Sam Speaks.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
That Disney movie, The Country Bears? In Sam language, they are the Crunchy Bears.

That animated movie about the horse named Spirit? To Sam, his name is Spearmint.

Last night he found a map of Los Angeles and pored over it for a good half-hour. (Which charms me, because I am the same way about maps.) I showed him where the Tar Pits are, which impressed him. But in the final analysis? "I want to go Wild Animal Park. I don't want to go Hollywood."

Okay, son. Wild Animal Park it is.

The Crying Game.
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Matt
Just when you think you've seen it all as a parent, when you're telling yourself This is my third kid and I have been there, done that, and seen it all, one of them throws you a complete curveball, and you are floundering around like a bewildered first-time parent, wondering what to do. Matty threw me such a curve last night.

I was waiting at home when Ben brought them home from daycare, and we followed our familiar ritual. Ben pulls up out front and honks the horn. I, who am waiting inside, rush outside and crow "Boys! Boys! Boys!" at my two little darlings, who are beaming at me from their carseats. And then Ben takes Sam and I take Matthew, and we go inside together.

Last night, Matt was fussy, and Ben mentioned that he'd been crying a bit on the way home. None of this is like Matt. He is a sunshiny little guy with two big dimples which are always on display. So, okay, he's cranky tonight. He's cutting some new teeth, and that must have him down.

In the house, the situation steadily worsened. Matt cried and cried. I tried to nurse him, but he kept turning away and starting to cry. Ben made him a bottle. He took two sucks and then started crying again. We walked him around. We rocked him. We gave him Motrin. We gave him Orajel. Nothing was working. This sort of behavior is fairly common in colicky newborns, but in a fifteen-month-old, it's Just Plain Wrong.

After about an hour of trying all our tricks while Matt screamed steadily, I told Ben "This baby is in pain. We need to take him to the hospital." Ben agreed, so we started to get ready. I was starving, so insisted on heating up some leftovers so I could gobble something down before what would inevitably be a long evening at the emergency room. Ben carried Matt, still screaming, off into the living room while I ate leftover lasagna standing up at the kitchen island. But what was this? Matt had stopped screaming.

I came into the living room and found Ben and Matt sitting on the floor together. Matt was sniveling a bit, but the crying had stopped. "What did you do?" I asked Ben.

"I took his shoes off," he said.

It transpired that Matt had lost a shoe just before leaving daycare, so a teenage boy, a friend of the family we've known since he was a toddler, helpfully put it back on for him. Now you may or may not know a lot about shoeing a toddler, but it's delicate work. There is often some sort of seam on the sock bugging their toes, or something is out of place, and you have never heard anyone complain so loudly as a toddler with shoe and sock issues. If you are fifteen months old and a guy of few words, as Matt is, there is no help for it but to scream bloody murder until someone fixes your shoe.

So we almost went to the emergency room for a shoe that was rubbing his foot. Thank God we didn't actually go there -- I shudder to think what they would have put him through before someone took his shoes off.

Who Taught Him That?
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
The worst thing about having toddlers is that you have to watch your mouth. Seriously. Not only that, but you have to watch other people's mouths, including people in movies and on television, because precisely the thing that you're hoping they will not notice anyone said? Will become permanently stuck in their minds, and they will repeat it again and again and again. In front of people's grandmothers.

I can remember the precise date we got our first indication of this (because it was the day we bought my minivan, and Pearl Harbor Day besides). It was December 7, 2002, and Sam was 17 months old. We were pulling up outside the Chrysler dealership and being driven completely insane by the very bad driver in front of us, and the two of us were using the "F" word an uncommon amount. When abruptly we stopped and stared at each other, because we had suddenly noticed the small voice piping up from the back seat: "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." It took us the better part of two days to get him to stop saying it.

Some of the songs I sing to the kids are suspect, too. There's one I always sing to Matt while changing his diaper, because Matt is a guy, and the minute his diaper comes off, he reaches for his privates and grasps them in that unmistakably male way. So I sing:

Yay, it's your package
Hooray, it's your package
Okay, it's your package
Hey hey, it's your package

And so on. You get it. Which was all very innocent and fun until I noticed that Sam was singing along. Nice. Next thing I know, he will go off to day care singing about his package.

Another diaper changing song which Sam has picked up is:

Oh, naked baby,
You're the one for me.
[Repeat ad infinitum]

Nice, huh? I don't know what it is about changing diapers that makes me break into song, but here is one that Sam has, thankfully, not picked up on:

Good morning, Mr. Baby
We're very glad you're here
So grow up big and strong
And don't suck shlongs or be a queer.

That's their father's invention. When I protested, he said "But that's good advice!" And I guess I'm inclined to agree with him.

And honestly, it's not just the songs. You really have to seriously watch it, because the most spontaneous of conversations will be repeated, too. Our family is all into Harry Potter, and Ben, Erika and I were discussing the publicity stills from the new movie, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and the big news that suddenly Hermione has boobs. So we were marveling at this. Hermione with boobs! Sam let it pass. At first.

Much later in the day, he was for some reason reciting a list of the things that were big, important and good in his mind at the time. Toddlers do stuff like that. They're charming that way. And the list sounded something like this: "Harry Potter. Dinosaurs. Vanilla milkshake. Cheetos. Hermione with boobs." And we looked at each other and said Shit! He totally picked up on that!

And the problem will persist, because Ben and I are about eleven years old at heart, and can't resist giggling over dick jokes. So I guess we will just have to get used to hearing our pithier comments repeated back at us. And the day care people will just have to get used to Sam telling them "How about no, you crazy Dutch bastard?"

Dawn Patrol.
Mood:  happy
If April is the cruelest month, then six a.m. is the cruelest hour. Six a.m.: I hate you. Four or five a.m., if I happen to be awake at one of those times, are not so bad, because I can snuggle fiercely down and think At least I can still go back to sleep for a while. On weekdays, though, six a.m. is the moment of truth. I'm actually a morning person, and by seven a.m. I am fairly happy and chipper about the whole thing. But at six, all I can do is stumble to the bathroom and squint into the mirror while my entire mind and body are wailing No no no no no no no no no.

What makes it even harder is our sleeping arrangement. My husband and I share a king-sized bed with our two young sons. Some call this practice "cosleeping" or "the family bed", but I call it "If you think I'm getting up and walking down the hall fifty times a night because one of these kids wants a drink or a hug or a dose of Motrin, you've got another think coming."

My sleeping partner is Matthew, whom I'm still nursing, and what a sleeping partner he is. Cuddly? Forget about it. We spend most of the night lying on our sides, belly to belly, me with a hand scooped around his adorable little butt, and him with a boobie in his mouth. My husband assures me that every man on earth would like to sleep that way with someone, night after night, if only they could find a woman willing to let them get away with it.

Matt likes dawn patrol for nursing, so usually I am awakened not by an alarm clock, but by a small warm mouth rooting around on me. So I shut off the alarm so it won't cruelly interrupt us, scoop my hand around that precious little butt, and nurse away in the dawn light. Gradually he drifts back off to sleep, and the numbers on the clock march inexorably around to the dreaded six a.m., and it's time to tear myself away.

And I do mean tear, because as I slide away from Matt, his mouth comes off my boobie with an audible pop, and I get on my feet to yawn and stretch and wish desperately for Saturday, leaving warm little Matt in the bed.

And it's much later in the morning, and I've had my cup of caffeine-rich Lifeboat Tea (love you, Royal Navy!), and I'm resigned to another workday, but a part of my mind keeps turning back to my warm bed and my sweet nursling. Love ya, honey. Always will.

I'm a Walking Baby, And That's Crazy, 'Cause Babies Can't Walk.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
(By the way, that is one of Matt's favorite games: You hold him up in the air and waggle him from side to side, saying "I'm a talking baby. And that's crazy! 'Cause babies can't talk. TALKING BABY!!!" He loves that. Goes nuts for it.)

So he is walking now. Just learned. In the space of about two weeks, we have gone from the first two tentative steps to trucking all over the downstairs. And then last night, a new skill: Walking all over the place with a toy in each hand, and -- this is the really tricky part -- dropping one, bending down to pick it up, and continuing on his way without falling on his ass in the process.

This walking thing was long in coming, since Matt is 15 months old today (happy one and a quarter, little buddy!). At times it seemed I would have to carry him into kindergarten. But now that he's a walking dude, it's a little bittersweet. And again I start thinking about having another baby (who will grow into Matt's $40 shoes, right). This is preposterous. I feel like that wretched woman in Raising Arizona: "Dot wants to have another baby, because she says these is gettin' too big to cuddle." Please God, save me from being that woman.

Turning to the Samness of things, he has become a prime wheedler. I have been trying to teach him manners, although Sam being male, I will be lucky if I am able to teach him not to actually go to the bathroom on the rug. But I am making an effort. And when he asks for something, I say "And how do we ask nicely?" And he says "Pwease!"

Now that he's got the hang of asking nicely, though, he has turned it into an art form. When he really wants something, his request is followed by "Pweeeeeeeeease?" accompanied by a huge, radiant smile. The more heartfelt the request, the more Es in "Pweeeeeeeeeeeeeeease" and the more radiant the smile. Little manipulator. I'm a total sucker for it, and would probably buy him a Harley-Davidson if the "Pweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease" was long enough and the smile radiant enough.

I Love L.A.
Mood:  happy
There are a lot of things I don't love about L.A. I'm an Orange County girl through and through, and if you broach the subject of our larger, smellier neighbor to the north, I'm inclined to sniff, "I don't do L.A. County." There are reasons I live in this Republican hotbed I call home. Better services, cleaner air, less traffic, and a distinct lack of slum housing being among them.

But on Saturday last, I spent the entire day in L.A. -- and liked it. Because we explored two, in my opinion, of the coolest things L.A. has to offer.

Our first stop was the La Brea Tar Pits. There's something mystical about the place that you just have to see. For one thing, it's embedded in a busy stretch of Wilshire Boulevard, and just the uncanny placement makes it cool by definition. If you're not familiar with the Tar Pits, a little background can be found here.

Anyway, I adore the Tar Pits. I like the little museum, but mostly I love Hancock Park, with the lake where you can see tar bubbling up from deep below, and the sculptures of mammoths and sabre-toothed cats. So cool. It's one of those places that just its very existence is like a valentine for the soul. And Sam was very pleased and impressed, and I enjoy pleasing and impressing him.

After that, we headed through L.A. and up to Hollywood. I have an unreasonably intense, touristy love of the Hollywood sign. However, since I don't do L.A. County, I seldom get to see it. My patient husband, who doesn't question my more insane tastes, drove around so I got to see the Hollywood sign at several choice angles, then he drove up through the hills to where I could look at it from directly underneath it. We looked like a pack of fool tourists for sure, parked in a cul-de-sac gawping up at the Hollywood sign while some locals, standing in their front yard, squinted at our license plates and wondered why they didn't say Nebraska or something.

So, those cool things: the La Brea Tar Pits and the Hollywood sign. And palm trees. I still love palm trees. I've lived in Southern California for almost 20 years now, but in my heart of hearts I am still a tourist fool.

Stride-Rite: Bite Me.
Mood:  happy
This weekend we had Shoe Shopping Time, and my butt is still hurting, figuratively speaking. Stride-Rite? Can bite me. We are talking about two tiny boys here. Matt is not even fifteen months old, and his shoes in particular are the size of molecules. So how come they cost forty bucks, people? That's about ten bucks per inch. People pay less than that for hashish. (Or at least they used to do. But that's another entry. And best left unsaid, lest I run for office someday and have to claim I didn't inhale. Editor's knote: For hubris, Bill Clinton is my favorite guy on earth.)

My wisdom, when we started this enterprise, was that everything Sam grew out of, Matt could later wear. They have been thwarting me pretty roundly on that. Sam is a really big guy, Matt more average sized, so the simple truth is that Sam never even had shoes in the size Matt is wearing now, because he was a tiny baby and did not walk. So Matt is enjoying brand-new forty-dollar shoes, and I'm half tempted to spawn another sibling just to make it seem worthwhile. And how crazy is that? Having additional babies just so the expensive shoes will have someone to grow into them?

Meanwhile, last night we got our first solid indication that we have, in producing two boys 18 months apart, made a terrible mistake. The two of them were up on the hearth by the fireplace, pulling the chain that makes the little screen go across. Ben and I told them to stop, and the two of them, not budging and still pulling, commenced to cackle at us. Simultaneously, in stereo, looking very much alike. Now there is a scene I expect to see a lot of in the next eighteen years.

So I'm a blogger now.
Mood:  happy
Over the past few months, I've slipped into a pattern of following various blogs. This is a pastime unknown to most of my Internet friends, most of whom are mommies. But lately I have discovered several mommy blogs, Dooce chief among them. So mommies are writing blogs. Who knew?

I actually don't find my own life all that interesting. It wasn't always this way. In my teens and twenties I thought my life was the most interesting thing alive, people! I wrote and wrote and wrote. In those pre-computer days, this meant a manual typewriter and reams and reams of paper. I found my own journal so interesting, I once packed it up and submitted it as literature to my creative writing class. The professor was, understandably, bewildered.

These days, though, I'm bored by myself. But the tiniest thing my toddlers do is of overwhelming interest to me. So, I'll write about them. They rock my world.

I'll leave you with a glimpse into Sam's psyche. Sam is 33 months old. A couple of Saturdays ago he spoke up and said "I was thinking . . . " This was new. He had never told me what he was thinking before. "What were you thinking?" I asked him, eager to learn what went on in my son's mind. And he said "I was thinking . . . hmm hmmm, hmm hmmm." The "hmm hmms" were accompanied by a happy bobbing of his head from side to side.

So, this is what my son thinks. Here are people worrying and obsessing and fretting and fussing over a world of grownup concerns. But my sunny son? He is thinking "hmm hmmm, hmm hmmm." If more people were thinking that, the world couldn't help but be a better place.