The Academy Would Like To Thank.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: The Tao of Ben
The Academy would like to thank my husband for a brilliant performance, a truly disarming acceptance speech, and for being such a good sport about the fact that the slow smouldering passion of our courtship has given way to "Hey, we could boink" delivered in a conspiratorial whisper while watching the Oscar wrap-up after the boys are asleep.

Ben Crumpacker, you of the prodigiously prolific semen: Take a bow.

Turning Japanese, Redux.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Pregnancy
Who knew maternity clothes could be fun? Japanese Weekend is presently having a fantastic sale, and my husband is awesome, and I am now the proud owner of a stunningly hip maternity wardrobe. If you're knocked up and have a bit of money to blow, I highly recommend their stuff. Check these out (except you have to picture a human, older, less maddeningly svelte body inhabiting these clothes):









Thank you, Ben Crumpacker and Japanese Weekend. I now feel less like a dirigible and more like a girl.

Womb With A View.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Sam has been chatting quite knowledgeably about the baby in my belly. The other day he told me, "I want to go back in your belly."

I told him "Sam, you wouldn't like it in there anymore. It's boring in there. There aren't any toys in there. There's no TV. There are no DVDs."

He replied "Yes, there are! There are toys and TV and DVDs and remotes."

I told him "If there were, then you and Matt would never have come out of there. You'd still be in there."

If there were, their father probably would have found a way to get in there with them by now.

Hate To See Him Have To Go.
Mood:  sad
Topic: Miscellany
Let's have a moment of silence for Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, who took his own life on Sunday, February 20, 2005. I don't know what made him have to leave life -- probably no one but him will ever know, but I do hate to see him go. His book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was one of the most noteworthy among a number of literary eye-openers I discovered in my first year at the University of Delaware. Say what you will about wretched excess; the guy was a hell of a world-class journalist. Godspeed, Dr. Gonzo.

Soul, Mate.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: The Tao of Ben
To borrow a word from my friend AB, there are about a frillion reasons why Ben is absolutely the guy for me. These reasons crop up every day, usually in very routine aspects of day-to-day life. Which, as I've said before, is exactly where love's true colors are found.

Yesterday I found myself coming down with just a real ornery sort of coughing, congested headachey cold/flu type of thing. Just butt ugly. It was the start of a three-day weekend, so my office closd early, and I went straight to bed with a mug of tea, a bottle of cough syrup and the remote control. Ben offered to pick up the boys so I could rest.

So I took to bed, and the whole family wound up congregated up there, and we watched TV, and I blew my nose and swigged cough syrup, and eventually everyone wound up falling asleep.

And so it was that I found myself up all alone at 2:30 a.m., sniffling, coughing and suddenly realizing that I must have chugged too much cough syrup. It was Robitussin; Dr. Sears said the active ingredient was okay during pregnancy; I hadn't thought much about it. But cough syrup? If you overdo it? Can affect you sort of strangely. What I'm saying is it gets sort of hallucinogenic.

So here I am, essentially tripping on cough syrup all alone in the dead of night. And I'm thinking well, this is a buzz I would have paid good money for 25 years ago, but now it really is kind of a pain in the ass, and here I am sick besides. And then Ben woke up.

I told him what was wrong, and he hugged me and told me I was goofy. And do you know what he did? He hunkered down and kept me company. With our two sons snoozing away in bed beside us, we cuddled up on the bed, whispering and talking in the dark, and flipped through all 400 channels in our premium digital cable lineup before deciding to chuck all that and put in the VHS of Things To Come (1936), an Art Deco science fiction glimpse into the future. Is there anything so cool as the vintage future?

After a couple of hours of watching that, holding hands and saying "cooool" a lot, we heard a thunderstorm approaching outside. Which might not be much to you, but in Southern California, they're remarkable events -- you might see one in a ten-year period, maybe not. So we opened the blinds and sat there listening to the thunder and watching the lightning together at 5 a.m. And then we went back to bed. It was the most time alone we've had together in a very long time, completely not romantic or planned or even very interesting. But oh my God, so friendly and comforting and cozy.

How cool is to be married to your best friend? Who else will sit up with you and keep you company on your stupid cough syrup trip and watch '30s movies with you in the dead of night and hold your hand and giggle with you and think lightning is as cool as you do? I never have to explain or defend or excuse or pretend with Ben. He just inhabits this life with me, day in and day out, there when I need him, no questions asked. Oh my dear goodness, so lucky am I.

Kiss My Aspirations.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Pregnancy
Last night on the phone, Ben finally delivered the news to his mother than I am pregnant. It was way overdue, what with my belly being the size of the Midwest and all. It wasn't like we were going to sneak it past her.

Her reaction? She laughed, he said. But a nice laugh. Not a Dr. Evil laugh or a Boris and Natasha laugh; just a laugh. I see her point. A woman my age finding herself accidentally knocked up borders on science fiction; it's definitely within the realm of comedy.

She also mentioned that with three small children, it would be difficult for me to work. I don't know about that; with three small children, it seems it would be far more difficult for me to stay home, especially since people would then expect me to accomplish things like housework and cooking. Talk about comedy.

It's true that at a certain point, some working mothers do not earn enough to financially justify the cost of the day care required to allow them to work. Me, I'm a paralegal. That is not an impressive thing to be, especially in light of all the Mensa and 99th percentile and starting college at 16 horseshit; people were throwing about phrases like brain surgeon and nuclear physicist. You might say I'm a bit of an underachiever.

But not enough of one! The fact is that I make a respectable amount of money, enough that even with the cost of gas and lunch and day care, the salary and benefits I bring in are more than enough to justify remaining in the work force. And do you know what that means?

It means that I am even a failure at being an underachiever. That is pretty funny, but I'm okay with it. My kids think I'm awesome.

Every Baby Has His Buellton.
Mood:  smelly
Topic: Poop
Just as every Napoleon must have his Waterloo, every baby must have his Buellton. Today, Matt had his.

You are right now scratching your head and thinking WTF?? so let me lay a foundation. Buellton, for Ben and me, is marital shorthand for A science fiction poop event which we must breathe in and clean up. The term originated, of course, with Sam.

When Sam was a nursing infant, I had pneumonia and took a course of antibiotics. The result, in Sam, was a nasty and very fragrant bout of diarrhea, which happened to coincide with a wine tasting trip through the Santa Ynez Valley, north of Santa Barbara, where Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch is located, the region featured in the movie Sideways. Our hotel was in Buellton.

It was there, at breakfast in the hotel restaurant, that Sam produced the most horrifying bowel movement ever witnessed. The stench radiated a full 25 feet from our table in all directions. The mess, when I carried him to our room and unzipped his jammies, spanned from his knees to his chest. Our room required two hours of airing out in the January chill before we could stand to breathe in there. This was Buellton: the Armageddon of poop. Since then, when confronted with a particularly odious diaper, it's gone like this: "Was it bad?" "Well, yeah, but you know, not Buellton bad."

That was three years ago. Today, Matt had his Buellton.

We were home alone, and I was at the computer and Matt was watching his Blue's Clues DVD and happily shouting along, when I came over to him for something or other and immediately got the poop waft. "Okay kid," I told him. "Poop in the pants. Let's go."

I unhooked the baby gate and let Matt scamper up the stairs ahead of me. He had taken his shirt off, as usual, and it was then that I saw the poop smears crawling up his back from inside his diaper. This was going to be a really bad one. But there was no one around to complain to, so at the top of the stairs I grabbed him carefully around the waist, scooped up a towel, and spread it out across the foot of my bed so I could confront the mess.

I honestly wasn't prepared for what happened when I laid him on the towel. A turd approximately the size of a tennis ball rolled out of his pant leg onto the towel. It wasn't the shape of a tennis ball, but somewhat elongated, which is probably a good thing because otherwise it probably would have injured the kid, coming out. It was solid. It was fragrant. And it weighed a couple of pounds. I'm not kidding.

My guess is that he hadn't pooped all week. That can happen when a kid is in day care: You figure he's been doing it there, they figure he's been doing it at home. The mess inside Matt's trousers was another chest-to-knees extravaganza, and the cannonball that rolled out of his pants was, I'm figuring, the clogging point. Which he finally blasted through, to spectacular effect.

I had to laugh as I cleaned it up, in between bouts of gagging. Matt periodically offered an I'm sorry, but I told him not to worry about it. As poops go, he'd just produced the December 26 tsunami; imagine trying to apologize for that. You just wouldn't know where to begin, and who can stop a force of nature anyway?

There's a whole lot of stuff they don't tell you about parenthood, that you have to find out for yourself. And God help you the day you find yourself in Buellton.

Scary Belly.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Pregnancy
This week, my belly, as they say, popped. You would think, this being my fourth kid, I'd be used to it by now. But it took me by surprise, just as it has every other time.

The scale tells me I have only gained five pounds. The pregnancy books tell me the baby is roughly the size of an action figure right now -- not those little tiny Star Wars Galactic Heroes guys, not the great big Hagrid from Harry Potter either -- I'm thinking this kid is probably about He-Man sized. So, six inches or so. Why, then, is my belly abruptly the size of a Mini Cooper? Where'd the rest of it come from? (And don't say Twizzlers, because if you do, I will clout you with a licorice rope.)

Last Monday I was running around in my Ralph Lauren size fours. This week I am firmly in maternity clothes. So fast it gets away from you. Worse, we're meant to see my mother-in-law this weekend, and Ben still hasn't told her I'm pregnant. I think she's about to find out. This belly enters the room a full ten seconds before I do.

So, pregnant. Visibly, for all the world to see. Sam sized up my belly the other night and said "It's too crowded in there!" Kid, just wait. By my seventh month, the Zoning Department is going to want to get involved. And I think I've seen my girl parts for the last time until autumn or so. But that's okay. They always seem to get me in trouble.

Sam's Advice.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Every morning when I drop the boys off at day care, Sam walks me to the door to tell me goodbye. It's a long, elaborate ritual punctuated with hugs and kisses and standard recitals. "Bye mom! Have a good day at work! Be careful! See you later!"

This morning, he had a final admonition for me before closing the door: "Don't blow up the car!"

Well, honey, I'll try to avoid that. But I am definitely putting my foot down with your father about all those James Bond movies he's been watching.

Tiramisu Report.
Mood:  hungry
Topic: Pregnancy
It's actually quite good at Romano's, although it wants a bit more liqueur. Ben gave it an A- or B+. I say solid B.

Interesting Super Bowl today, although the fact that a Beatle to perform in the halftime show is considered the safe choice, with absolutely no edge whatsoever, is proof positive that we Baby Boomers have absolutely turned into our parents.

Why I'm Glad I Quit Weight Watchers.
Mood:  cool
Topic: Pregnancy
I quit Weight Watchers upon finding out I was pregnant. This is the online version of Weight Watchers, mind you; can you imagine me going to meetings? I certainly can't. What I said was The last thing I need is to go hang around with a bunch of fatties. Which is not to say that I'm not, or haven't been, a fatty myself from time to time; just that people who look like cows oughtn't to go hanging about in herds. It invites unflattering comparisons.

The reason, at this very moment, why I am glad I quit Weight Watchers is this: I had tiramisu from Maggiano's this afternoon. That shit is heavenly, and I only allow myself to eat it when I am pregnant, so I haven't had it for over two years. But I caught myself thinking, afterward: I wonder how many points that was?

In case you're among the uninitiated, Weight Watchers uses a system of points derived from portion size and calorie and fat content. To give you an idea, a McDonald's cheeseburger has, if I'm not mistaken, more points than you're meant to have in an entire day. The last thing a pregnant girl wants to do is verify that the thing she just ate is worth 80 points, or about 5 days' worth of calories. And if she's terminated her Weight Watchers account? She can't.

When it comes to tiramisu, ignorance truly is bliss. So is pregnancy.

Random Thoughts.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Rants
I am, at the moment, desperately procrastinating on a huge writing project that needs to go out the door this week. Do you think that if I ignore it long enough, it will just go away? Neither do I. But in avoiding this project, I am ruminating upon the following:

(1) Tomorrow is my ob/gyn appointment, and the only reason why I am not eating absolutely everything in sight right now is because I do not want to step on the scale and be informed that I have gained 80 pounds in the past four weeks. According to my home scale this morning, I have in fact gained four pounds, but who knows? That preggo scale reads funny. If I don't eat too much and go to the bathroom as much as possible, maybe the doc won't tell me that I have gained as much weight, at 12 weeks, as I'm meant to gain in the entire pregnancy.

(2) The level of the e-mail spam I am receiving is sinking to new lows and is, I think, consciously designed to make me physically ill. I've been irritated for some time now with Impress your girl with a huge cumshot, which was admittedly something of an improvement over Does your cum just dribble out when you wish it had squirted? But today's offering just took the biscuit: Pill to improve cum flavour and volume. The ideas that someone produces these e-mails, and that someone -- anyone -- may actually read them, stagger the imagination. You need to be wary, and I mean really seriously wary, of anyone who would actually use the word cum. Or, for that matter, worry about its flavour.

(3) Tomorrow is Groundhog Day, so beware of furry rodents and Sonny & Cher. Actually, that is probably good advice for any day.

Michael Jackson.
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: Sam
Sam came home from day care one day, a few weeks back, talking about Michael Jackson. I asked him a bit about it, because I wondered how he had heard of him, and also because I was curious what sort of impression a creature such as Michael Jackson might make upon my skeptical three-year-old son.

Some of Sam's observations:

"She has an umbrella."
"Is she a skeleton?"
"She's scary for kids."

I told him that actually Michael Jackson is meant to be a boy, but he told me "No. She's a girl."

At bedtimes, we put CNN on TV with the sound turned down, the theory being that guys in suits droning on about Iraq are enough to put anyone to sleep. Last night, the trial having started, the guys in suits were interspersed with photos of Michael Jackson. "That's a girl," I heard Sam murmur sleepily.

I hope it didn't give him nightmares.

Making Him Company.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
When Sam wants one of us to come out to the living room and sit with him while he plays, instead of puttering around in the kitchen or garage as we tend to do, he sticks his head through the door and says Come in here and make me company! Apparently, Matt is not enough to make him company; someone more substantial is required.

Last night, at one point he announced that his peepee wanted to make him company. I asked if he needed to pee, and it turned out that he did. So Daddy accompanied him to the potty. It turns out that his peepee, apparently, makes him company when he uses it to pee.

Afterward, it seemed that things weren't lying properly in his Pull-Up, which he detests. Sam is very particular about his peepee alignment and positioning. "My peepee won't make me company!" he complained, annoyed. "Do you need to fix it?" I asked, and held his waistband away while he adjusted himself. Whereupon he and his peepee were just fine.

I'm glad Sam and his peepee are developing a rapport. After all, there are times when a guy's peepee is the only one on earth who will make him company. And that holds true for his whole life.

He's The Damn Paterfamilias!
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: The Tao of Ben
Tomorrow is Ben's and my fifth wedding anniversary. Ben is not the sort of guy who is interested in hearts and flowers and lyrical pronouncements of love; he is a pragmatic, no-nonsense, salt-of-the earth kind of guy. He is amazing and I cannot describe him, although these phrases spring to mind: A Mensa member with a penchant for doo-doo jokes. A Renaissance Man with a whoopee cushion.

He is also a fantastically low-key husband. Low-key all around; he doesn't make a lot of demands, nor does he make showy displays of love. What he does do is show up every single day, cooking food, reading stories, taking out the garbage, wiping bottoms, laughing, making wisecracks, hugging me when I feel fat, giving me breaks when I feel tired, and being just generally all-around present in the household, with the boys and at my side. For that, you can keep the dozen roses and boxes of chocolate. Roses won't rock the babies to sleep. Chocolates won't make me giggle when I'm sad and weary.

So raise a glass to my husband, and thank God or whomever that there are men like him in the world. He's the why and the wherefore, the center of my life, the father of my kids, my one true love. Love you bunches, honey. I never could have guessed, as a little girl, that when my knight in shining armor finally showed up, he'd have a handful of fake dog doo and a gag arrow through his head. And I'm not complaining a bit. He's bona fide!

Wintry Spring, Or Spring-Y Winter.
Mood:  irritated
Topic: Rants
I would like to point out that all over Orange County, the flowering trees are in bloom. I'm not certain what sort of trees they are, because in Southern California all the trees are strange and not at all like the trees back home. Back home, we had sensible, normal trees like oaks and maples. The trees here make absolutely no sense and I have refused to become too well acquainted with them.

People! Today is January 25, and the flowering trees have been in full bloom for over a week. I have always said that in Southern California, fall starts at Halloween and spring comes at the end of January, but apparently I was wrong. Spring starts in mid-January and summer follows approximately five minutes later. This is not the sort of place where a girl who savors fall, adores winter, resents spring and openly dislikes summer should be living.

Today it is sort of grey and cloudy and cool, and rain is predicted for tomorrow. Those of you who have just been through bitter cold and copious snow are probably cursing me right now and thinking Oh, so you like winter? Try coming and digging your car out where it's been plowed in, or having your pipes and the locks on your car doors freeze, and see how you like it then, smart guy. Okay, point taken. But can't I have just a little bit of winter? A snow flurry or two? A reason to purchase gloves? And a lack of flowering trees in January?

Product Lines I Love Despite Their Intense Bullshit.
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Rants
It occurred to me recently that two of my most favorite product lines on earth have completely hokey premises and are encased in packaging, or promoted by propoganda, which are complete bullshit. I love them anyway. I'm talking about Philosophy skin care products and tea by The Republic of Tea.

The whole Philosophy thing is, of course, Piper's fault, since she originally turned me on to their White Chocolate Hazelnut shower gel. I have since succumbed to their entire skin care line, not to mention their Amazing Grace line of fragranced body products. The stuff is good quality and makes your skin nice, but the packaging is unbearably encrusted with pop-philosophical pronouncements (Philosophy, get it?). For example: amazing grace is the person who lives in a state of love, forgiveness, and total compassion. it is the person who is not afraid to be wrong and doesn't need to be right. it is the humble spirit who lets others shine and helps those who cannot find their light. it is the person who prays for others and not oneself. it is the person who has let their self out and the spirit in.

Forgive me, but when it is six a.m. and I am squinting at these words preparatory to scrubbing my body with perfumed goo, the words that spring to mind are, and I quote: WTF???????

The Republic of Tea is no better. Their tea is supernaturally awesome, so much so that when I recently ran out of Ginger Peach black tea, and I tried replacing it with some Twinings Peach black tea, which is some good quality stuff, the Twinings tasted like a cup of warm dog pee by comparison. Yet I don't want to like the Republic of Tea because, like Philosophy, they just take their whole concept too far. To give you an example, their website is now offering for sale a Zentrepreneur's Idea Log and Workbook,, to which I again reply: Huh? Please, don't spring this sort of stuff on me before I've had my first cup of tea. I mean, zentrepreneur. I ask you.

Can't a good product stand on its own anymore without a silly concept to sell it? Has consumerism really gone that far? Worse, these upscale products are selling themselves with angles clearly designed to appeal to a liberal, forward-thinking, spiritual type of target audience -- exactly the sort of people who, I don't believe, would like to think of themselves as consumeristic and advertising-motivated. It's a strange, inside-out sort of thing.

Fortunately for me, I refuse to think that hard unless I'm being paid for it. So back to the legal database with me, wherein I will ask and answer the question When a debtor has fradulently understated the value of an asset in his schedules, can he later amend his exemptions so as to retain a higher share in that asset after the inaccuracy is discovered?

Shit, perhaps I'd have been better off as a zentrepreneur. Whatever that is.

Sleep And Diet Tips For Pregnant Girls.
Mood:  hungry
Topic: Pregnancy
(1) Red licorice is neither an appropriate nor a nutritious breakfast.

(2) The fact that your 2-year-old has suddenly developed the annoying parallel habits of fighting sleep until 11 p.m. and waking up at 6 a.m. is not coincidence. It is a deliberate and malicious assault upon Mommy's much needed sleep because, although he doesn't yet realize there is a baby on the way, he nonetheless deeply resents the fact and will sabotage you in any way he can.

(3) Despite your deepest convictions, the baby does not want a large slice of that diabolical chocolate cake from Hof's Hut with the dark chocolate icing and the chocolate chips. I said no, she does not.

(4) Only an idiot would have an entire day off work, all by herself, with no children and no family around, and elect to go shopping instead of taking a very long nap. What the hell were you thinking? Shopping can happen anytime. Sleep can never happen enough.

(5) Those Costco teriyaki beef sticks with 10 grams of fat each do not really count as a protein source. Although there is probably some protein in them somewhere, a food that consists of 70% fat leaves little space for protein content.

(6) The fact that your sons have replaced their longstanding weekend habit of sleeping until 9 a.m. with a new weekend habit of getting up by 7 a.m. is also conspiracy and deliberate sabotage. Did Sam not tell you just last night that he would prefer a puppy to a baby brother or sister?

* * *

Which reminds me of one of my favorite jokes. A little boy and his father come upon two dogs mating. The little boy asks, "Daddy, what are they doing?" Daddy replies, "They're making puppies."

That night, the little boy accidentally walks in on his mother and father having sex. He takes one look at the situation and yells to his father, "Hey Dad, flip her over -- I want a puppy!"

* * *

Unfortunately, Ben forgot to flip me over.

Being There For Matt.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Matt
That kid is so attached to me. Most of the time it's flattering and delightful; but I have to remember how large I loom in Matt's world, and how a rejection from Mommy, however small, can hurt that dear little guy.

Yesterday he woke up while I was downstairs packing his bag for day care. I heard Erika call to him, "Are you looking for Mommy?" as he stood at the baby gate in the doorway. She offered to carry him downstairs to find Mommy, and I looked up to see a smile break across that little face like sunrise when he caught sight of me from the upstairs hall. She brought him down and handed him to me, and he wound those little arms around my neck, buried his face in my cheek, and stayed that way for a good five minutes.

I've received less enthusiastic greetings from friends who haven't seen me for years.

Later in the day, I was feeling less patient. Sam and Matt had been squabbling on and off for hours, and the two of them were snapping at my heels like a pack of surly dogs as I tried to work around the house. I darted out to the garage to fold a load of laundry, and sure enough, there came Matt, coming around as usual to unfold the clothes as fast as I could fold them and place them in the basket. "Honey, can't you please go inside and see your Daddy?" I said impatiently.

His little shoulders slumped. "Okay," he said, and trudged into the house. Oh, honey, I'm sorry!

God, help me cultivate more patience. With another kid on the way, I'm sure going to need it. And especially, help me never to forget that as busy and harassed and rushed as I might feel, I'm the sun in the sky of a certain little boy, and that's not only a big honor but a big responsibility. Help me shine bright for him.

Monstrous Sleepy.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Pregnancy
The bane of this pregnancy is not sick. The bane of this pregnancy is Monstrous Sleepy. It matters not one single bit what I do or don't have for lunch. or how monumentally boring my afternoon projects are or are not. Sometime between 1 p.m. and 3 p.m. the train pulls into Monstrous Sleepy, and it's a hell of a trick to keep from just slumping over unconscious on my keyboard for the remainder of the afternoon.

Caffeinated tea helps, but not enough. Of course, I am not so much meant to be having caffeine. Although I fail to see how something that fails to make me even marginally more awake could have the slightest effect on the fetus.

In fact, the only reason I am not asleep right now is because I am being kept awake by the need to pee. Again. Damn the first trimester. It always slips by in a sleepy haze of peeing and nausea. I guess that's why I forgot. I was too sick and too sleepy to notice.

The most beautiful sight in the world is the insides of my eyelids. Sleepy. Urmhrn.