Life Lessons.
Mood:  happy
Ben to Sam, overheard: "Some of the best things in life are plastic."

I'm not sure I want to know what "things" he might be talking about. Model airplanes? Boobies? It's frightening to speculate.

Oh, Sam.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Could I possibly love him any more? I don't think so. Sam has grown up so much lately, and has gotten out of most of the unpleasant toddler stuff, and is just such a joy. Here I sit at the office, mooning over him and missing him. So in love with my sweet kid!

Last night he was striding around the living room swinging his Harry Potter sword, and I told him "Sam, please don't swing that sword around and whap your brother in the head." He turned to me and said very seriously, "Are you mad at me?"

Shit no, honey. How could I be mad at you? Just calm down with that sword, now.

He pees in the potty. He makes his little brother laugh harder than anyone else can. He likes Howard Stern. He cuddles in my lap and tells me he loves me. He's smart, sensitive and insightful. And he has the most enchanting almond-shaped dark brown eyes. Ben and I made this creature ourselves? Sam is proof that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Weekend = Almost Over.
Mood:  happy
This is the rarest of all rarities: I am able to spend some time on the computer at home, instead of in stolen moments at the office. Thank you, Walt Disney and Alice in Wonderland. The boys are enthralled, and I have a sudden and unexpected period of freedom. Freedom! To, oh, I don't know, decide to roast a turkey when it is 93 degrees outside. Which is exactly what I'm doing. Foolhardy, I know. But we love turkey, and we have a strange and resistent attitude that dictates we cook a turkey not at obvious times like Thanksgiving or Christmas, but on days like today. Excuse me while I go drop an ice cube down my butt crack . . . okay. That's better.

It's Sunday and already wearing down toward late afternoon, and as usual I am left wondering where in hell the weekend went, and whether I can have it back. What the hell did we do all weekend? Not laundry, certainly. There are armies of it out there, as undone as it was on Friday night. Nor changing the oil in the minivan, which we were absolutely meant to do today. So where did the weekend go? Okay, to recap.

Saturday morning: Get up. Sam has Cocoa Puffs for breakfast, with rice milk, bleargh, because we are out of normal milk. Arrive in Laguna Hills too early and hit the 99 Cent Store. Ick, cubed. Go to Verizon store and trade in our Stone Age cellphones for ridiculously state-of-the-art ones, because we are friends of the owner and get special treatment. Go to Laguna Hills Mall and manage to spend money on absolutely nothing except one Harry Potter action figure and one Wetzel's Pretzel.

Saturday afternoon: Lunch at King's Fish House, yum. I had oyster shooters with flying fish caviar. Are we chichi, or what? Ben had cioppino despite the already ridiculous heat. Then to Ralph's for grocery shopping, where Sam was esctatic that we were able to secure a shopping cart tricked out like a racecar. To him, this made the whole trip worthwhile.

Saturday evening: Visit from Uncle Don, one of Ben's aging bachelor friends. He's been trying to remedy this by bride-shopping in the Ukraine, but guess what? Those Russian babes would rather freeze their asses off and earn $30 a month than live in a beach house with rich Uncle Don. Dinner at the Yard House (which we of course call the 'Tard House), followed by an evening of watching Tommy on cable over Ben's protests. Screw him, I say. This from a guy who watches Doris Day movies.

Sunday morning: By 9 a.m., it is 75 degrees outside. We load up the kids and head for Huntington Beach, which guess what? Everyone in Orange County (and, apparently, Riverside and San Bernardino Counties) has had the same idea. To park, we have to hit Duke's for brunch and get valet, which is really okay because Duke's is the coolest place to have brunch. Afterward, we walked down to water's edge in the shadow of the Huntington Beach pier, and Matt had his first adventure with wading in the ocean.

Sunday afternoon: Side trip to Prehistoric Pets in Fountain Valley, because the surviving gecko needs crickets to eat. Sam and Matt run around and look at the lizards and snakes and turtles. And then back home to start cooking the freaking turkey in 90+ degree heat.

Now: Mommy updates her blog and wonders where the hell the weekend went, again.

What A Boy Wants.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
What does a boy want? If you're talking about Sam, the answer has become everything. That's probably the biggest sign that they have outgrown being babies and have started being kids: They see things on T.V. and start asking you for them. When they learn the magic words Mommy, buy me that, you know that you are in for a world of pain.

Sam's overriding desire at this moment is a light sword like the ones in Star Wars. Oh, he has his Harry Potter sword, and he is forever fighting and slaying things with that, but for Sam, a light sword has become the Holy Grail. Every day on the way home, he announces that his daddy is buying him a light sword, and I have to explain anew that Daddy is not buying him a light sword today, but maybe he will get one for his birthday. Sam's birthday is over two months away, and to Sam, it might as well be in ten years. He looks forward to his birthday the way a nymphomaniac looks forward to walking into a crowded bar.

The light sword is one thing; the things he sees on T.V. every day are another. When we get home in the evening, he watches Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Teen Titans. That's what the big kids watch; no Barney for Sam. He's moved beyond all that. But good Lord, I had forgotten the insidious commercials they show with these cartoons.

Every sixty seconds, it's a new desire. Lilo & Stitch frozen meals. Action figures. Some new and sugary breakfast cereal. It's a barrage of new things to covet and crave, punctuated with frequent repetitions of "Mommy, will you buy me that?" Worse, Sam has a fantastic memory. He can see an ad on Wednesday, and he'll still be bugging me to buy him the product in question on Saturday.

So I've been having to say no a lot. "You don't need that" is my litany, repeated again and again and again. I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that Matt isn't yet advanced enough to ask for much more than juice or a cookie. Just imagine, in two more years I will be hearing Mommy, will you buy me that? in stereo. But I'm all set. I've got a big bag of No with their names on it.

Hell Hath No Fury Like . . . Matt.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
My younger son, as I've mentioned, is a sweet, happy, sunshiny soul. This was evident even in the womb, where he was much quieter than Sam -- so quiet, in fact, that I used to lose sleep worrying whether he was okay in there. And further evidenced by their respective first nights on earth: The night he was born, Sam screamed all night. The night he was born, Matt slept all night. Sam is an intense kid, and I was relieved, on getting acquainted with Matt, that I'd finally managed to produce that most coveted of all parental accomplishments: an Easy Baby.

And he was an Easy Baby. But Matt, now that he is walking well and is starting to talk, is a baby no more. Matt is a toddler. An easy toddler? Oh yes. Matt is a sweet little ray of sunshine and happiness.

Until, that is, you thwart his considerable will. Then he turns into Attila the Hun with an anger management problem.

He has taken to walking alone with such fervency, such singleminded dedication, that nothing will do but that he must walk alone everywhere. In busy parking lots. Along steep inclines and small waterways. In crowded stores. Everywhere, in short, that a guy less than three feet tall should not be walking alone. And if I refuse to put him down to walk, or pick him up once he's started, he will struggle furiously and howl with the purest rage and indignation I have ever heard, until people turn around and give me piercing looks like Why are you beating that adorable little child?

Nor, when he walks, will he be guided by any outside force. At the park yesterday, as Matt marched around, he got too close to the edge of the duck pond. I, who was dutifully following him around, took his hand to guide him away. His response? He howled with rage, sank his teeth into the back of my hand, plopped down onto his butt, and screamed bloody murder until I backed off. It was a difficult outing for both of us. Certainly, I wanted to make my little darling happy and let him walk freely in the great outdoors, but I didn't want him marching into the duck pond. Or off the side of the hill. So we were at a bit of an impasse.

Finally I found a flat area with no water or other major hazards, and he marched around to his heart's content, until he decided that he'd had enough and I should pick him up. (When Matt decides that I should pick him up, it's no issue and he doesn't protest; unless, God help me, I don't pick him up. Then it's the indignant rage all over again.)

So I have been blindsided by all this, my Easy Baby blossoming into a toddler with a formidable will and incredible tenacity. Next to him, Sam is a pushover. Who knew? The moral of the story is to never underestimate an Easy Baby, even if he has enormous dimples and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps. Especially if he has enormous dimples and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps. We are a stubborn, strong-willed family, every one of us, but in Matthew I think we have met our match.

Of Bats & Triglycerides.
Mood:  happy
It's six a.m., that most famous hour, and I am nursing Matt when suddenly Sam, sound asleep, speaks up from beside me.

"It's like . . . it's like a bat. It's a bat. . . . Mommy? . . . Mommy?"

"Yes, honey."

"Winnie the Pooh has a bird, and it's like a bat."

"It's all right, sweetheart."

"Okay. Mommy, it's okay." He turns to his father and pats him comfortingly on the arm. "It's okay."

Having thus reassured us, he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

* * *

Meanwhile, we have been confronted with the issue of triglycerides, middle age, and the need for a purer life. Ben had a physical a week ago, and his blood work revealed that he has dangerously high triglyceride levels. Now, this is something of which I knew virtually nothing before yesterday, but triglycerides are fats in the blood, and at high levels, they pose a serious risk of heart attack or stroke. My husband is 48 years old and, honestly, has probably put on too much weight since we've been married. So these are things of concern. We have two small boys to raise.

So, what now? Oh, simple. A diet containing no alcohol, no sugar and virtually no fat. Meaning we are basically looking at lean protein, vegetables and whole grains. And no wine. No wine! We are the sort of people who go on wine tasting trips, and love to have a bottle of a good California red with dinner, so this is a tall order. Once his levels go down, a glass of wine a day is permissible, but this is the upper limit.

And I'm going to go ahead and do the entire regimen with him, because would there be anything quite so obnoxious as your wife smirking at you over her glass of wine and plate of pizza as you drink your green tea and eat your skinless chicken breast, steamed veggies and brown rice? No, something like that could hurt a marriage. So it's a life of virtue for us.

And it got me thinking that you really don't think, before having kids in your 40s, about the sacrifices involved. (Hell, if we had, they might not be here.) Before the boys came along, we were jet skiing, wine tasting, gourmet restaurant, partying kinds of people. And then came the boys, and we had no life, but we sort of knew that was coming. So we sold the jet ski, invested in a serious cable television package, and enjoyed family life. But we still had wine! And pizza!

But it's important not only that we spend time with our kids, but that we ensure we live long enough to raise them. So, another sacrifice: We take care of ourselves. Which I guess is not such a sacrifice if you look at it the right way, but no wine? And no pizza? Someone just gag me with a head of steamed cauliflower.

Well, as Ben puts it, we are just going to have to look for other pleasures in life, and I guess we've found them. Those would be the two little bundles of little boyness who bring us such joy. Now pass the pizza. But hold the crust. And the cheese. And the pepperoni. And if you've got a recipe for skinless chicken breast that doesn't taste like absolute cardboard, drop me a line.

Thanks For The Mammaries.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
Breastfeeding is awesome. I had this thought at three in the morning while nursing Matt in our familiar posture, lying down in our warm bed with a cool breeze wafting through the window. It's such a happy thing for both of us that when I cuddle him close and he latches on, a little Mmmmm escapes us both. And I stroke his head and shoulders and look at his sweet face. This is the ultimate in mother/baby bonding, and the fact that we have been at it for 15 months does not make it any less sweet or precious.

Don't think I don't know it. Matt is my last baby, after all, unless Ben and I do something really stupid. I am 43 years old, and the prospect of reproducing again is (a) foolhardy and (b) sort of gross, honestly. So nursing my baby is precious, because when I have nursed Matt for the last time, that will be it. Finito. (Also, from a practical angle, I know with certainty that when I stop nursing him, my boobs are going to wilt horribly, and at my age, that is not going to be a pretty thing.)

Nursing a toddler is something I haven't done before, having weaned Erika at 3 months and Sam at 8 months. (I'm sorry, kids!) It can be a tricky thing, like when Matt tries to stand on his head while nursing, or when he tries to reach in my shirt and deedle my other boob, which I really dislike. But it keeps him happy. He will play with his brother and walk all over the place, but periodically he comes back to me and says Na na, and makes a pit stop. Breastfeeding is his home base, the safe place he comes back to when being a toddler just gets to be too much work and he needs to refuel.

We have fun, too. When he nurses while awake, we smile at each other and play our little nursing games. He pulls at my necklace and explores my face with his hands. And I talk to him and tickle him. Perhaps my favorite sight in the world is his happy little face, laughing with a boobie in his mouth.

I could climb on my soapbox and lecture you on the benefits of breast milk, but half of you know all about it, and the other half of you don't care. But ladies? Don't cave in and go the formula route if you can help it at all. And guys? Get over yourselves and encourage your wives to breastfeed. It quite honestly is one of the most awesome things that's ever happened to me, and Matt lets me know in a hundred little ways that he agrees.

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.