"OK, my mom may be a nervous woman with inappropriate desires to kill her cat, but her 'Free-Range Parenting' techniques are really paying off for the likes of ME.

"Sure, when I'm hungry, I'm forced to root around the cabinets and the car to find sustenance and she's known to consider a corn dog a MEAL, but when I want to be left alone with a marker, she lets me!

"Then, when she discovers that my body and furniture are covered with marker, she blames HERSELF! Then just takes pictures! Tell me I didn't hit the jackpot here, folks."

What to do about Old Stan

I am a huge cat lover, enough so that people have, for holidays throughout my life, given me "I Love My Cat"-type paraphenalia.

The charities to which I give the most money are Best Friends Animal Sanctuary and Community Concern for Cats. I've fostered feral kittens and driven cross country to save cats from the clutches of the shelter.

But I want to put our three-legged cat, Stanley, to sleep. This is a HORRIBLE temptation. That's why I'm prefacing that comment with those defensive cat-loving comments. (Like people who say, "But some of my best friends are black!")

So yes, some of my best friends are cats, but Stanley is driving me INSANE.

I could handle it if he peed on the floor (which he's done for years). I have withstood years of his howling -- sometimes for food, sometimes to be let out or in the door, and sometimes just because. While Hub-D and I were dating, I made it clear to him that Stanley was my boyfriend BEFORE he was, so Stanley had to be accommodated at every possible juncture.

But I've had it with that old crabass, and let me tell you why. First, when I first got him from the shelter, he had HORRIBLE teeth. His gums were rotten despite my various dental treatments, extractions, food supplements, gel applied to his mouth, etc. His gums just never recovered from his humble stray-cat beginnings. Otherwise, he'd been healthy as a horse.

Under my care, initially, he gained several pounds and became a shiny, chubby tabbycat and a surprisingly efficient mouser (for a guy who's missing a leg). He and I spooned on cold winter's nights, and he was always a sucker for a warm lap in the house.

Then, about two years ago, his health started to decline precipitously -- he went down to seven pounds and howled constantly. We took him to the vet over and over, and finally determined that his gums were so rotten now (despite our ministrations) that he couldn't eat crunchy food, and could barely tolerate soft food.

I tried everything, as did everyone else in the house. We got super-stinky soft food and diluted it with water so he could practically drink his nutrition. I took him in for two $500 tooth cleanings at the vet. I would spend much of my day (in addition to caring for an infant) coaxing him to eat, with bowls of stinky cat food laced all over the house, trying to tempt him to eat despite his pain.

We put him on Prednilosone, and it increased his appetite, and he's hanging in at around nine pounds now.

But in the meantime, he's moved out of our house, onto our neighbor J.'s porch, and he refuses to come back to our house. You can't have a toddler in the house and a locked-up cat -- well, you could, but it would suck, and he would piss all over and destroy any room I tried to do that with anyway. Plus, it's a relief not to hear his howling around the clock.

J. is elderly, and she took on Stanley as a project. She has experimented with all kinds of food for him (which I reimburse her for), and she stands there and eggs him on while he eats, in her quiet cat-lady way.

Every day, I come over to try and give Stanley his dose of Prednilosone (without it, he won't eat), and about 75% of the time, he spots me coming and darts, like the WIND, out of my reach. I've had the neighborhood kids collude with me to catch him and medicate him, and he's just too fast and wily.

So some days, he doesn't get the drugs. And when I DO catch him, he screams the whole time I'm holding him, shooting me bullets through his eyes, and howls an unearthly holler when I finally get the medicine down his gullet.

He's greasy, unhappy, doesn't want anyone to pet him, he gets bad eye boogers (which I remove when I can catch him), and just peers out of the box on J.'s porch, despising all passersby. Except J., that is.

Lately, J. has taken to calling me throughout the day, "Has Stanley had his medication yet? He hasn't eaten." (She has never offered to administer the medication herself, for which I don't blame her.)

And I've TRIED to give that a-hole cat his medicine (which is expensive and must be refrigerated after I receive it from the special compounding pharmacy), but he darts away so fast that I can't. And sometimes when I do make it over there, and miraculously catch him, he squirms at the last moment and the medicine goes flying all over his greasy fur and he bolts without having taken it.

So I get these repeated calls from J., harrassing me about my not having given him the medicine (please also refer to the fact I'm caring for a "spirited" toddler and am 19 weeks pregnant), and today, she had her daughter C. tell me that Stanley is suffering because Prednilosone is the kind of drug which must be administered at the SAME TIME every day, and her suggestion is that I try to sneak up on him early in the morning every day and give him the drugs.

The moral thing to do? Keep the cat alive. Figure out a way to give him the drugs every day, and reduce the impact on my neighbors of MY cat's dilemma.

The extremely tempting thing to do? Put the cat out of his misery.

But it's impossible to make that call, because Stanley is positively sprightly when he sees me coming, and his eyes are clear and full of life. The fact that they're full of HATE shouldn't matter. He's not near death's door, despite his age (around 12-16) and infirmities.

But as part of my general desire to clear my life of clutter, of useless grudges and vestigial friendships, I want Stanley gone. I'm spending so much time leaping around my neighbor's yard, trying to medicate him, just so he can continue despising everything in his purview. He is not himself at ALL anymore. He's always been crabby, but sweet. Now he is way beyond crabby. He is in pain that is only abated by a drug he despises.

I'll keep up the chase for now, but I have to honestly say that I simply want him gone. It's horrible, and I would feel guilty for the rest of my life if I killed a cat before his "time" but we're ALL annoyed with each other at this point, over his plight, and I don't know how much more I can take.

It's time for me to admit I don't know what the heck I'm doing anymore.

Parents with second children may laugh at me when I say I'm looking forward to having an infant because I KNOW how to take care of one. I've successfully raised a child to age 2, so when I'm presented with another newborn, it's kind of a solved equation.

But as for now, taking care of a 2-year-old? I am so far over my head.

OK, first for the pity party: I've started having light-headedness and heart palpitations due to my pregnancy. This is in addition to being tired, cranky, and not being able to ingest plain water without vomiting. Plus I have sciatica, which renders me less able to stand from a sitting position than my 95-year-old grandmother. And I'm only 19 weeks -- not even halfway? What the heck?

And now the nitty-gritty: Chebbles is driving me insane. She is a lovely child 95% of the time, and I mean really lovely. Yesterday she rubbed my legs and feet with lotion while I rested with a cool beverage. That's how lovely she can be. But today, she is from hell.

I think I set it off when I told her that the only way we could go to the park (where her friends were waiting for her) is to put on sneakers. That's all. I just told her, "Yeah, you've got to wear your sneakers."

She wears sneakers at school now without incident, and on Friday, she wore sneakers at a friend's house for a good long time. She verbally acknowledges the advantages of sneakers and has started to accept their existence in her wardrobe. So it wasn't like I said, "Now you'll have to wear this HAIRSHIRT while we go to the park," but I might as well have...

She got really, really pissed. I started to put the sneakers on while she sat in her carseat, and she wriggled and screamed, "NO!" and just as quickly as I'd get one shoe on, laced up properly with a double-knot, she'd kick it off ferociously. She'd jam one foot up against the back of the offending shoe then slide it off despite the snug laces.

It reminds me of my deceased cat Patrick, who, when put in an "Elizabethan Collar" after suffering from a nasty abcess, went straight down to the basement and used all four of his paws to pull it off. I stood there screaming, "Patrick's going to take off his HEAD!!!" as he pulled so enormously hard. He didn't seem to care that his head might detach from his body, as long as he removed the offending collar. He did remove the collar, and everything was OK, but for awhile there, it looked like the head was coming off.

Anyway, Chebbles had the same determination as Patrick, except she was screaming and crying the whole time. I thought to myself, "I can't let her win this. If I let her win this one, she'll just cry harder whenever I insist on sneakers."

And, you see, sometimes in life you have to wear sneakers.

So I put the sneakers back on her feet. Over. And over. And she was crying harder. And harder. She screamed, "I want to wear bare feet! I want to wear bare feet!" indignantly while I laced up the shoes for the 10th time. By this point I'd taken her out of the carseat, and we sat together on the sidewalk having this horrible exchange. I had her pinned down, trying to get the sneakers on, then she would buck against me and wait for her moment to rip them back off.

Once I got them both on, I hastily grabbed her and headed for the play area, thinking that once she saw her friends, she'd forget the whole disaster, plus she could play among the wood chips without splintering the soles of her feet. We could all be happy. But she was so enraged at this point that she fell completely limp into the freshly cut grass, and rolled around like that pissed-off cat, and removed the sneakers for the 10th time.

I'm not too proud to admit that I just screamed. Not at her, but near her. I'd really had it. Why wouldn't she just wear the damn sneakers? She wears them other times, and why NOW, when I've sufficiently motivated us to get to the park, and a dozen friends were waiting to play with her?

She writhed around in the grass hollering that she had to go poo-poo on the potty. Her body was covered with little grass clippings and she was completely inconsolable.

What had I DONE? Was this something I had initiated? Would she just have been a happy little child if I'd just downgraded us into the Crocs after she protested the sneakers once? But if I'd done that, we'd never get lace-up shoes going, and sometimes life is going to call for lace-up shoes. Plus, if I give in to a tantrum, I've learned, I'll pay for it ten times over.

But if I'd just given up early in the process, would we be a happy mom-and-child frolicking in the park, instead of two miserable souls screaming into the cut grass that life is SUCKING?

I decided to just be super-nice and understanding (partly out of guilt, partly out of actual maternal instinct), and just chuck the damn shoes for the day. I put them away in a bag and I asked her if she wanted to go to the potty at the park.

"NO! I want to go HOME!"

This pissed me off even more, even though I didn't say so. We had gotten our corpses all the way to the brink of the park, and now we're going to give up the whole thing so that she can allegedly go poo in the potty at home, which we ALL KNOW is not going to happen and she just wants the damn marshmallow that she gets when she sits on the potty.

"I'm TIRED!" she continued, "And I want MIMI!"

It was time to give up the whole thing. Screw it. Screw it. Screw it.

We both seemed to feel defeated and wronged when we sat back in the car. She screamed, "I'm TIRED! I want MIMI!" the whole way home. I repeated it back to her, "You're tired, I hear you, and you want Mimi, and we'll be home very soon and you can lie down with Mimi." It did nothing to abate the screaming.

So we went home and sat on the potty (she did pee) and got a marshmallow and got Mimi and we both evened out. I felt like the shittiest mom on the planet, having lost my temper so easily, and having pushed the SHOE issue so far as to make her collapse into a half-comatose, writhing heap.

Once everyone was calmed down, I asked her if she wanted to try to park again. "NO!" she screamed.

"I thought you might wear your CROCS to the park this time, and your friend M. will be there."

She paused. No sneakers? M. would be there? "OK!" she chirped, and headed back out to the car. She proceeded to play semi-merrily at the park for more than an hour.

Then by 12:45 it was time to go, because she WAS actually tired and our playgroup was wrapping up. She started to melt down again and she insisted on having me carry her the entire length of the lawn over to the car. Ordinarily, when I'm not pregnant, this would be doable, but I had two bags of stuff in my hand, and she was squirmy and whimpering and unpleasant and if she were wearing SNEAKERS, I might add, her feet wouldn't be so sore.

"I want more crackers!"
"I want more crackers!"
"I want more crackers!"

She shouted in my ear the whole time I carried her to the car.

"I want more crackers!"

So I said (through gritted teeth), "I hear you that you want more crackers, and once we get to the car, I can give you some."

"I want more crackers!"

When, after about seven years of crawling through the grass with my whining child, bags of stuff, and my own rotten attitude weighing me down, I was happy to get her strapped into the car seat. She was still hollering, but at least I could put her down, and for the moment that it took me to walk around to my side of the car, I couldn't hear her saying, "I want more crackers!"

So I sat down in my seat, and found three crackers, and handed them to her.

She took them for an instant, then threw them to the other side of the car.

"I am so angry you just did that!" I said. "You wanted crackers and I gave you crackers and you threw them," I stewed from the front seat as she stewed in the back.

"I want THAT cracker," she said, indicating one of the crackers that she'd thrown.

"I can get you that cracker when I get to a red light, but I can't turn around now," I said. "Plus, dude, you threw it."

"I want THAT cracker!"
"I want THAT cracker!"
"I want THAT cracker!"

Finally we did get to a red light and I turned around. "This cracker?"

"Es," she said quietly.

A lesser mother (although it's hard to imagine such) would have taken the cracker and thrown it out the car window at this point. But I gave it to her, and she WAS happy for those few moments.

And finally, we arrived at home. After a few more scenes in the house ("I want to stand on the counter! I want to STAND on the COUNTER!") I coaxed her into her room, with a cup of milk and Mimi and a story, and she went to bed happily, chuckling up at me while I put her blanket on her, singing her "Go To Sleep" song.

And I just felt like a rotten, short-tempered mom who just reflects her kid's passing moods rather than maturely standing like a wise, weathered oak tree through the gales of upset toddlerhood.

So anyway, I want to burn the shoes.

A Child Called "It"

I've changed my mind, and I we're going to find out the sex of this baby at next week's 20-week ultrasound.

It all started when I went to the acupuncturist last week for help with my wicked sciatica. The sciatica has become excruciating, although it amuses Chebbles to no end when I'm stuck on the floor, wincing, "Oooh, Chebbles, my RUMP, I can't move, my RUMP!"

Anyway, he is something of a holistic healer, this acupuncturist, and although I maintain a basic skepticism about Eastern medicine, I can't deny that after his treatments, my insomnia completely goes away. For about a week after his treatments, not only does my aching RUMP feel better, but I sleep through the night -- no 3am weirdo wake-ups in which I become convinced that everyone hates me, and those that might not hate me are going to die.

So, I go back to this man, and he puts needles in me, and he talks to me while he's doing it.

This week, he posited the concept that my terrible nausea, my sleeplessness, aches and pains might be alleviated by the recognition that I'm pregnant.

This may sound bizarre to others, particularly those people who pee on a pregnancy test, then show up at a Birthing Center 40 weeks later, having heard the heartbeat a few times and lived a merry, pregnant existence. But for those who have experienced pregnancy loss, you know exactly what I mean.

The premise: What I don't know can't hurt me. And there ARE no forgone conclusions.

If I don't sit around all day knitting booties and dreaming up names, then I am relatively safer if this pregnancy doesn't result in a live birth. If I refuse to speak of the child with anyone, if I refuse to calculate my due date (yep, I have no idea, sometime in late February, I think), and if I hold the whole thing at arm's length, then perhaps I won't have my heart broken again.

It's ridiculous: I'm walking around with this growing, kicking lump in my lower abdomen, waddling from an sciatic nerve and severely nauseated -- but I refuse to engage with this child-to-be. It doesn't feel safe.

The acupuncturist, M., gently suggested I take a leap of faith, and, at the very least, stop referring to my unborn child as "it." He says that children begin connecting with their mothers well before their births, and it's possible that this child's wee spirit is kind of pissed off by my denial of its existence.

So, what? The embryo is yanking on my sciatic nerve, hollering, "Mama! Yo!!! Stop calling me 'IT!'"

Well, I'm going to try to give this child a name, so I can start connecting with it instead of willfully disconnecting from it at every opportunity. And in order to give it a name, we're going to know what reproductive equipment it has.

So, if this pregnancy makes it to 20 weeks, and I've been told that the ODDS ARE that it will, and if we are having an otherwise joyful ultrasound, we're going to just ask. What is it? What the heck IS it?

And then maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to drink water, and walk without groaning about my rump.

It's worth a try.

Coming Home

I can't write long as Chebbles and I are due at a neighborhood potluck and we haven't hauled our fannies to the grocery store to buy the ice cream we're supposed to bring. (One advantage of being pregnant is that no one judges you for bringing ice cream to a potluck.)

But earlier, we were eating some gnocchi together, Chebbles and I. And she was eating a ton of it. I said, "Oh Chebbles, I feel the same way about gnocchi. I could eat it until the cows come home!"

And she got really vigilant. She leaped from her spot at the table and went to the window. "Cows?"

"No Chebs, it's just an expression, meaning a 'really long time,' No actual cows are coming over."

"Cows stay in the barn," she said, like a command, directed out to the street. "No, cows, don't come over."

"They're not coming over."

But then she went to the back door.

"I want the cows to come over and SEE ME," she said, through another piece of gnocchi.

"Well they just might. They just might," I said.

"What is your relationship to this child?"

We had something of a mix-up at Music Together yesterday, and it's still making me laugh.

When I was in the throes of my morning sickness (as opposed to now, when I simply throw up every day and just feel extremely nauseated sometimes), my friend A. took Chebbles to her Music Together class every week.

Although A. did nothing to actually gestate Chebbles, my child bears a strong resemblance to her and her son, Z. It doesn't make much sense, because A. and I would never be mistaken for twins, but our children often are.

Yesterday at Music Together, for the first time, A. and I both showed up with both of our kids. The teacher's head spun, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Do you have another daughter with the same name?" the teacher asked A.

"No."

"Are these children related?" she asked, her inner turmoil increasingly apparent.

"Why? Would we get a discount?" I asked, willing to pose as "the nanny" or "the pal" should it mean we get $100 knocked off our tuition. But no.

It seems the teacher had operated under the assumption that Chebbles was A.'s daughter, in addition to A.'s son Z. She'd accepted them as twins or something, then just went about her business.

But when I showed up with Chebbles (and Z. kept sitting on my lap), the teacher wanted some answers. She wanted to know WHO was related to WHOM because it was hurting her head.

A. broke it to the teacher that, although there is nothing to back this up appearance-wise, I am Chebbles' biological mother.

I don't think she believed her. I wonder what she thinks I am.

And in the meantime, I'll settle for my uncanny resemblance to Mimi and Brown Bear.

Hey everyone

I'm Chebbles. I like pink dresses and corn and my friends.

My mom finally got her computer fixed so I thought you might need to see how much I've grown.

I'm 2, dudes. And don't you forget it.

It Happened

I put Chebbles down for a nap a few minutes ago. She is definitely tired, having gone to Music Together and playgroup this morning. I gave her some milk, and tucked her in, then I listened to her warble from her crib as I walked across the house to my office.

"I want out!" she started hollering, but I ignored it. "I not stay IN!" she yelled, but I calmly sat down at my desk.

I heard her voice again, creepily CLOSE to my door. "I have money!" she said. I jumped up.

It was like seeing a spectre rising from the mists, it was unearthly how she showed up in the hallway, having JUMPED OUT OF HER CRIB, and presented me with a pretend dollar bill. "I have money!" she repeated, delighted with herself.

I went into a state of buzzing mega-shock. This emergence of my child -- on her own -- from the crib constitutes a whole new era of parenting, an era in which I will be reliant on psychological means to keep her in her bedroom during naptime and throughout the night.

She was so sweet and proud, standing there in her pink dress holding up the pretend money, but I swooped down on her like a hawk. "No! You may NOT climb out of your crib! It is dangerous and it is naptime."

As I carried her back, I looked over her shoulder, wide-eyed, mouthing to myself, "What the hell??? What the hell???" And I laid her back down in the crib where she sleeps beautifully now.

But it has begun, this new era. And, as I write this, her sibling kicks against my waistband. Thanks, bud, it's a good reminder that the crib, once forfeited for a "big girl bed," won't be unoccupied for long.

MommyorDaddy.com

Hub-D has permitted me to introduce a website that he's been working on, and it's called Mommy or Daddy. It's something like "Hot or Not," but it's about family resemblance -- you just click on "Mommy" or "Daddy," whomever you think a child resembles.

My husband foolishly allowed me to choose a picture of our family to post, so of course I found one in which Chebbles is looking away and I'm wearing a lot of make-up so as to obscure my non-Chebbles-like features.

As we all know, I look like a cross between Danny Bonaduce and Sissy Spacek when I don't wear any makeup, which exacerbates the gross difference between my child's and my appearance.

I can't be the only mom who was assumed to be an adoptive mother of her biological child? It has been this phenomenon which encouraged me to think of adoption for our future children -- if the biological ones don't resemble me anyway, then why am I subjecting my body and my family to the torture of Pregnant Mama?

Anyway, mommyordaddy.com has just opened, and people from all over have started posting pictures of their families. We must not be the only family for whom family resemblance is a hotspot.

When Hub-D originally told me about the concept of mommyordaddy.com, I thought it was a sweet idea, but that it alienated people who don't share a biological connection with their child. What I think is cool is that people with adopted kids seem to be putting pictures of their families up too -- because it's STILL fun to think about who a child resembles, I guess. I just think that's extremely cool of them.

So check it out, and see if you can spot Chebbles, Hub-D and me -- then vote for ME for cripe's sake!

Whereas I confess my love for Dr. Laura

I've been afraid to "come out" with my respect for this talk-radio show host, particularly on the heels of my admission that I was a sorority girl. I know that many of my friends find her shrill and find that she contradicts many of their deeply-held beliefs.

But she saved my life.

My dad's neighbor gave him a copy of her book, "10 Stupid Things Women Do to Mess Up Their Lives" in 1998. She told him to give it to me.

I have never been so insulted! She didn't even know me that well, and here she was, cramming this harpie's literature down my throat, through my dad! But I read it. And it saved my life.

Before I read "10 Stupid Things Women Do to Mess Up Their Lives," no one had ever communicated these ideals so frankly to me. It's about a lot of things -- not choosing a loser, not shacking up, not abandoning your kids, and not falling into a lot of typical female traps. Primarily, and this is the part that changed me, it was about taking responsibility for your own life, for your own actions, and doing the right thing.

It was intense, as I read the book. I was forced to re-think some of my own convictions. I spent nights seized with regret about some of my own past actions, but then I would wake up in the morning having taken responsibility for my asinine behavior, and ready to NOT duplicate it.

I finished the book, then re-read it. Then I tuned into her radio show. It was an era in which she was particularly shrill about libraries' internet access, and while I couldn't agree with every one of her beliefs, her approach to people's moral dilemmas was consistent and it reinforced the philosophies I'd read about in her book.

So I bought every last one of her books. I read "Parenthood By Proxy" before I'd ever met the man who'd become the father of my child(ren). I read "The Ten Commandments," which she co-wrote with a rabbi, although I'm not Jewish.

And each of these books would pop my head right off and screw it back on right. I began to think of the moral consequences of my actions in every situation -- personal, business, anything.

And, this is the best part of all: while I was so busy chastising my past actions and re-scripting my reactions to everyday dilemmas, something amazing happened -- I got a LOT happier. By following her updated version of the 10 Commandments, I discovered a kind of heaven on earth. Life became remarkably less complicated.

I started attending church in Oregon, where I lived at the time, and enjoyed a new relationship with God. I looked frankly at my finances and started taking the high road where-ever I could find it. I told friends who were engaging in immoral behavior that I couldn't condone it anymore.

Yeah, it may sound righteous to some, but I felt GOOD in every sense of the word. I understood the path that lay before me like I never had before. I hired a marvelous Buddhist therapist who assisted me with my repentence for some awful behaviors of the past, and I was able to lay them to rest.

And every day, before I left for work, I would set my tape recorder to the AM station to capture that day's Dr. Laura broadcast.

So in 2002, when I finally met Hub-D, I knew he was the man for me. I knew that he was prepared to take the high ground with me. I ensured my instincts were right by telling him, on our very first date, that he should never expect me to work while I'm raising our children, and that, if he wanted to be serious with me, he'd best understand the moral principles of Dr. Laura.

Rather than scaring him off, as it would a lesser man, he stepped up to the plate and married me. Other than my unquestionable good looks, I think he was impressed that a woman would feel so strongly family-oriented, particularly in a town (by that time, I lived in San Francisco) so filled with shack-ups and sex clubs.

So we now take the moral high ground together. We're not perfect -- I haven't found a church I like, and Chebbles is being raised a relative heathen.

But we feel good about ourselves when we do what we feel is right, not necessarily what "feels good" at every turn. When we work against the grain -- we pay tax on our household employees' salaries (despite the massive amounts of paperwork and seemingly unnecessary expense), and we care generously for each other, even when it's hard, because we are 100% committed to being a family for the rest of our lives. Because I read that book, I was prepared to set my own selfishness aside and I understood the marriage commitment much more than I would have otherwise.

See, I just don't think I had any handle on morality until I was introduced to it by Dr. Laura. And it may weird for a radio talk show host to have such an impact on my life, but I'd be remiss if I didn't find a means to publicly thank her for having the cajones to stand up and help people like me change their lives.

A Free-Range Parent Repents

It occurs to me that I've become somewhat blase about child-rearing.

At an outing today, I met a woman who described me as a "Free-Range Parent," in that I let Chebbles go wild all over the house and the yard, with a laissez-faire attitude.

But Chebbles is easy to trust. She's not a destructive kid. She never climbs up on things, and she tends to discuss her actions, real-time. So I can be lying on the living room couch and know what she's doing 99% of the time, based on her singing the "I'm going to put chalk on the picnic table" song or the ever popular "Let's go out the front door and see what's happening" tune.

I know that small children should be closely supervised, because they can fall, cut themselves, choke on things, etc. and I completely agree. It's just so easy to be lulled into a sense of security with Chebbles because she never comes close to these things.

She never falls. I stand next to her on the play equipment on the playground just so other moms won't think I'm neglectful, but she never falls. Yesterday she balanced on her kneecaps on the picnic table, perfectly, without wobbling. So I just forget that it's possible she could take a tumble.

She never cuts herself or chokes on anything either. She just isn't daring in that way. She prefers drawing and singing, and beating the patio with a whisk she found in the dishwasher.

I completely understand that my attitude is dangerous. Just because she hasn't done these things before doesn't mean that she won't do them in the future. But I don't panic when I find her playing with a quarter, for example. She knows that if she puts it in her mouth that I'll take it away, even if she just puts it on her lip. She hasn't tried to put a coin near her mouth for a long, long time. So she tries to flip the quarter in the air like Daddy does and I can work on the New York Times crossword puzzle nearby.

But I'm resolved to pay more attention, especially now that I'm somewhat more functional and about 40% less barfy, to safety hazards.

For example, tonight, when she was splashing in the bath, giving me a litany of her actions ("I put the beads in the watering can! I see a flamingo on the wall!"), I went to the kitchen and poured her a cup of milk, then I went to her room to retrieve the towel I'd forgotten.

Then I realized: I left my toddler unattended in the bathtub. Damn Free-Range Parent!

This is just another area in which I've become unappropriately blase, lulled into a sense of safety. She yodels happily and I collect her bedtime paraphenalia while listening for her splashes. She knows how to swim and has never submerged in the tub, but still, I've got to admit that it's not OK.

One reason I must change my ways is that we might be having a new baby in the new year. And I will have to snap to attention from my lazy land of self-propelled toddler-care doldrums and be ready 24 hours a day -- to listen to the new baby breathe, to make sure Chebbles doesn't draw all over him with a Sharpie, and, for God's sake, attend the children in the bath!

And other children are not like Chebbles. Other children, such as the one I am currently gestating, might be climbers or cutters or danger-mongers in many, many ways.

Not every child will, at seven months, happily scarf down spaghetti dinners with a sip of wine at a dinner table in Rome, assisted only by a makeshift baby seat tied together by napkins.

Not every child will entertain himself with two baby wipes and a stuffed animal for a full hour, or refuse to step foot in the street because she was once told it was "dangerous" and takes the information on faith.

I could have a normal baby, and Will Shortz will suffer for it, to be sure.

Be free

I've started to wonder if I'm actually going to have a baby this coming winter.

It's amazing, but pregnancy might not just be a series of barfing heartbreaks. There may be a purpose to all of this trying-to-conceive, trying-not-to-miscarry nonsense.

So my thought is this: I want to be READY for a new child's arrival. And to me, this means: (1) Cleaning out all of the extra stuff in our house, and (2) Cleaning out all of the extra people in my heart.

The first point is easily tackled, especially now that we have the spinach-dipping housekeeper a few mornings a week. I can tell she would LOVE to get her mitts on all this extra stuff and deposit it at the feet of Goodwill, the library, the dump... and make room for another occupant of our house.

And the second point is a little more complicated. I'm carrying around a lot of lost friendships in my heart, and it's time to let it all go.

For example, my old friend C. From age 7-17 we commuted to school together and passed notes and, although we weren't best friends, we were always tight. So a few years ago, I learned she was still living in our hometown, and invited her to our wedding.

She came to the picnic the day before the wedding. We hugged and laughed and exclaimed at how long it had been. She took videos of the skit my friends performed and pictures of the guests and mingled and she seemed to have a good time.

But then she never showed up at the wedding, or the reception, or EVER got in touch with me again. I sent her a Christmas card that year, stating that I was sorry I hadn't had a chance to catch up with her at the wedding (and allowing her the chance to pretend that she'd attended, or offer an excuse), but I got no response.

What HAPPENED? Where did she GO? This grates on me, late at night, I'll just think of it for no reason. What happened to C.?

And my friend B., the high school pal with whom I'd shared so many memories. After throwing me a bridal shower (for which I thanked her profusely) and attending my wedding, she suddenly vacated my life. But just the other night I dreamed she came back to me, a blonde vision, waving from a staircase, and I was ecstatic to have her back in my life.

Why do I obsess over former friends like C. and B.? I hash over every interaction we had, looking for clues... was I so oblivious, so self-centered, that I missed a crucial clue that my dear friends hated me?

Anyway, GOODBYE to them. I imagine standing in my backyard, holding a dove in my hands, and pretending it's B., or C.. And I kiss its hot feathery head and tell it I love it, but that it's time to let it go, and I toss it up in the air and it flies and flies and FLIES high up into the air, never to return.

I need that space to love my children. I need to clean these people out of my heart. Once I have another infant, I won't have TIME to dream about them coming back into my life. They've clearly moved on with their lives, so I need to let them go, flying straight up into the sun.

What's more, I need to let go of every friendship that I have lost.

Currently, I'll be up at 4am thinking about various people that I mis-read, or pissed off, or irritated in such a fashion that they decided not to be friends with me anymore.

I think of my old workmate D., whose child I babysat, and with whom I travelled all around the US for work, staying up late over bottles of wine laughing about mullets. Then one day he suddenly hated me. I don't know why, and I think about it an inordinate amount of time. We had been buddies for years, but one day he stopped speaking to me. I flapped around him like an injured bird, "Hi! D! What's going on!?" and he did not interact with me. Why?

Goodbye D. I'm going to let you fly. I loved being friends with you. Your child was a big reason I knew I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom -- he was such a delight. And you made all those insufferable trade shows so much more tolerable. But you are weighing down on me, and when I meet my new infant for the first time, I want it to be with clear eyes, not ones still misty from the enigma of your alienation.

And everyone. Everyone who I've let down, or has let me down, and the friendships, ancient and recent, that have disintigrated. Do I have to stop loving all of you, you people who have stopped loving me? I don't think I can, but I can let you go nonetheless. I can stop letting the lingering mysteries weigh down on me.

I'll need all the space I can muster for the coming year. I need to get rid of my old books and old clothes and old furniture and old friends.

It's as though my pockets have been filled with little white stones -- stones that I've worn down to a polish by rubbing over and over, wondering, where does the fault lie? Why are we no longer friends?

And I'm letting them go -- not dropping the stones to the ground, but transforming them into birds as lovely as the friendships were in their finest days, and releasing them so that I may have space in my pockets for binkies and wipes and new little hands.

Roaring Through the Two's

We're experiencing some major peaks and valleys in raising Chebs lately.

She's clever as a whip, fascinated with the alphabet, and she continues to display an unearthly aptitude for drawing and music.

But she has become the largest pain in the ass.

She will not leave any shoes on. Her feet are growing ever-wider and I have spent a small fortune trying to appropriately cover her feet. She outgrows shoes within weeks of my purchasing them. Then, once I find a pair that FIT and are ergonomically correct and match her outfits reasonably well she REJECTS them. She rejects them like her feet are on fire.

At preschool, they've asked me to dress her in lace-up shoes, so they're not constantly putting her shoes back on. I bought some hot pink Converse shoes. I then conned her into trying them on, and she ripped them off, placing them on top of the ottoman and circling them like an angry tigress, saying, "I don't WIKE the wace-up shoes, Mama. I don't WIKE THEM."

I just said, "Tough. You have to wear shoes that lace-up to school." And she wept abjectly at this news.

"I wear Crocs, Mama, just CROCS," she wailed. "No other shoes! NO!"

And so I just kind of roared up to the ceiling.

But on the other hand, she's absolutely brilliant. Tonight as we all shared dinner, she asked Hub-D, "And how was the train today, Daddy?"

"The train was fine, Chebs, thanks for asking," he said, and we exchanged another long, holy-hell-did-she-just-say-that expression.

See, she vacillates between these moments of total maniacal toddlerness and sweet pre-adolescence. It would be confusing to any parent, yes?

Today in the car, we listened to her new Music Together CD, and she asked that we play the lively "Sand Piper" song over and over again. This would be fine. I can listen to a repeated song, as long as she's happy, but she broke down into a massive tantrum as soon as the song BEGAN TO END. She would hear the last stanza of the song begin and start to wail, "Noooo! I want more song! NOOOOOO! MORE!"

I should also mention that she was eating a chicken nugget while she was screaming this during the waning seconds of "Sand Piper," so when I looked in the rearview mirror, her mouth was a big ball of chewed-up chicken and the rest of her face looked like the angry Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.

"But Chebbles, the song is coming back on. It will start up again in just a few seconds," I said to her chicken-filled mug. It did nothing to quell the tears and tragic loss of that particular playing of the "Sand Piper" song.

Then when we got home, she took a long bath, allowing me to create a huge blonde shampoo-filled mohawk in her hair and laughing all the way through bedtime. (Of course the damn "Sand Piper" song was still wedged in my head, but I resisted any urge to sing it, lest the emotions begin once more.)

So she can be very random like this. She can be clever, happy and cooperative, then the smallest thing can set her off (e.g., I cut a piece of melon when she wanted to cut it herself) and I'll have to endure a massive breakdown. She will NOT be touched during these times, and if you try to comfort her in any way, it only adds fuel to the fire of her rage.

So I got her a new book, "When Sophie Gets Angry -- Really, Really Angry" and she is enchanted with it. In the book, Sophie really loses it and has to roar and run away from her cloying family. Chebbles can't get enough of this story.

But I wondered tonight if Sophie reminds her more of HER, or of ME. I'm the one roaring and running away. Perhaps that's why she laughs through the whole thing.

Written as the kitchen burns

Those searching for segues will be disappointed...

* This morning I lost my breakfast right as we were trying to leave for "Music Together." But did I let a little barf get in the way of my grand re-introduction to Mommy Society? NAY! I just swigged some ginger beer in the car on the way there and hoped no one could smell it on me.

* When our wonderful new housekeeper she heard I had developed a hankering for spinach dip, she took it upon herself to whip up a huge batch for me, and serve it with chunks of fresh sourdough bread. So it looks like the Pi Phis are going to have to find other white girls for their dippin' parties.

* Chebbles has now declared that her body is "private," and anyone who tries to kiss her on any part of her anatomy is duly informed by an enraged Chebbles that "my forehead is PRIVATE" or "my foot is PRIVATE." It's really irritating because she's really damn cute and one struggles with a way to adore that cuteness without any physical contact.

* I've still felt no kicks from this theoretical baby. It's pretty annoying. ("My kicks are PRIVATE?") I have an appointment tomorrow morning with Dr. W. to ascertain whether there is still life therein.

* I confess to feeling a little bit better, this morning's breakfast-loss experience notwithstanding. I have some of my energy back, and I'm able to read "Good Housekeeping" magazine without having to throw up from all of the pictures of food.

Oh my gosh, speaking of that, I left a pot on to boil pasta before I started writing this post. Pregnant, much?

The siren call of Pi Beta Phi

I confess, I'm an actual sorority girl. And I got the mailing today to prove it...

See, when I arrived at the University of Michigan as a freshman, I instantly jumped into sorority rush.

It was 1989, and I had pored over the pamphlet they sent to prospective rushees over the summer and I was mesmerized by the photos: fun parties and friends and big stately houses.

Once I got embroiled in rush in Ann Arbor, I was charmed by each sister's loyalty to her house, and the intense rush decorations they'd invested in. As an inveterate party planner (who eventually made it a big part of her career), I knew these chicks had their acts together. They served increasingly delicious snacks at the rush parties. They were pretty, vivacious, popular and I wanted to be one of them.

It's worth describing the meat market of sorority rush at an institution as large as the University of Michigan. There were two dozen sororities, and a thousand rushees. We were marched from house to house in a previously determined pattern (based on our last names, I believe) by a Rush Counselor, who would not reveal her actual sorority until after rush.

We would wait in line, in front of each house. Typically, we'd hear the clapping and singing before the door would burst open with a hundred sorority sisters kicking and going crazy about how terrific their sororities were.

Everything was moderated and scored -- we would be passed from sister to sister throughout the first parties (which lasted about 20 minutes each), and each subsequent party would be longer, more serious, and with really badass snacks.

We were treated to house tours and themed rooms where they would explain the finer points of their long-term stadium seating arrangement with the brothers of Sigma Nu (hot), or their annual fund-raiser that involved jumping into a Jell-O pit, or their academic records, which would inevitably be impressive.

I panicked. I dressed in dowdy prairie skirts and fluffed my permed hair and then I really killed my chances when I started to lie. I started out OK. I didn't lie for the first couple rounds of parties. But once I was ensconced in the halls of Theta Beta Pi or Chi Omega and I started to feel intimidated by their attractiveness and their intelligence and their ability to pull off incredible parties... I trotted out a series of outrageous lies.

My main lie, which I repeated at a few houses, was that I was a published poet. It matters not, from my perspective almost 20 years later, that I DID become a published poet. Because I was nothing of the sort at the time. I was just a homely freshman, completely full of crap and feeling out of my league.

The sisters, wise to my fibs, began introducing me around and sloughing me off onto one another, saying, "Yes, she's a published poet." And then they'd quiz me about the poems and publications for which I'd written and I made some crap up and sweated in my corduroy ankle-length skirt and wanted to die.

I got the call from my Rush Counselor two days after the third set of parties. "I'm sorry to say that you have no invitations to the next round of parties," she said.

This is particularly devastating when you're looking at two dozen sororities. I didn't even have an invitation to anyone's Final Desserts, let alone a bid to join a sorority. No, I'd been rejected by the entire Greek system of the University of Michigan.

So I resolved to be an "independent." Not that I had much of a choice.

A year passed, during which I got a lot cooler. I gained a lot of self-esteem (despite my roommate stealing my boyfriend), my perm grew out, I started writing even more and learned how to drink and be more fun at parties. I went to Spring Break in South Padre Island and performed kegstands with the brothers of Sigma Nu and Lambda Chi. I dressed better (the 80's had mercifully drawn to a close) and felt a lot better about myself.

So I thought, what the hell, I'll try again. And I lined up at the curbs of the sororities of UM once more, determined to make another run at their bid lists.

I did a lot better, receiving invitations from every sorority but Theta and Chi-O. (Did they remember the published poet incident from the year before?) And eventually I chose to join Pi Beta Phi. I pledged as a sophomore, feeling years older than my fellow rushees, but satisfied to have been accepted by this elusive Greek system.

And I didn't do much with my membership in Pi Beta Phi. I was busy. I worked for Michigan Daily, I lived in a work co-op, I had netted a bow-hunting senior boyfriend (who cooked me venison that he'd killed himself but that is a totally different story), and I barely participated in the sisterhood of Pi Beta Phi.

Did I go to the parties? Heck YEAH! (I'd helped pay for the kegs after all...) And I got the T-shirts and the pictures, and hung around the house and gossiped with the ladies, but I only made a few fleeting connections.

When I participated in rush from the other side, I became completely disenchanted. My friend H. and I tried desperately to get votes for an incredible woman we'd met. She had such a relaxed air about her, and we could imagine talking all night, she was so smart and engaging. But she was overweight. Oh, and black. And not one of our "sisters" voted for our candidate, even after we stood on our chairs and gave an impassioned speech about the rushee's virtues.

So I tuned out the Pi Phi vibe for the rest of my days at Michigan. I couldn't deactivate -- I already lived in the house, and H. and I became roommates, cordoning ourselves off from the rest of the house and befriending the friendless within: the house mother, who was unjustly persecuted by our sisters, and the cook, who was the only interesting man we came across that year.

I graduated to very little fanfare and never looked back.

Until today, when I received a little mailing. The local chapter of Pi Beta Phi alumnae would like me to consider joining them. For $50/year, I can go to house parties and fashion shows and cavort with my Pi Phi neighbors.

Why am I so tempted again? The parties sound like fun, and they're in the wealthy neighborhoods in our county, so I bet there will be good snacks.

Am I to be drawn in once more by an impeccable spinach dip?

One hopes one's husband does not read posts such as this

I had my moustache waxed today.

Five years ago, in an LA nail salon, I was having my brows waxed and the waxer said, "I do your upper lip too, yes?"

This sent me into a spiral of self-doubt. Do I have a moustache? A big, blonde moustache that I fail to see but which has been mesmerizing the general public for years?

In horror, I refused the 'stache-waxing, preferring instead to run home and stare at myself from several angles, trying to discern the mysterious facial hair.

Since that incident, I have been asked whether I'd like my moustache removed about 50% of the time when I go in for a wax. And I've always been impudent in my response, with a slight, "how DARE you presume me to have a moustache" tone to my voice.

But today, I caved. I'm prepared to admit that I do have a moustache and it has gotten a little bushier recently. As I lay down on the table to submit to the procedure, I thought to myself, somewhat gloomily, "This is what happens when you turn 36. You begin with the moustache waxes."

Then I asked, "It's not going to grow back dark and thick, is it?"

"No, it grows back just the same," she said, obviously relieved that after three years of brow waxes she was finally going to get her mitts on the 'stache.

As she applied the hot wax to my delicate upper lip, I had visions of Hub-D pulling away from a kiss, revolted by stubble or some evidence of hair removal. But perhaps I can rely on his own stubble to muddle his impressions, and allow him to think, "Hm, I guess I need a shave," rather than, "My wife is a MAN."

And I can't be sure, but while she tweezed the remaining 'stache stragglers, I believe she yanked a few hairs from my CHIN as well. Oh great, now it's a beard.

Hello?

If I'm going to keep faith that our embryo's heart is still beating, the LEAST it could do is start kicking.

I've started to believe that last week's one kick was an anomaly, possibly attributable to gas, because I haven't felt DICK since.

Dr. W. says that his second-time moms tend to feel the kicks start during Week 16. On Monday, it will be Week 17 for me, and this kid is not giving us any indication that it plans to make the Week 16 deadline. This is so rude I don't even know where to begin.

Last night I dreamt that I had all this crazy kicking happen in my belly, followed shortly by my so-typical-as-to-be-boring bleeding dream. So annoying, so lame.

Can we get some kicks rolling here, kid?

Chebs and the Mimi Cake

We threw Chebbles a birthday bash on Monday.

While writing invitations, I had operated under the assumption that if you throw a party on Labor Day, then a lot of people will be out of town.... right?

Not our friends! I'm dealing with a bunch of people who are just like me -- it didn't even occur to us to go camping or something absurd like that.

So 60 people came to celebrate the day. No wait, 61, because V.'s dad came at the last minute too... so yeah, 61.

We threw it at Pixieland, a local amusement park for toddlers. Chebbles is very INTO Pixieland, particularly the merry-go-round and the cars. She is also fond of lying and saying that she does, with some regularity, ride the roller coaster. She's way too short to get her rump on that ride, but that doesn't stop the fantasies from rolling around the track.

I am told the party was fun and all the kids whooped it up on the rides. I don't have any direct evidence of this because I was sitting in the picnic shelter nursing an orange Gatorade (thanks to Kate for the superb drink suggestion) and guarding the MIMI CAKE.

Chebbles' Auntie H. had stayed up until the wee hours the night before applying icing to an exquisite panda cake that was unveiled at the birthday party. There was not one kid there who didn't want to stick their finger in what Chebbles called the MIMI CAKE.

We also bought a sheet cake, knowing that the MIMI CAKE wouldn't feed our Cast of Ben Hur, but when it came time to cut the cakes, the knife hovered briefly over the MIMI CAKE and we... couldn't do it. It's so cute! Auntie H. painted adorable little claws on his lower feet which made it nearly impossible to eat. It's an endangered species for cripes sake!

So we took it home at the end of the day and our family is enjoying it. Thank goodness it wasn't red velvet cake or something, because the cutting would just be too much...

And the beat goes on

Here I am at 16 and a half weeks, and we still have a heartbeat. I feel almost as if I've willed this child into existence, and if I were to stop concentrating 24/7 on its survival, then surely we would lose it.

My exceedingly cooperative doctor humored me yet again today, first by saying, "It's great to see you! How have you been?" like I was a long-lost friend, despite the fact I was there just a week ago. Then he whipped out the Doppler and let me hear that bump-bumping from my lower belly, which I had been convinced would be nonexistent, partially because I haven't felt a good, hard kick. THEN, upon my instructions, he reiterated for me how RARE it is to lose a baby from this point onward. It's "VERY RARE" he said.

I told Dr. W. that in my little community, there is so much pregnancy loss that I lose my perspective, and I start thinking that everyone miscarries or experiences fetal loss all the damn time. He said, "Well, think about it this way -- if you know SO MANY women who have lost babies, then the odds are that YOU will have a perfectly normal pregnancy."

I recognize, in a distant, dismissive way, that it's not a logical statement -- but I'll take it. I'll take any odds or hopes or utterances of the words, "VERY RARE."

"You went overdue with Chebbles," he said, "So you'll go overdue with this one, and we'll be having a conversation about when to induce you."

Oh no we WON'T, Dr. W. I could just see him lining up the Pitocin drip in his mind...

If say, I DO take this baby to term, my instinct is to let the baby dictate when it's time to come out. That's what I did with The Chebs -- she was 10 days late and I was able to birth her naturally because I wasn't induced. She was so rosy-cheeked and ready for action that I'm inclined to repeat that process.

BUT I do struggle with a lingering feeling of corporal inadequacy. My body has been sneaking around killing embryos, so can I really trust it -- placenta and all -- to go past 40 weeks? I have a much stronger desire than I did last time to have the baby OUT of my body, because I distrust the environment in there.

But this is all speculation -- I've got at least 23.5 weeks to ponder these issues. In the meantime, I'm going to lie down and dream about chicken mole from Trader Joe's.

PS: I have now gained 10 pounds since the beginning of this pregnancy, three in the last week alone. Hi-ho weight gain! With Chebbles I gained 50 pounds, so yeah, anyway, mole...

Presents for the princess

Chebbles got some great presents for her 2nd birthday yesterday. The cool part is how well people have come to know the kid -- sparkly purses, finger paints and princess gear (such as pink rain boots) -- it's marvelous to know how much other folks have been paying attention to the druthers of La Cheb.

Other happenings of note:

* Chebbles' new dollhouse goes ignored, still in its bubble wrap, while the BOX it came in is a source of infinite fascination for Z. and Cheb.

* I read Chebs part of this article about Leona Helmsley's dog, the one who inherited $12 million. I told her that no one was allowed to call the dog "the dog" but rather they had to say, "the princess." Chebbles has really latched onto this concept. "I am PRINCESS," she declares at the oddest moments. She'll be sitting there, drinking a cup of milk in her fruit PJ's, and say, "I am PRINCESS." (Lest we think she is the dog?)

* She just came running in to my mother and said, "Grandma! I have an idea for you!" Grandma was all ears, but apparently there was no follow-up. We're aching to know what the idea might have been. (Based on past "ideas," it probably involved taking off her diaper and running around the backyard looking for dead woodland creatures and dried-up corncobs.)

* She starts school again tomorrow -- same school, new classroom, new class level. I asked her, as she was cuddling on my lap before bed, if she was looking forward to making new friends. She squeezed my hand and said, "yes." Good girl. I would have said, "no."

* My mom and I just watched "Parenthood" with Steve Martin. It's certainly funny and poignant, but it's not for anyone with fertility problems. There is no one that doesn't get pregnant in that movie. There ought to be a sequel chock full of pregnancy loss and infertility, just to even the score.

I must head to bed. As The Princess rises with the sun, so must we all.

Don't Say "The Word"

We have a law in this house regarding the word "cookie."

Specifically, if anyone utters The Word ("cookie") they get tickled. There is no leniency. There is no amnesty. Anyone who should, in the presence of Hub-D, me and/or Chebbles, say "cookie" SHALL be tickled.

I don't know how it got started. I think I just got tired of Chebbles talking about freakin' cookies 24/7, so I made it up on the fly: "You say that word one more time, and you will be tickled."

And she did say it, so she DID incur the wrath of the tickle monster. And ever since then, the law regarding The Word has been in place.

I used to be able to trick her into saying it all the time. I'd hold up a cookie and ask her what it was, then I'd have to enact the punishment (consistency is KEY with toddlers, I hear). Or I could start a sentence, "I'd really like a chocolate chip..." -- then she'd finish the sentence, and I'd GET HER!

But now she's really tricky. I don't think I've heard her say it for at least a week. Now she's in the business of GIVING OUT THE PAIN of the "cookie"-related punishments. She's turned the tables in many ways.

A few days ago, Grandma was reading an alphabet flap-book to Chebbles, and BEHOLD, under the letter "C" was a ... you know what. She opened the flap and turned to Chebbles and said, "Now what is THAT?"

Not missing a beat, Chebbles said, "Grandma says that one." And Grandma fell right into the trap.

It must be noted how sweet and pleasurable it is to be tickled by a toddler. She makes all these light movements with her little fingers, over your arm or leg -- it's enough to make a us say "cookie" for no good reason!

We also have gotten into something of a logic quandary -- when we're tickling Chebbles, just out of the blue, she gets mad about it. "But I didn't say The Word!" she'll protest as she squirms out of the way. How do I explain that some tickling is directly related to saying "cookie" and some of it is senseless in origin?

Anyway, you've been duly warned. I feel like I should be tickled just for typing The Word in this post. Let's all hope that Hub-D, Chebbles and/or anyone else we've indoctrinated into our Law of The Word doesn't read this!