering kids in the bath, and everyone falls into bed (Mommy's, of course).

The only original (non-abridged) edition of "What Do People Do All Day?" that I could find was in terrible condition, having been loved by a New York State elementary school since 1971. But I've taped it all up and repaired it as best I could, because dear me, Chebbles has GOT to learn about Mommy!

The kid who cried "Spider!"

Chebbles is fascinated with spiders. It could have something to do with the 5,000 "jumping spiders" that just hatched and populated our home and yard. She just loves the little critters. As a matter of fact, yesterday in the supermarket, she even got excited about a picture of Spider-Man.

Anyway, she's started enthusiastically pointing out spiders throughout our property. "Spider!" she hollers until I come and inspect the spot she's indicating. 95% of the time it is not a spider. It is a piece of lint. It is the wire cage from a champagne cork. It is a dust mote. It is not a spider. But then again, there is that 5% of the time that it IS a spider, and I have to gently relocate the spider out-of-doors before he/she has an altercation of any kind with Chebbles. Just to be clear, I'm primarily worried about the spider's health and safety in this situation. And I don't like cleaning up bug guts.

Last year at this time, we had a thousand black widow spiders around our home. It was gross and scary -- they make messy webs everywhere, and bobble around with their hourglass thoraxes, frightening us and being generally disrespectful. And if one gets bitten by a black widow, it's a big pain in the rear, including a trip to the doctor's and a bad stomachache.

But the big, furry jumping spiders seem to have thrown over the black widow empire, and they are allegedly non-poisonous, so I'm trying not to freak out about their LARGE looming bodies lurking behind doors. And don't tell Hub-D, but I just found one in our bed.

Anyway, The Chebs is into the spider population, and I'm trying to teach her to respect spiders, and don't touch them, but to enjoy them from a distance. But I think she's clued in to the fact that they secretly gross me out.

Today she found a lint ball on the floor of her room and set it neatly on my bare knee. "SPIDER ON MAMA!" she declared. Eeeeee!

Watch Watch '07

So what's going on with my OV-Watch?

It keeps claiming that my "SKIN TOO DRY"... But I've been sitting in the 85-degree weather and sweating on the trampoline!

I'm starting to take it as an insult... I'm going to type back, "WATCH TOO UGLY" and see how it feels.

I've done a bunch of troubleshooting, taking the company's advice to soak it in a shallow water dish and rejuvenate the "frits" for 90 seconds... and it only works for about an hour before it harps "SKIN TOO DRY" again.

Now I've changed the sensor altogether, and it's reading just fine, except that it still claims that I'm "NF" -- allegedly "Not Fertile," despite my being on Day 11.

I bought this watch because I harbored a dream. I dreamed of one day tossing all my LH pee-stick tests out the window and allowing the miracles of modern technology to dictate my fertility schedule.

And now that dream has died. Pass the pee-sticks.

Anyone got a pair of bunny ears?

We are so excited to attend our cousin's wedding in Wuerzburg in June. But we can't figure out for the life of us what we're supposed to wear.

First, the wedding takes place in a castle. Not unlike Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, it's a real castly-castle (pictured left). So what does one WEAR to a castle wedding? Should I take my cues from Posh Spice? Is this what one wears to a European castle wedding?

The invitation is barely any help. It states that, for the ceremony, we are to wear "Dunkler Anzug, Cutaway."

Cutaway means tux, right? But dunkler Anzug means dark suit. How to interpret that COMMA? Does it mean: "Definitely wear a tux, but don't wear a pink one for cripe's sake!"??

So does this mean I have to haul Hub-D back down to Men's Wearhouse, or perhaps some German equivalent (Maennliche Traghaus?) in order to be properly dressed for a morning castle ceremony?

And then there is a reception at 6:30pm, also in the castle, and the dress code is different! It says "Dunkler Anzug, Smoking, Frack."

OK, what in tarnation are we supposed to wear for this? Should I go as a Playboy Bunny and Hub-D dresses as Hugh Hefner? Because we could DO that, I mean, if that's what this situation requires.

I tried to look up "Frack" in my German-English dictionary, and it translated it as "frack."

What the frack are we supposed to wear!??

Bottle of red...

Last night I went to my first "wine subclub" meeting -- it's a kind of unofficial splinter group of my mom's club, and it completely rocked!

The group met a mile from my house, so I didn't have to drive. I walked through the cool night air, admiring the moonshadows and the enthusiastically twinkling stars after a night of comparing Chardonnays and Cabernets.

I resolved that THIS is my new lifestyle. If we're going to be stuck in California, and I'm stuck not being pregnant -- then HELL, I'm going to drink bottles of wine in the company of other funny moms. Or at least I THINK they were funny. My memory is a little shaky, as I'm the lady who, in trying to leave, walked straight into the coat closet.

I like Mormons

We live within walking distance of a big Mormon church, and our neighborhood is a bucolic tree-lined affair -- an obvious place for Mormon families to live in our area. But it took me awhile to realize how prevalent they are among my neighbors. They just NEVER talk about it.

It wasn't until this past Sunday that I realized how many Mormons are here. I was hanging out with a neighborhood girl in the grass, and Chebbles and I were idly sifting through the rubber bracelets on her wrist. She had one that said "X-box" and a rainbow one and a white one that said, "CTR."

"What's 'CTR?'" I asked her.

"Choose the Right," she said.

"What does it mean?"

"It's something for church."

You better bet that I had my nebby-nose in Google that evening, where I learned that "Choose the Right" is a trendy Mormon kid thing -- whereby they are instructed to choose the right path through life.

I've spent many a summer evening chatting with that family, and I never realized they were Mormons. I KNOW I should have clued into this fact when we saw a couple of missionary Mormon boys playing basketball in their driveway, but I just thought that they were nice to Mormons. I don't know.

And it doesn't MATTER that some of my friends are Mormon. I'm sad that we'll never share a glass of wine, and we'll always have a difference of faith between us -- but as a group, the Mormons in my neighborhood are some of the nicest people I have ever met.

It's true! My Mormon friends are smart, sympathetic, and shockingly cool.

Growing up Unitarian, which may be the furthest ideology from Mormonism you can get on this continent, I never dreamed that I would be having fun, social conversations with Mormons. I never thought I would like them and seek them out as friends. I thought they would all act like spaced-out cultists in ankle-length dresses with 10 kids.

They just seem to be somewhat secretive about their Mormonism, which only lights the fire of my curiousity even more. I fear that bringing it up with them will break the spell -- either they will feel obligated to convert me, or I will have violated some neighborhood code of privacy regarding their faith. Both of those actions would effectively terminate the happy spell of our friendship.

So for now, I'm enjoying their company while secretly puzzling over their faith. I'm so intrigued by the prevalence of Latter Day Saintage on the streets surrounding my home and in the ranks of my dear neighbors. How could everyone have been "choosing the right" without my noticing?

Blacksburg

There is a small group of people with whom the Virginia Tech shootings have resonated in a particularly bizarre way, and I am in that group.
The beautiful campus of Virginia Tech -- its limestone buildings and hillside location have been the setting for my summer camp, SUUSI (Southeastern Unitarian Universalist Summer Institute), for many years.

I started going to SUUSI when I was 12 years old and have made the pilgrimage to Western Virginia many times since then. I grew so much within that community, learning a tremendous amount about relationships and myself, that the campus became a sacred place in my mind.

My father met his wife in Blacksburg, thanks to SUUSI. I met my close friend (and psychic connection) K. there, and she, in turn, met her husband. Once you attend SUUSI, presuming you fully engage with the experience, it never gets out of your system. You become part of a nationwide community and basically, you have 1000 new friends.

It's a gorgeous place, really -- both SUUSI and Blacksburg. We attend the camp in the middle of summer, taking over the unoccupied dorms. It's hot and muggy in July and we stay up all night talking under the trees and dancing in the cafeteria and doing puzzles and laughing our heads off.

So how is it, exactly, that a tragic shooting of this nature could occur THERE? Psychic dissonance abounds, and I feel the only way to process this mass murder is NOT to. There is no way this could have happened in the same place SUUSI takes place. There are so many good feelings and such a well of love that finds a home in Blackburg for the Unitarians each summer -- surely that must inoculate the place against a shooting like this?

It seems that, like Harry Potter, the place would have experienced enough LOVE to give it special powers by now. So how is it that this has taken place?

The 10 Latest Things that Rock Chebbles' World

10. Snuggling with Daddy!??? This child has never been snuggly. The whole concept of co-sleeping just pissed her off. But this morning, she, Hub-D and Mimi had a serious huggy moment that filled me with seething envy. I guess Daddy's just snugglier than I am. Harumph. Out of jealousy, I will list this at #10, although I know it should be much higher.

9. "Ole!" She really digs it when I perform a Mexican Hat Dance, followed by a huge kneeling matador "Ole!" It gets a huge reaction from The Chebs. Because I live for the sound of my child's laughter, I will perform the dance and the "Ole!" anywhere (try me).

8. Medical devices. We can't drive past our doctor's office without Chebbles bringing up Dr. M, and how he looks in her ears and how he listens to her heart etc., etc.. Chebbles now has a little medicine kit, so she can test any one of us at a moment's notice. This morning, Daddy was instructed to allow her to listen to his heart PRONTO. Naturally he complied, and was relieved to learn that "Daddy OK."

7. Our Washington State Cousins. When they visited earlier this month, they left an indelible impression on our hearts. Chebbles brings them up every day. This morning, she insisted on finding a picture of her eldest cousin as soon as she woke up, and wearing the photo as a hat. And this afternoon, when we saw a plane overhead, she said it was flying to her cousins' house.

6. Necklaces. She loves dollar-store Mardi Gras beads as well as the expensive necklaces she discovers in my bathroom, and wears them everywhere she goes. Chebbles is very specific in her necklace choices. She could be wearing a hand-me-down red dress from her cousin, and I will suggest a red necklace to match the ensemble, and she's just GROSSED OUT by me. The affects the attitude of a French boutique owner dealing with a clueless American tourist. "Non... (sniff)," with her eyes closed in disdain.

5. Music Together. A few weeks ago she really didn't care about music. But now, she's dancing and singing most of her waking hours thanks to her "Music Together" class and CD. Is there something subliminal in that music? She tearfully demands to hear that music any moment in the day.

4. Trampoline. The kid is nuts about her trampoline. And while she is entirely capable of getting "air" on her own, she prefers to be escorted by a parent or big kid, because then she can hold their hands and get atmospheric due to their larger body mass. (Yes, we are very careful with her in there!)

3. Soup. Unlike her Aunt Stella, who has harbored a life-long hatred of soup, Chebbles just can't get enough of it. Minestrone? Lentil? Whatever, sign her up. Oh, and pass the big girl spoon... "pwease."

2. Merry-go-rounds. She's not picky. She'll enjoy the janky ones with recorded music as well as the fancy dancy ones that are restored masterpieces with organs and bells. To this end, we have purchased a CD of merry-go-round music, and we have identified all of the hottest merry-go-rounds in Paris. Why do some people call them carousels? She calls them, "MAY-go-wownds," in a breathy, excited tone.

1. Reading. Hub-D and I always made fun of people who said that their toddlers would read to themselves. Now we've become those people. But I've attached evidence! I took this video yesterday. Chebbles had turned on the "Music Together" CD herself and positioned herself in her rocking chair for optimimum enjoyment of her "Babybug" magazine, and the dramatic clash of tempers between the monkey and the weasel.

What next?

My whole parenting philosophy has revolved around Costco diapers. They don't reek like Pampers, they are cheaper, and they come in giant boxes.

But now, Costco is cutting me adrift!

Their diapers only go up to size 5, and Chebbles' rear barely fits in the "elephant"-themed honker diaper. But now I need your advice, dear readers -- where do I go from here? Pull-ups? Size... what? Or are there diapers for bigger rear ends?

As for potty training, neither Chebbles nor I have any interest in this pursuit. According to Vicky Iovine, every kid gets it by the time they're four. So we're in no hurry. And I don't need the special diapers that give the kid a cool rush every time they pee in their diaper, in order to teach them to better identify when they've pissed. The last thing I need is for Chebbles to suddenly and urgently need her diaper changed because it suddenly feels like it's filled with Ben-Gay.

Why OH WHY hast Costco forsaken us?

.,but whatever

So I got my period last night, and I am proud to say that it no longer feels like a catastophe.

This time, it feels more like the Beginning-of-Hope, because I get to crack open my new OV-Watch now.

This is the device which promises to measure my skin's salt content and alert me five days ahead of my ovulation. Can you think of anything more exciting than a wrist sensor secretly recording your skin's salt content and then ONE DAY OUT OF THE BLUE telling you that "it's time?"

If you answered "yes" to that question, then you must be ME. Because no one else seems to understand how fun it is to turn my body into a little science experiment.

I cornered my friend J., who has a degree in molecular biology, and I pulled up my sleeve to reveal the gleaming "OV-Watch." I thought that with her particular DEGREE, plus her interest in motherhood and pregnancy, that she would drool and ask if she could borrow it. "Get your own!" I would have said, hiding the watch back in my sleeve, covetously.

But that's not how J. reacted. "Whatever happened to taking your temperature and charting?" she asked. She is living in the STONE AGE. Jeesh.

The watch displays "NF" right now, which is its not-very-sensitive way of saying, "Not Fertile."

I wish it said, NFAPBATYREYCOBFINFA'E' -- which would stand for: "Not Fertile At Present But According To Your Reproductive Endocrinologist Your Chances of Being Fertile in the Near Future are 'Excellent'"

Anyway, at some point in early May it will suddenly say "FERTILE DAY 1" then after a few days it will say "OV DAY 1" then the let-down: "LESS FERTILE DAY 1." It's just so great to have this much information, and to stretch out my reproductive window of opportunity.

When one has been living in the murky mysterious depths of the female reproductive system as long as I have, any small light one can shine on the goings on of the ovaries is a gorgeous thing.

I'm ONTO YOU, ovaries!

Whereas Chebbles participates in a theft ring

Did you know that many eBay clothing sellers are shoplifters?

It was my friend L., the one with the MBA, who asked, "How else could they sell brand new clothing for half the retail price?"

Ugh, how could I have been such an idiot for so long?

Shoplifting from Gymboree has got to be easy. The clothes are little, they don't have ink-staining security tags, and the sales clerks are distracted by all of the children running around. Oh it's so insidious! And about half of Chebbles' spring clothes may be "HOT" due to their having been purchased in this manner from eBay.

I had no idea I was consorting with criminals. I just wanted some clothes with pandas on them!

I'm very against shoplifting. I did it about three times when I was six years old (I stole gum and erasers), and I'm still wallowing in guilt about it. I think that the argument that stores are just "big corporations" and they "won't even miss it" is complete garbage. If you steal from a store, you are actually steal from all of that store's customers, because the store will raise their prices to factor in shoplifting shrinkage from jerkwads like you.

According to "techdirt," it is also not uncommon for eBay-selling-shoplifters to post an item on eBay BEFORE they actually steal it. As soon as they get the price they want for an item, they saunter into the store and steal it.

And according to this article in my hometown newspaper, some families make a living doing this kind of thing!

Well, I'm so sorry, Gymboree. Rest assured that our family will more than make it up to you in future full-retail sales. We humbly ask your forgiveness in our quite-possibly stolen panda sweater.

Rat killing spree continues, but with better names

During our BBQ, the neighborhood kids found another rat corpse in the bushes. It had been touched by half a dozen kids before the adults figured out what was happening back there. The grossed out parents hauled their excited kids one by one to the bathroom sink to wash off the dead rat goo.

So I told the kids about our cats Prince and Otto's heroic killing spree. They were most fascinated with the burial rites I afforded the dear departed rodents.

Specifically, they were dismayed by the lameness of the names I'd gone with so far: e.g., "Whiskers," "Tailie" and "Tailie 2." Well, sorry! There's only so much creativity one can muster while holding a shovel filled with a rigor mortised rat carcass!

So today, two of the girls put together a list of potential rat names for me, so that when I'm next burying a rat, I can name him/her a NON-LAME name. The next lucky rats that meet their maker in my backyard are due to be named:

* Trickster
* Roughster
* Ratster

I feel like I should put up a plaque above their mass grave to commemorate their wee lives, and highlight their cool post mortem monikers.

Toy diaspora

The barbeque yesterday was a ridiculous success -- 52 people came!

It rained like crazy all day, prompting me to pass out musical instruments to Hub-D and Chebbles. "Time for a family anti-rain dance," I announced. Hub-D picked the maraca, I was on the tamborine, and Chebbles chose the triangle. "This will NOT work," I thought as I saw her fish out that triangle, because she picked the HARDEST instrument.

But she clanged it like a champ, and Hub-D and I chanted "NO RAAAAIN NO RAAAIN GO AWAAAAY" for a minute or so. Once we wrapped it up, Chebbles shouted, "NO RAIN!" for good measure.

The sun emerged at 4:15, just as our guests were arriving. In an instant, two dozen children took over our backyard (some people eating the hot dogs RAW... not naming any names... CHEBBLES). The kids put the swingset and trampoline through their paces while we adults fiddled with the grill and caught up on a whole winter's worth of neighborhood gossip.

The last guest left after 10pm, and Hub-D and I collapsed in happy exhaustion -- I found it so satisfying to have a successful dinnertime gathering for so many people.

But here is my question: what's up with the the toy diaspora? Every toy in my household was taken out at some point and placed in an irrelevant location.

One of Chebbles' bath toys was under the backyard roses this morning. The plastic Band-Aid from her medical kit was adrift in a sea of musical instruments. Any toy that consisted of several components had been dismantled and the parts were scattered to the four winds. Our squawking stuffed birds had all nested in bizarre new locations throughout the house... one under the eaves, one hiding among the empty bottles, one not found yet.

I found a child's sock dangling from the wisteria arbor. The balls from her Ball Popper were in the trampoline (?). And her "Sixteen Candles" keychain that utters "Can I borrow your underpants for ten minutes?" was left out all night in the play structure, and now it only peeps "Can I? Can I?"

Every last toy had been relocated to the most vexing location possible, but in my half-drunk giddy state last night, I didn't mind putting them all back where they belonged. And this morning, as I placed the wisteria sock in the laundry, I was a little sad that the place was so clean. I should have relished the randomness longer.

Rowf!

Are they called "canine" teeth because they turn your child into a howling, barking lunatic when they're breaking through the gums?

If so, that makes a lot of sense. Not even repeated showings of the movie "Grease" could subdue our wild beast this morning, as she drooled and screamed and chewed on her fingers. Not even a honking dose of Advil.

"It's a good thing nothing else is happening today," said Hub-D, facetiously.

We're having 51 people over for a BBQ this afternoon and thus far, it's pouring rain. Oh you feisty CANINES!

Death toll rises

Prince and Otto are killing roof rats at a staggering pace around here.

It makes me sad when I find their little bodies laid out under the beech tree, but my neighbors are absolutely thrilled. This year, no one has had to put out poison in their homes or taken any other anti-rat measures -- Prince and Otto have taken care of the problem, seemingly for our whole subdivision.

But I have some questions about the whole process. First of all, I feel tragic when I find the rats -- they are kind of cute, they have lovely long whiskers, and they're so big -- like little puppies, except they're disease-ridden vermin.

Second, I believe my cats are psycho killers. A normal cat would catch the rat, then eat most of it, yes? I should be finding bits of rat detritus around the property. But I've seen enough crime shows to know a psycho killing when I see it.

Each of the rats are laid in state beneath that beech tree, on their backs and completely intact. It's not even clear to me how they're killing the rats. Prince and Otto are definitely killing them. It's not like an elephant graveyard, where the local rat families go to die when they get old, musing under the beech branches. No, it's a killing ground.

I suppose I should be grateful that the cats aren't consuming the rats (worms), but, as I told Hub-D, it totally screws with my idea of "the circle of life." What was the purpose of that rat's life if not to off-set my Kirkland's Chicken and Rice Dried Cat Food expenses?

Finally, what is the best method of disposal? Hub-D and I have different theories this way. Hub-D grabs any dead animal in our backyard with a plastic bag and hurls it into the trash. I dig a deep hole, then I conduct a small service for the animal. "Thank you for giving your life to our household," I say, just before I name the deceased animal and lie him gently in his final resting place with the shovel. I tamp down the earth above him and wish him well on his spiritual journeys.

The only problem with my method, which I think has the best karma possibilities, is we're creating something of a mass grave along the perimeter of our backyard. I'm terrified to plant anything back there, lest I come across some angry rat bones rattling against my spade.

I know that the best thing for cats is to keep them indoors -- and I agree. I tried for months to keep Prince and Otto inside -- but once they hit puberty, they were dedicated to the pursuit of sunshine and rodents. So I lost the battle, and now, so have the rats.

Have you ever taken a nap that changed everything?

I took a nap today that was nothing short of miraculous. I didn't think that these naps were possible before I became a mom -- and suffered from 19 months of sleep deprivation. But today, Nanny D came back for a short stint at 8am, and I took the opportunity to "just lie down for a few minutes."

I did not wake up until 11:08am. GLORY BE TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST!

I had about a hundred dreams. My entire body is so relaxed I'm just sloshing from one room to another, dazed and ecstatic about having slept so soundly. When I first tried to get out of bed after the nap, I collapsed slowly onto the floor, and spent about 10 minutes in "child's pose," gradually collecting myself.

In the week leading up to this nap, I felt just awful. I felt paranoid about all of my friends (they secretly hate me) and about my reproductive system (gravely disfunctional) my mothering abilities (I am a mean and sloppy mother) and basically my whole life. I was so depressed that, as I recycled cat food cans, I felt a cloud of destructive GLUM seep into my soul.

Then I took that NAP this morning and I am back to my old self in so many ways! I feel fit, optimistic, and competent. I feel so attractive, I didn't bother to put on make-up. Why not let my beautiful face "breathe" for a day?

Can someone remind me of this, next time I fall into a serious funk? The next time I contemplate pharmaceutical mood assistance? The next time I whine about how mysteriously miserable I am?

When I first lay down on the bed, it was raining and miserable outside, but I awoke to a glorious humid sunshine that reminded me happily of Tennessee. Ahhhhh.

On the road again

We're traveling our asses off over the next several months and I'm so glad of it!

We're going to Paris and Frankfurt, then back to Portland, then San Diego and Mississippi, plus a stint in New York City. Oh yeah, then Indiana.

This is my best opportunity to travel, I think. I'm not pregnant, and if/when I am, travel will be become too miserable to contemplate.

Also, I feel like if I book 100 nonrefundable trips, I'll get pregnant. Just because the universe has a sense of humor like that.

And it satisfies all my Wanderlust -- giving me something to do and research, then somewhere to be that is out of my usual context, 3000+ miles away from my drawer of pee-stick tests.

Bon voyage to Chebbles and her entourage!

How your pregnancy makes me feel

This photo is me on my 34th birthday, nine months pregnant with Chebbles.

I have noticed that people aren't sure how to tell me that they are pregnant, and I completely understand that. I don't know how I want to be told! Hub-D and I are furiously trying to caulk the whistling hole in our hearts from our unborn daughter's death four months ago -- so there is a cavalcade of interesting emotions that bubble up when others announce their pregnancies.

So for the record, here is how your pregnancy makes me feel:

#1 Elated
Hooray! Hooray! Our friends are duplicating themselves! I'll have another sister in on the Planet of Mom. And another baby in Chebbles' universe of friends. Babies are so spectacular and having one is unlike any other experience. I feel a cool breeze of community celebration wash over me, as I feel...

#2 Drop-dead terrified
Oh Christ, what if anything happens to that baby? What if you see a heartbeat, only to have it stop like ours did? It's akin to watching a beloved friend walk down an alley in which you were once mugged. I'm on edge -- hungry for news of ultrasounds, genders, nuchal fold tests, ANYTHING to reassure me that your baby is OK. Keep me well informed, because every bit of good news is about 10 times more powerful to me. And of course I feel...

#3 Jealous
I'm now short TWO (count 'em, two) babies, so of course I am envious of your pregnancy -- the success of it all. The analogy: You're moving into a cool house, and mine just burned down -- it's all good, because I know you'll let me stay in your cool house and enjoy all of the amenities while my house is rebuilt. But there is a little begrudgement taking place ("Why does SHE get to have a sub-zero freezer and lap pool, and I have a spot of charred ground?"), naturally. This is translated into...

#4 Desire to help
It's no exaggeration to say I would do anything to help you, your pregnancy, your husband and your unborn child in ANY WAY WHATSOEVER. I'll be your doula, I'll cook you elaborate kosher feasts, I'll throw over any other obligations I might have in order to make your transition easier. I have a friend due to have twins this summer, and this thought actually crossed my mind: "Well, I'll just put Chebbles in full-time daycare after they're born so that I might help out." Um, OK, even I know that's going too far.

See, I have all of this extra mothering energy right now. I give Chebbles as much as she can stand, and then I have an overage of momma-love. Can I give it too you? How can I help?

I'm so happy! I'm so worried! I'm so jealous, and I love you so much -- mom, dad, (existing children, if applicable) and new baby -- please let me muck out your horse stalls, take the 5am gassy shift and mend your torn clothing.

So there you have it, my already-overwhelmed pregnant friends. So what are you doing reading this post? Go get an ultrasound and send me the video!

Mama Barking

The Chebs had a dream.

I've suspected her of dreaming before, when she'd wake up claiming various impossibilities, but yesterday was outstanding. When I came into her room after her nap, she wriggled with extreme excitement and declared, "Mama, I had DREAM!!!"

"How cool!" I said, "What happened?"

Apparently, it was a "noisy" dream. She heard a "dog barking" but it wasn't a dog, it was "Mama barking" and "Brown Bear barking." It sounded like Midget, the pomeranian across the street, but it wasn't Midget! It was Mama and Brown Bear.

She was so excited to relate this dream to us, and she insisted on staying in her crib for about a half-hour, leaping around and talking about the barking dream. She even laid back down and closed her eyes, which I interpreted as an effort to recapture the dream.

I'm so excited to have gotten top billing in Chebbles' first big dream, and I'm so elated that our 19-month-old child can tell us her dreams, and identify them as such. What a cool kid.

Combo

Three bowls of edamame eaten by the child last night + Loose diaper + Inattentive parents ignoring child's exclamations of, "Cat poop! Cat poop!" = OH DEAR GOD there is beany baby crap smeared throughout our family room!

Doesn't that make you want to come over for dinner ASAP?

Mwah

Oh frog, dude, I LOVE YOU! I'm crazy for that bubble you make with your throat, how you play piggyback, and I adore each of your delicate, slimy toes. Smooches! Mwah! Mwah!

In other news, Stella and I annoyed ourselves today by Googling a passel of our MFA classmates, at least two of whom have been published rather extensively. We dreamed up mean, pretend reviews to add to their Amazon.com book review sites, but we didn't post anything. It's irritating that they're writing so extensively, and we're just spending our time Googling them. What shall we do with all of the fun, embarrassing things we know about these semi-famous writers?

And suddenly, I am desperate to track down an Easter Egg Hunt. We have to pre-register for our town's Egg Hunt, which I haven't done, so now we've got to go renegade, and hunt eggs in someone else's community. Does Chebbles care a whit whether we hunt eggs? NO! But I do, and I've always been a big fan of Jesus, Easter, and chocolate, so darn it all, we will HUNT EGGS.

(Add ovulation joke here.)

But anyway and regardless, we're big frog fans around these parts. Mwah.

Those dang kids!

We had such a great time with our visiting cousins, but in their wake, they've left something terrible... they've reawakened my obsession with Katamari Damacy.

It's a game for the PlayStation, one that our PR agency represented, in which one rolls up increasingly larger objects with a big sticky ball. It's weird, it's Japanese, and it's extraordinarily addictive for me. Last night I stayed up past midnight rolling up a big fireball in order to light a campground fire for a bunch of Australians. Whatever. It's hard to explain.

I've heard that the worst thing a drug dealer can do is to start using his own drugs. Same thing goes for people like me who push videogames. As long as I don't start playing the games, I'm OK. But if a bunch of "pushers" (aka, innocent children) come into my life and ask me to "help them through just one level" it's all over. It's all over.

I'll see you after I solve Katamari Damacy:

Busy

Oh it's wonderful having a full house! Our temporary combined family of four children and four adults is just heaven. I feel like I'm having a lot of good grown-up discussion time (a rarity lately), and with so many kids, it's a rollicking chaos, corralled only by the trampoline and rousing games of "Katamary Damacy" on the PlayStation.

How will I deal with Chebbles' withdrawal when she wakes up on Thursday morning and hollers, "COUSINS!" from her bed, and no one comes running?

I'm stockpiling photos from their adventures together, and I hope to temper our collective post-visit depression with plenty of activities and reminiscing about our cousinly good times.

OK, much to do, back to the hoard!

Dude

I am delighted to report that there are PANDAS on the Oakland Zoo merry-go-round. If anyone was doubting the existence of a supreme being, you can go ahead and start believing in an awesome, benevolent God.

The bridge

It is unearthly quiet in my house.

Hub-D has just taken Chebbles and our visiting cousins to see the Golden Gate Bridge. The minivan only seats seven, so here I am.

I don't mind missing the trip, but this quiet house brings back some of my "imminent peril" paranoias of yore.

Ever since losing the baby in December, I've had episodes of irrational fear, where every time I say goodbye to someone I love, I secretly think it's for the last time. I now envision the minivan meeting some terrible fate, and losing seven marvelous, important people at the same time. Oh man, erase that thought. Erase it!

To top it off, my dear friend K. called and merrily announced that she is "ten weeks, three days" pregnant. That is precisely the day in my pregnancy that I learned that our baby had died. But of course I didn't tell her that. I just said, "Oh that's GREAT!"

When I asked her when her next ultrasound is scheduled, she said that it's in two weeks. That's too long for me. She said, "I had such a great ultrasound at seven weeks, and everything was so 'textbook' that we're OK waiting until twelve weeks." (I too had a perfect ultrasound at seven weeks, right before we lost that baby.)

Dear Lord, let my loved ones return soon from across the bridge.