A Matt Moment.
Topic: Matt
Just because he's adorable.

A Peepee.
Mood:  happy
That's what, these days, I hear out of Matt for the entire duration of his bath. And his diaper changes. He grins as widely as I've ever seen him grin (and in Matt's case, that is really saying something, because he is the king of wide grins), grabs his unit, and coos a peepee. Then he pulls on it, and grins some more, and says a peepee some more. It's quite clear the guy is in love.

What is it with men and their units? Baby boys have frequently been observed, via ultrasound, clutching their packages even in utero. Women can't really relate. We're proprietary about our purses, and to a lesser extent about our own various mammary and genital bits, but men and their peepees? They've got something really special.

Sam's not immune, either. Throughout most of his bath this evening, although unlike Matt he wasn't actively crooning to his peepee, he sat there, turning it upward and staring at it in a contemplative, appraising sort of way. I don't know what he was thinking. I asked him "Sam, is your peepee okay?" and he nodded absently and continued to examine his equipment. "Sam, what are you thinking about?" I tried, wondering if he was noticing that his peepee looks different from the other kids' at day care (the other boys are circumcised, he is not, and they do witness each other's diaper changes). No response. More peepee staring. I suppose he was just pondering the mysteries of the penis.

It's interesting raising little males; I've never had to care for a penis before. Okay, well, not in a non-romantic fashion, anyway. I don't even want to get started on the conversations we had in ultimately deciding not to circumcise them (my husband the lawyer: I feel I lack standing to make decisions about another guy's dick.) The funny part is, I haven't thought this much about peepees since I was, oh, thirteen or so. This must be what they mean when they say that having children keeps you young.

Whoa.
Mood:  d'oh
Okay, so I was completely removed from my place of business Monday afternoon on a gurney by four paramedics, hooked up to oxygen, IV and a heart monitor.

Relax: I'm okay. But at the time I asked the secretary to call 911, I so didn't know this.

Mid-afternoon, I suddenly developed odd pains and tightness in my left chest. After about a half-hour with no change, and feeling my heart pound and flutter, and this being the Internet age, I promptly Googled "heart attack symptoms". Chest pressure? Tightness? Pain? Nausea? Check. Check. Check.

Scared the living crap out of me. I wound up in the emergency room for hours, after which all of the tests came back normal and they let me go home on the condition that I rest in bed the next day.

All I can say is it's a very scary feeling to confront your own mortality. I can't even describe the thoughts that went through my head before I learned that everything was actually okay.

Go Go Power Rangers!
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Remember Harry Potter? He is so five minutes ago. These days, Sam is all about Power Rangers!

Note the sword and the very Power Rangery stance. He went with us grocery shopping at Ralph's in that outfit, and probably startled several people, but I'm happy to report that he agrees to take it off for baths, bed and day care.

This was a $10 Party City special, and it's falling apart already. We will probably go through three such costumes before (a) Halloween gets here or (b) he moves on to a different obsession.

Alert readers will notice that we forgot to remove the hang tab from the top edge of his mask, so that he appears to be a Power Ranger with a strange growth on his head. Perhaps we can drive a nail and use the hang tab to suspend him from the wall when he misbehaves.

Would You Like A Tantrum With That?
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
It's become quite clear to me that we aren't going to be able to eat out anywhere but Chuck E. Cheese for the next five years or so. In fact, three nights ago I vowed that we would never again leave the house.

We took the kids to Stride Rite for another appallingly expensive round of new shoes. Afterward, we cast about for someplace to eat. Someplace without white tablecloths, a kid-friendly place. We settled on Ruby's.

When we tried to place him in a high chair, Matt had an utter meltdown. He screamed like we were boiling him in oil. Wouldn't let me hold him. Wouldn't take a bottle. Wouldn't eat the crackers or play with the toy the manager rushed over to give him. I carried him outside briefly, but the minute we went back in, he erupted into howls of rage.

I was able to get him to shut up for a while by letting him stand next to me on our seat in the booth, but this was problematic as he grabbed for every item on or near the table. And if I tried to stop him? he howled anew.

What did Matthew want? Matthew wanted to walk around. I've written before about Matt's insistence on freedom and his absolute fury when restrained. That high chair felt like a cage to him. He felt he had an unbridled right to go where he pleased and touch what he wanted, and when we tried to infringe on that right, he screamed with the loudest and, to him, most righteous anger.

So we did the tag team thing. Ben took Matt out into the mall and let him walk around while I scarfed down my salad, then I took Matt out into the mall and let him walk around while Ben scarfed down his fish tacos. Was the food any good? Don't know. Didn't notice.

But you want to know the funny part? Today I met my husband for lunch in the middle of the work day. We went to El Torito, one of our familiar old haunts. There were no children with us. No one was screaming or struggling. And you know what? I was almost bored. I wasn't sure what to do with my hands. I tried reading the newspaper, but found that the 'Net has completely ruined this for me. People, did you know this? The newspaper is full of news from, like, yesterday. It's so half an hour ago. And I found myself wishing the kids were there, as I usually do when I'm not with them.

So, Chuck E. Cheese it is: the only place louder than Matt. Bad food and Bud Light. See you there. I'll be the one chasing the stubborn toddler all over the room.

In The Butt, Bob.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Poop
Two random butt-related topics that arose within seconds of each other:

(1) Ben and I were just quoting the famous old Biblical reference Get thee behind me, Satan! [Editor's knote: Matthew 16:23: But he turned, and said unto Peter, Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an offence unto me: for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men.]

Not to be disingenuous, but doesn't it seem like that's the last place you'd want him?

(2) The current issue of Orange County Weekly, a notorious local free entertainment magazine/leftist rag, contains a headline on page 24 that reads NO ASS IS SHOWN.

Well, that's a relief.

Let Sleeping Babies Lie, Redux.
Mood:  happy
Further proof of the joys of cosleeping:



Yes, I know our pillowcases do not even remotely match our sheets. Shut up. You try having little creatures pooping and peeing and barfing all over your bed linens. Our main criterion has become Does it have any actively visible or smelly bodily secretions on it? No? Okay then, on it goes.

Matt Speaks.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
Finally, at almost 19 months, my little angel has decided to start talking. I was starting to worry; Sam was an early talker, and although you're absolutely not meant to compare your kids to each other, Matt seemed a little slow to talk. But then he's been slow about doing almost everything, even cutting teeth. He only has six of them, at last count, although just try to get him to open his mouth.

Last night in the car on the way home, he pointed at his eye and said "I got eyes." Later, he told me he wanted to come in from the backyard and watch Teen Titans: "Titans. House."

These are his first sentences. And suddenly I noticed that his voice isn't that of a baby anymore; when he says these words, he speaks like a kid. My baby is growing up.

Every one of Matt's milestones will always be a little sad for me in a way that Sam's will not, because Matt is my last baby. This one is no different. Take all the time you need, little Matt. Maybe you're not hurrying to grow up for your mommy's sake.

How About ME?
Mood:  happy
How about me? has become one of our favorite concepts. It originates, of course, from Sam. Ben and I have a habit of asking "how about" various things: How about a drink? How about a movie? Dinner? A trip to the moon on gossamer wings? and so on. And Sam, if he feels everyone's concerns are departing too far from what's really important in life, will abruptly break into the conversation to demand, "How about ME?"

It's a great concept. People should be more honest about this -- they can make nice all they want, but if you cut to the chase, the big question on most people's minds is How about ME? Leave it to Sam to just come right out and say it. That's a quality he inherited from his father.

Meanwhile, I e-mailed Ben this afternoon. How about ME? I demanded. But not seriously. It's time to make some weekend plans. That makes the work week more tolerable: You plan something little for the weekend, some small treat to look forward to. This week, we will drive up to Seal Beach and walk in the sand with our boys, then go to Walt's Wharf, a locally legendary seafood restaurant, for lunch. They have awesome fish and an impressive wine list.

And if we're really lucky, Matt won't scream like a banshee at lunch and won't make me stand up and rock him instead of letting me sit and eat my fish. Matt is still a guy of few words. He's really just a baby, which means he tends to cry like, well, a baby. But I know what he's really saying. How about me? How about ME!?

But I Don't Own One.
Mood:  happy
This morning, in the dim light of 6:30 a.m., I went hunting through my dresser drawers for a belt.

This is not an accessory that looms large in the wardrobe of a woman who is pregnant (as I was, on and off, for a total of over three years), or of a woman who has recently popped out two babies in quick succession past the age of 40 (as I definitely am and will remain). What use does a woman like that have for a device that accentuates her waist? I have no desire to frighten people or to call attention to my maternal girth.

No; this morning I went in search of a belt because my pants were falling down.

Holy Weight Watchers, Batman! It's true. The size 8s I bought at Costco a few months ago (and which I love dearly) are sagging down around my hipbones. The size 6s I bought at Costco two weeks ago? were too loose yesterday even when freshly washed, and I'm starting to think I should have bought the 4. Good God, maybe I'm finally turning into me again.

Those who know me well know that, at one time, I had a body. I mean a real body, an I damn well work out every day body, a body so tricked out that, at age 37, I could wear a thong bikini and get away with it. You believe that? It's true. I could do it, and the reason I could do it was that I was in such nice shape, there was no crease at the base of my butt. That is RIGHT. My butt had zero overhang.

So, you ask, what happened? Ah, I will tell you. First I met my darling husband, and he introduced me to foods and wines of such a quality as I'd never tasted before. (I had been a vegetarian, and it's easy to stay thin when you're a vegetarian, and you want to know why? Because the food sucks, is why.)

Next, my darling husband ventured to impregnate me. And did so, several times, and three of these pregnancies failed, but finally we had a baby, and then another. And somewhere in the midst of all this, I had my fortieth birthday, and thus officially reached middle age.

And you want to know the thing about having babies? You don't have time to be so self-absorbed anymore. Work out every day? People, I am lucky I get to comb my hair every day. My idea of an aerobic workout, these days, is to give both kids baths in quick succession.

But it looks like I'm finally beating the pregnancy pounds, despite middle age and despite my love of good food and wine. So here's to my life: Thin enough, but not perfectly thin. Happily married instead of unhappily. Spending time with my kids instead of spending hours working out. Butt overhang and a happy home. I'll take it.

Now somebody lend me a belt before these pants hit the floor.

Affirmed On Appeal.
Topic: Sam
In Sam, we may have a little lawyer on our hands, although Ben swears he wants him to do something useful with his life, instead. (Editor's knote: For anyone who may not know this, Ben is a lawyer.)

By this I mean that Sam, just turned three, has mastered the concept of taking a decision up on appeal. This actually began a while ago, on a simple level: "Mommy, I want a cookie." "Not now, honey." "Daddy, I want a cookie." Figuring if he asks a different parent, he might get a different answer. Hey, it was worth a try, right?

Recently, Sam has figured out that this technique will never work, so he's ramped it up a notch or two: He wants to take his appeal to someone who's not there. I can just hear the little wheels turning in his mind: If Mommy's not there to influence them, they'll take my side.

Last evening he tried it out. I turned around to see that he had turned on the Lava Lamp.

"Honey, who told you it was okay to turn on the Lava Lamp?"

"Sandy [day care lady] said I could."

"Well, Sandy makes the rules at her house, but Mommy and Daddy make the rules at our house."

"No, Sandy makes the rules at our house for you!"

In other words, I'm meant to take orders second-hand through Sam from someone who not only isn't there, but who hasn't directly heard the request in question. Nice try, Sam. [I could make some witty analogy involving Sandy/Sam and God/the Church at this point, but it's Friday afternoon and I haven't the mental energy, and it would probably be blasphemous anyway.]

But Sam wasn't done:

"Mommy, I want a jelly slug." (Shut up, it's a Harry Potter thing.)

"No, honey. No candy before dinner."

"I'm going to call up Daddy, and Daddy will say yes!"

"No, honey, Daddy will back up whatever Mommy says."

He had the grace to give up at that point, but I like his style. Can't get what you want one way? Try to get it another way. He may or may not be a lawyer someday, but this persistence -- although it may drive us completely mental now -- is a good quality, in the long run. Stick to your guns, Sammy. You tell 'em.

Let Sleeping Babies Lie.
Mood:  happy
I've mentioned before that Ben and I share our bed with our two young sons, and now I'm here to tell you again how great it is. You want to know what can make you actually happy that you have the sort of insomnia where you wake in the night and have trouble getting back to sleep? Having a little cuddlebug on either side of you, that's what.

Generally they sleep snuggled one on each side of me, so that I am a Mommy sandwich with Sam and Matt as the bread. Sam likes to reach his hand up into my hair and hold on tight. Matt likes to scoot up against me so that as much of him as possible is up against my side. I like to think of myself as their anchor, their security blanket. If Sam stirs in the night -- and he is a restless sleeper, and stirs a lot -- there I am to whisper It's all right and curl an arm around him. I don't know. Maybe it's just as comforting for me as it is for them.

I wish I was there with them right now.

Ben's Heart.
Mood:  down
I've posted a bit about Ben and his heart, and how it's big, and how it is so damned big that it envelops both of the boys, and me, in a good warm glow of love. But now Ben's heart is in trouble. And therefore, so is mine.

Ben, in addition to the triglyceride issue, has something called mitral valve regurgitation, which basically means that he's got a valve that lets blood leak back into his heart once it's been pumped out. This can cause problems down the line. We're looking at open heart surgery to repair it in the not too distant future.

People! Most of you are younger than I am, so take note of this: During middle age, bits of your body start to act up or go wrong. It's a very disconcerting feeling. Here's this body which has very cheerily accompanied you on all your adventures for all these years, and it's very seldom complained, even despite the fact that you may have abused it from time to time with food or drink or drug or caffeine or late hours or [insert toxin or transgression of your choice here]. Meaning that you probably, as we have, tended to take your body's proper functioning for granted. It now transpires that come middle age, all bets are off.

The prognosis, actually, is optimistic on the whole -- no one has told Ben Ummmm, better take out some life insurance, a goodly amount I think, and is all your estate planning up to date? But this quite honestly scares the piss out of us. The boys need their father, I need my husband, and Ben desires to continue to inhabit his body. Not so much to ask, right? Leave it to middle age to make it suddenly seem like a tall order.

So there it is. I love this man so fiercely that I would slay dragons to protect him, yet there's not a damned thing I can do except tell him Honey, it's all gonna be good. I would give him my heart if I could, but he already has it. So on we go from here, with this newest reminder that life is short, life is precious, and we should all love our loved ones as hard as we can. That is all.

Damn, I Have Gorgeous Children.
Mood:  happy
I just posted new photos on our homepage, and I am here to tell you: Ben and I spawned some tasty children. They are so gorgeous I cannot look directly at them; I have to poke a pinhole in a piece of paper and project their image onto another surface, or use special protective eyewear.

Here, go look at them now. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The Unbearably Beautiful Mr. Baby Photo Gallery

Massachusetts: I Love You So.
Mood:  d'oh
Loquacious today, am I not? I must confess I'm a bit overwrought.

I'm in the middle of a fiendishly complex research project involving the permissibility of five different kinds of post-delinquency loan charges in each of the fifty states, plus the District of Columbia. Do the math: That's 255 separate issues to research. Oh, and they want the research done, and a full report, by next Wednesday (and I have other deadlines besides).

Worse, most states have hellishly complicated definitions of various types of loan, and there are separate definitions of permissible charges for each. Like "If the loan is secured by a first priority interest in real property and the principal amount is $75,000.00 or less, that is a consumer loan; however, if the loan is secured by a second priority interest in real property and God sends us a sign, then . . ." I'm oversimplifying here, by the way. The actual laws are so fucking convoluted I'm about to cry.

And here's where my shout-out to Massachusetts comes in, because Massachusetts has none of these smoke-and-mirror tricks: A loan is a loan is a loan is a loan is a loan.

Massachusetts, I'm going to kiss you.

Apologies; & Tribute To Ben.
Mood:  happy
I should feel terrible. A few other bloggers have written glowing Father's Day tributes to their husbands, yet poor Ben got none. In fact, in keeping with our family "low-maintenance holidays" tradition, he didn't even get a card, except for the ones the boys "made" him at day care (meaning that the day care ladies made them, and then Matt scribbled on his and Sam glued foam animals randomly all over his). We did go out for a fabulous early lunch at Houston's, but that was also largely on my whim, and also, we didn't even have their famous ribs, what with his triglycerides and my Weight Watchers and all.

And honestly, Ben deserves better than this. I can't say enough about him as husband and father. Day after day, he is right in there by my side, pitching in, if not taking the lead, with cooking, housework and child care. Okay, he is a big procrastinator and is obsessed with stupid old movies and tells the same goofy jokes again and again. But these are the worst things about him, and in the grand scheme of things, what do they matter? I will tell you what matters:

He sleeps cuddled up with Sam every night.

He changes Matt's stinkiest diapers if I ask him to, and complains only a very little.

He sits the boys in his lap and reads them stories.

He stays up at nights worrying about their nutrition and well-being.

He very seldom points out my bad qualities, but frequently points out my good ones, especially when I desperately need to have them pointed out.

He radically changed his diet and lifestyle because he wants to be around a long time for the boys and me.

He loves Douglas Adams, Elvis Costello, and stupid new movies.

He's the best thing that ever happened to me, the love of my life, the father of my children. And you know what? In all honesty, I adore his goofy jokes, no matter how many times I hear them. Happy Father's Day, honey. Thanks for marrying me, and thanks so much for these gorgeous boys.

A Very Merry Un-Birthday To Sam.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Well, not quite un-birthday, because his birthday is in two weeks, so it's sort of his birthday season, right? And he is so excited about it. We sing "A very merry un-birthday" pretty much every day, and I adore the way he asks "For me?" (How to completely mess with his mind: sing "to Matt" instead of "to you." He becomes very indignant indeed. "No, for me!")

I was thinking a lot about Sam's birth today, because the weather this morning is almost identical to what it was almost three years ago when Ben was driving me to the hospital. In Southern California we have a phenomenon called June gloom or the marine layer, which basically means It is going to be gloomy as hell all morning, and possibly a mean little drizzle will fall, and maybe in the afternoon it will clear up, but we live at the beach, so it probably won't. Despite June being over, Thursday, July 5, 2001 was just such a day.

A lot of women like to tell elaborate birth stories; mine is not so elaborate. The only really interesting thing is that my labor actually started at the hospital, where I had been sent due to suspiciously high blood pressure at my OB exam that morning. Talk about convenient!

Ben and I still speculate that Sam was scared out of me by all the Fourth of July fireworks the night before. We had gone up on the cliffs overlooking the Back Bay to look at the fireworks, and some very kind folks had allowed me to sit on a big flat rock upon observing that I was almost literally about to pop. To this day, we call that place Pregnancy Rock, although to this day we also argue about precisely which flat rock that was. Ben's belief was that sitting on the rock was what triggered my labor, and made me go sit on it late in my pregnancy with Matt. No dice. Probably we had the wrong rock.

Anyway, my labor was uneventful. Labor with an epidural tends to be that way; we read magazines and newspapers, we watched a live police pursuit on TV, while my cervix gradually dilated with no involvement from me. Contractions? Huh? There weren't any, not that I felt anyway. Some of my "natural mommy" friends are raising their eyebrows at this, but I am here to tell you that I am a major, unapologetic wuss about pain, and the epidural was best for everyone involved. I had my first kid natural, and I'm still a little pissed off about it.

I'll never forget the moment Sam was placed on my chest. Bursting with pride, and so relieved to see that he was as healthy and perfect as all the prenatal testing had promised. He was a little turd that first night in the hospital; he had trouble nursing and screamed his head off all that night (and the next). But he was precious, and long awaited, and mine. Soon enough he was nursing and sleeping just fine. And he changed my life forever.

So, a very merry un-birthday to you, my Sam. Three years and you have gone from red, screaming newborn to the charmingly handsome guy who loves root beer floats, Where The Wild Things Are and Little Shop of Horrors. Thanks for being alive, thanks for inheriting my eyes but otherwise being the mirror image of your daddy. Thanks for calling me Mommy and sitting in my lap and saying I love you. Thanks, in other words, for being exactly Sam and nothing less. I love you, son.

Matt Matt.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
Sometimes he is Matty Boo or even Matty Boo Boo, but mostly he is Matt Matt. Not in the John-John sense, but in the sense that he is more than a Matt, he is a Matt Matt -- he is Matt squared!

A few weeks back, I sat in my office and mooned over Sam. Today I am mooning over Matt. One of the best parts of being a parent is getting to rediscover your kids (and your spouse) over and over again. No matter that I see them and interact with them day in and day out, they are always reminding me anew how much I love them, and exactly why.

Matt is 17 months old and remains a brilliant ray of sunshine (albeit with a core of pure steel. Don't mess with him!). The highlight of my day is picking him up from day care, because he cries out with happiness on catching sight of me. And then I pick him up, and he puts his tiny chubby arms around my neck and hugs me as tight as he can, and doesn't let go. Meanwhile giving me "mwaah" kisses on my cheek and neck. Does life get any better than that? I look forward to this moment all day.

He's using his words more and more, although sometimes to mysterious effect. Just yesterday he started saying "Quack" at various intervals. So we are quacking back at him. We're not sure why he wants to quack, but if that's the game, if that's what Matt Matt wants, then so be it. He is a slower talker than Sam, so we try to encourage his language skills. I can't wait to hear what he has to say (until, as Erika has pointed out, he gets much older and what he has to say is Up yours, or the equivalent. But that day is a long way off).

So it's only eight a.m. or so, and I have nine and a half hours until those chubby arms are around my neck again. And sometimes I wonder why I work all day, but I guess that's it -- two little boys running up to greet me, a brilliant dimple-lined smile, a pair of chubby arms around my neck. (And later, the sight of their daddy coming up the front walk, coming home.) It might not be glamorous, but for me? It's all I ever need.

The Breast Pump. (Warning: Boob Talk Inside.)
Mood:  happy
There it lurks, in the corner of my office. I haven't used it since, oh, March or so, yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of it. What do you do with a used breast pump? Sell it, my husband says, but you are absolutely not meant to do this, and also, a lot of the little doodads that came with it have been scattered to the four winds. I'm tempted to donate it to Goodwill, but the mental image of some member of the Goodwill-shopping public coming upon it and puzzling over it is too much for me. Why does this backpack have a motor? And what are these conical things with the bottles attached? And what is up with the TUBES?

It is the pitfall of the nursing mommy that we speak too much about our boobs. It's inevitable! Fortunately for you, I stopped pumping in advance of starting this blog, so you don't have to hear hilarious stories of me sitting semi-topless in my locked office, listening to Howard Stern while some crazed attorney pounded on the door because he couldn't be bothered to read the little post-it on my door that said, in essence, Please go away now. I am pretending to be a cow. Okay, so not so hilarious. But you have mostly been spared.

Until now, that is, because I am confronted with the prospect of breaking out the pump again. I have recently become afflicted with something known as a milk blister, which in layman's (layboob's?) terms means that one of the little places where the milk comes out has become clogged, and also hurts occasionally like hell. Now, what in life prepares you to deal with something like this? I am quite certain they didn't cover this topic in Health class, or even in undergraduate school. God knows they didn't touch it in law school. So I posed my question to the PumpMoms, an awesome mailgroup for moms grappling with the breast pump. Those chicks know everything.

And their advice amounted to this: Break out the pump and bust through it. (Pun not initially intended, but I'm leaving it in, because it's just too perfect.)

So here I sit, nervously eyeing the breast pump and contemplating the idea of turning my nipple into a miniature scale model of Vesuvius. And what I think is this: Matthew, someday if you ever doubt that I love you, I hope that you will (a) snap out of it, because of course I do, you silly boy, and (b) take a look at this entry. Mothers have done some awesome stuff for their kids through the ages, but this here is cruel and unusual, and By God you'd better appreciate it.

Turkeys, Plus.
Mood:  happy
We have a big mystery in our lives. A few blocks away from our house, there is a vacant field. It's not your typical vacant lot, so erase that picture from your mind. This vacant field is frequently overgrown and occasionally mown, but it is flanked by $800K houses. It's that kind of vacant field. We are informed and believe that this field slopes down to a small lake or pond, although no one can get the hell back there, so who knows? People who live in $800K homes do not want people nosing around to find out what is beyond their yards. There are privacy walls.

The thing that is mysterious about this field is that periodically -- sometimes for several days out of the week, but sometimes not for months on end, this field is full of turkeys.

Turkeys! I'm unable to find out anything about them, but they look like a species of wild turkey, and when they appear, they wander about the field, doing whatever turkeys do, and then disappear. I am crazy about them. A turkey sighting is a big event in our family, so every time I drive past the field and view turkeys therein, it is necessary that I phone our house (this is always at 7 a.m.) and croon sweetly to whoever is unfortunate enough to answer the phone, "Tuuuuuuurkeeeeeees. Tuuuuuuurkeeeeeees!"

We don't know where they come from, when they come, and we don't know where they go to, when they go. I am figuring that someone must own them, because you wouldn't call the Orange County suburbs a big hotbed of wild turkey activity. But it doesn't appear that anyone exercises dominion and control over them. Once, and only once, I observed them turking around on the corner lot lawn rather than in their vacant field. They are alluring, and very mysterious.

Back when we had a dog, before the dog tried to become a baby biter and had to be placed for adoption, we used to walk the dog past the turkey field. Our plan was, if we ever caught one of the surrounding neighbors standing around outside, to buttonhole them and demand, "Exactly what is the deal with the turkeys?" But we never did, and the dog is gone, and we don't know anyone over that way. So the mystery remains.

And you should be very glad indeed that you don't live at my house (unless you do, in which case Sorry, honey!) Because would you really want to wake up to the sound of someone cooing "Tuuuuuuurkeeeeeeees" at you over the phone?

By the way: Don't you hate it when the alarm clock rings when you're in the middle of a very long, complicated and hectic dream, leaving you strangely disjointed for the whole first hour of your morning?

And also: Don't you hate it when someone insists on telling you their entire long, complicated dream? Like "And then I was tapdancing in Central Park with Mother Teresa, but then somehow we were at a house, and it was my house but somehow not my house, do you know what I mean? And . . . " (And by the way, that was absolutely not my dream. My dream was even more boring than that. And you can bet I didn't tell it to Ben, except for the part where Sam let the bugs out, because that was really weird.

And as long as we're at it, damn, does having babies spread your hips! I can look in the mirror and turn sideways, and look all slender and shit, and then I turn around and face front, or, God help me, back, and I think Damn, those are some wide hips! It seems that having children not only tends to make you fat, but childbirth actually and physically spreads your hipbones apart. After three children, I'm figuring my hipbones just gave up and said "Screw you. We're staying here." Looks like I have to spend the rest of my life standing sideways.