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.

Listen, Kid.
Mood:  lucky
Topic: Pregnancy
Listen, kid.

I saw you today. I have been trying not to think about you very hard, or maybe trying to think you weren't really in there, because to be honest, the very fact of you takes my breath away and scares me. It seems like all the odds are stacked against us, and popular opinion is hardly on our side. To actually love you and want to know you seems scandalous, forbidden, like something illicit.

But there you were today on the ultrasound, just like I knew in my heart you would be. That curled-up little body, that flickering heart. And now that I've seen you, I can hardly deny you. You've been a part of me for weeks now, my little treasure no one can see yet.

I don't know what lies in store for us. Weeks and weeks of time. Tests and needles, for sure, and maybe a bunch of people telling us we're not meant to be together. But kid? I think we might have something here. This could be the start of something amazing.

My baby. Mine. Another baby. Ours. Wow. And kid? It was nice to see you. Come August, I'll press that first kiss onto your fuzzy little head. You just hang in there. We'll show them.

Wondering.
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: Pregnancy
I've been abnormally quiet for a few days, turned inward. My ultrasound is in two days, and although I'm not nervous about it in the traditional sense, I'm sort of at a loss to do or think anything until I know the outcome.

For the first time, my entire notion of happiness isn't wrapped up in the outcome of this ultrasound. Back in the days of cooking up Sam and Matt, there was one good ultrasound: One that showed a beating heart and a properly-sized baby. And one bad ultrasound: One that did not show a viable pregnancy. The lines were very clearly drawn. I knew exactly where I stood and what I wanted, and that was Good and Sweetness and Light and Heartbeat.

This time, not so sure. Whatever the outcome, Go or No Go, I'm bound to feel conflicted about it. Whichever way it goes, I'll be a bit relieved and a bit disappointed. Of course, if the result is Yes, There Is A Baby, while that result is exciting and uplifting, it also opens the door to a whole ton of worry. Financial worry, what to tell the families worry, birth defect worry. I don't even want to think about the huge box of worries a baby would open up.

If there will be a baby? Of course we will be happy about it, and we will make ready, and the baby will be wanted, and I'm sure someday we won't be able to imagine life without him or her. But for now, we don't know. We just don't know. I thought it would make it easier, not having so much of myself invested in a positive outcome, but you know what? Actually, it makes it harder.

So for now, we wait. Two days and maybe an hour until the moment of truth. Then this particular level of uncertainty will clear, and we can move on to the next step of worry.

Note To Self.
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: Pregnancy
Note to Self: Self, next time you start thinking that you don't feel "pregnant enough" because you are not having morning sickness, and you think Boy, I would feel reassured if I would just have a little morning sickness, DO NOT THINK THAT.

Because do you know what will happen? Of course you do. You are going to suddenly have morning, noon, evening and night sickness, and it will never go away, and you will think that it will feel better if you can just eat something, but you will be wrong, because it will in fact feel worse if you just eat something. And then you will think Why on earth did I think I could eat that? And you will continue to taste it for, like, hours, and it will continue to turn your stomach.

Note to Fetus: Are you okay in there? It seems like you must be. Also, there had better not be two of you.

A Vast, Stanky Conspiracy.
Mood:  smelly
Topic: Pregnancy
I am not, in general, a paranoid person. That market has been cornered by my husband, who is convinced everytime an unfamiliar vehicle appears in our neighborhood that the driver thereof is casing the place to rob everyone (but mostly us). However, this weekend has left me convinced that the world is secretly involved in a vast conspiracy to stank me to death.

It started over the weekend with Ben's mother, who wears some very unfortunate perfume. I'm not entirely sure what the stuff is -- it could be Happy by Clinique -- but to my pregnant self, it is the very heart of stank. So take that as your base note, and try adding the aroma of Polish veal sausage frying. That sent me out to the back yard Friday afternoon, where I gagged under the pretext of sweeping up the patio. Saturday morning she came downstairs freshly anointed with the stuff, and I fled into the living room while that ungodly stank mixed with the aroma of the scallops Ben was sauteeing for brunch. Honestly, you couldn't come up with worse smell combinations if you planned it specially. See how this must be a conspiracy?

(The thing you may not realize is that MIL does not know I am pregnant. She would not/will not be happy about it. We've resolved not to tell family unless and until we have seen a heartbeat. So I can't play the pregnancy card, and in fact cannot even gag overtly, however bad the stank.)

Today, we went to the swap meet. The place was half empty, but everyone who was in attendance was either running an incense booth or smoking cigars. Such a sensory experience it was! The smell of a cigar brings on an instant, intense headache; a waft of incense triggers instant, severe nausea. The only thing that could have made it worse would have been if MIL had suddenly shown up, drenched in Happy and frying veal sausages -- by this afternoon, it seemed such a certain conspiracy that had she done so, I wouldn't have even been surprised. Puking on my shoes, yes. But not surprised.

Apologies to anyone reading this who may happen to wear Happy by Clinique. I am not meaning by this to call you stanky. Well, yes, actually I am. But only for the next 6-7 weeks or so. Forgive me. And step aside before I puke on your shoes.

The Rock Says.
Mood:  special
Topic: Sam
Many kids have imaginary friends. Normal kids, that is. Sam, on the other hand, adopted a "baby rock" when we were on our walk last night. And since then, Rocky has shared baths, meals and sleep with us.

Why could Sam not have come up with this idea, oh I don't know, 30 years ago? The Pet Rock was all the rage in 1975, even more virulent than the insidious Chia Pet. But no. Sam's motives are purer than that. His baby rock is a playmate, a dining companion, a confidante. And a food critic.

Last night for Christmas Eve dinner I served tilapia in one of those Asian sauces of my own invention. Upon coming to the table, Sam announced that Rocky needed a plate. And a knife. And a fork. A place setting was duly laid for the rock, including a plate made from the lid of a jar of Spike seasoning. Sam carefully cut up some tilapia for the rock, and the two of them (Yes, okay, I'm getting caught up in his dream world) chewed thoughtfully for a while. And then:

"My rock says this fish sucks."

Sam had to finish his fish for him, the rock hated it so much. Well, there you go. I thought I had cooked up a successful meal -- hell, even my mother-in-law liked the sauce on the fish -- only to have my illusions shattered by Sam's baby rock. Apparently the rock prefers Spaghettios; tonight he cleaned his plate.

They tell you motherhood is full of strange twists and turns. One of the strangest was being asked to breastfeed a plastic crab, which I did (Well, what could I do? The crab wanted na-nas.) And another of the strangest was definitely this weekend, when I was faced with the daunting task of catering to the culinary whims of a baby rock.

Want to see where the rock came from? This is what our neighborhood looks like.

The Mr. Baby Zone

Strangely Happy.
Mood:  a-ok
Topic: Pregnancy
One of the pitfalls of being completely retarded and having to use E-Z Bloggie Builder Lite for Dummies, as opposed to, say, Movable Type, is that I am limited to the stupid mood icons that Tripod offers me. I ask you, where is the strangely happy icon? Where is the one for I am taking iron supplements and my poop is black? Where, indeed, is the one for my baby tarantulas are growing like crazy and soon will be science fiction big? Limitations, baby. We all gotta live with them, or else switch to Movable Type.

Today, today I am strangely happy. It's a pregnancy thing. I've pointed out before that happiness is all about the little things, and today I am taking a ton of pleasure in all sorts of little things. These include, but are not limited to, the following:

Goodbye Cruel World by Elvis Costello.

Yogi Tea Cocoa Spice Tea.

Matt's charming habit of kicking his legs wildly when excited. The boy's got Happy Feet!

The prospect of tracking Santa with Sam on our computer Christmas Eve, and if my mother-in-law thinks it's rude to be on the computer when company has come to call, then I say this to her: Guess what you can kiss, mommy. And it ain't Santa Claus.

My Mr. Hanky Antenna Topper. Holy shit, it's Christmas!

And furthermore, in two hours and sixteen minutes, my three-day Christmas weekend will begin. I can't wait to watch Sam's eyes on Christmas morning. Have a strangely happy holiday, everyone.

A Sick Cow.
Mood:  hungry
Topic: Pregnancy
The pregnancy thing has set in, full swing. How is it that I'm 6 weeks pregnant and already visibly bloated? (It's true; Ben reluctantly confirmed it.) It's not like I'm eating that much, but suddenly my belly is poofed up. Now, it's true that with Matt I was in maternity clothes by 8 weeks, but let's face it, that was more FAT than anything else, since I'd not yet lost the Sam weight. At this moment I weigh about 40 pounds less than I did when I conceived Matt. So why the fat belly already? Huh? I feel like a cow.

And make that a sick cow. I have a feeling I ain't seen nothing yet when it comes to morning sickness (unless I'm having a girl, since with Erika I didn't have morning sickness), but I basically have three digestive states at this point: Ravenous, Actually Eating Right Now, and Feeling Sick. I'm always in at least one of those states; sometimes two at once, and occasionally all three.

Furthermore, I'd forgotten about the pregnancy headaches. I always said that God makes you forget certain things, otherwise no one would ever have more than one child and the human race would die out. Damn these first trimester headaches. They are nearly constant, and I'm loathe to gulp Tylenol because TYLENOL DOES NOT WORK. It's a lot like the Catholics and the rhythm method that way -- the only thing you're allowed to use DOES NOT WORK. Surely there's a lesson there, although I'll be damned if I know what it is.

In general, though, pregnancy is pretty cool this time around. For once I'm not stressed about the outcome, and do not race to the bathroom every 20 minutes to see if I'm starting a miscarriage. I no longer panic at every cramp and twinge. I do worry about getting fat, because I sure did get fat with Sam and it took me three years to take off all that fat, but WTF? If this pregnancy pans out, I will have had THREE BABIES PAST THE AGE OF FORTY. Surely I am entitled to look like a cow.

A sick cow. But a sick, happy, peaceful, contented cow. Not so bad. Not so bad at all.

You Want A Menu? Here's Your Fucking Menu.
Mood:  loud
Topic: Rants
I have concluded that the holidays, my mother-in-law, and the first trimester of pregnancy are not at all a good, peaceful mix. People, if I make it through to Saturday afternoon, I am going to deserve a fucking Nobel Peace Prize.

(You don't really think of a mommy blog as a place you're likely to hear much of the "F" word, do you? Well, you're EXTREMELY likely to hear it in this one. And I am here to tell you that if you had to deal with my mother-in-law, you'd be saying plenty more than just the "F" word. My mother-in-law is a woman so infuriating that she could make St. Francis of Assisi kick babies.)

A few weeks ago, when the Christmas discussions opened, MIL floated the idea that since her husband, Ben's stepfather, was in general against Christmas, we probably wouldn't see them Christmas weekend at all. Fine with me. We'd see them the weekend before, or the weekend after.

Sometime around last weekend, it then transpired that she wanted to come see us Christmas weekend. Fine. Christmas Eve, December 26, whatever. Okay with me.

During last week, it changed again -- she wanted to come on Christmas Day. I went slightly ballistic. Now she suddenly decides this? I ranted and raved for an evening, then relented. Fine. Let her come Christmas Day. I will cook a turkey or a ham. Fine. Whatever. No sense fighting a woman whose will is like a bulldozer combined with several forces of Nature.

Over this past weekend, the final straw: She ANNOUNCED (no one invited her, of course) that she was coming down the day of Christmas Eve, SPENDING THE NIGHT, waking up with us on Christmas morning, and then going home during the day. Do you see how bad this is? This is bad because (1) our spare bedroom is being used for storage, she expects to sleep there, and we are going to have to spend HOURS OF TIME which WE DO NOT HAVE to clean it out before Friday; and (2) this is a woman who expects everyone, even family, to spend an hour showering and dressing before they appear each morning. And guess what? WE ARE GOING TO HAVE CHRISTMAS MORNING LIKE A NORMAL FAMILY WITH CHILDREN, which means the kids are going to get us up at daybreak, and we will all go downstairs forthwith, and we will not even have brushed our teeth, and my hair will be sticking up everywhere and I will not be wearing a bra, and NO WE ARE NOT GOING TO STOP AND BREW A POT OF TEA AND PULL OUT LITTLE FUCKING CHINA CUPS AND SAUCERS BEFORE THE KIDS OPEN THEIR PRESENTS. You hear that? A normal family. Disheveled, happy, in our pajamas. Whether she likes it or not.

So we pretty much got past all that. I informed Ben that clearly his umbilical cord was not yet cut, and it was clear who the female head of household was at our house, and it certainly wasn't ME, and if he moved any of the outgrown baby clothes, which I had yet to sort, out of the spare room and put them in THAT FILTHY GARAGE WHERE I WOULD NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN, I was going to strangle him with my bare hands. Loving talk like that. Finally we ironed it out, and I hissed through my teeth that Yes, darling mumsie can spend Christmas Eve, damn it all to hell and back again.

Is that all? That is not all. Last night Ben told me, "Mom wants me to call her tomorrow to discuss the menu."

The MENU? THE FUCKING MENU? Does this woman know nothing about me, or indeed about her son? We are the last people in the world who are going to PREPARE A MENU. She does, though. When we came over for Thanksgiving dinner, there it was, carefully handwritten out and magneted to the fridge: "Menu." And it listed everything, from the fucking hors d'oeuvres and cocktails right down through dessert and "choice of coffee or tea." Hello? WE HAVE TWO FULL-TIME CAREERS AND TWO FULL-TIME CHILDREN. MENUS ARE FOR PEOPLE WHO, I DON'T KNOW, DO NOT WORK AND HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO THAN SIT AROUND FOR AN ENTIRE WEEK PLANNING A SINGLE MEAL. MY FAMILY DOES NOT HAVE MENUS. MY FAMILY IS LUCKY IF THERE ARE CLEAN SOCKS.

I very sweetly told Ben that (1) the menu is WE DON'T KNOW YET, (2) she will NOT take over my house, plant her wrinkly ass in my kitchen, and start cooking from some insidious menu she has prepared (the woman has no concept of CHILDREN and will attempt to serve some elaborate seven-course meal which is always on the table two hours late while the kids are expected to SIT STILL), and (3) she will eat what is put in front of her.

Don't you just love someone who expects you to change around your entire life and transform it into hers for 24 hours? Christ, and I can't even have any wine, which is usually essential for holidays with MIL. Merry Fucking Christmas. Holy shit.

Senseo.
Mood:  caffeinated
After a few weeks of rumination and lust, today I bought myself a Senseo coffeemaker. It pales in comparison to AB's Francis Francis, the purchase of which sent me into a spiral of greed, envy and lust (that's three, count 'em three, deadly sins) for days. But I set my cap for the Senseo, and today I have one. In the cool blue color, of course.

Now, you may ask, what does a pregnant woman, and one who stopped drinking coffee a couple of years ago anyway, want with the Senseo? Good question. Ben theorized that it was the television spots with that chick from Dude, Where's My Car? You know, We are not dudes. We are hot chicks. But it's not that. I posited that it might have been that cool shade of blue, but . . .?

And suddenly Ben had it: "Because it looks like a unit." (You know, a package. Meat and two veg.)



You be the judge. At least the Senseo can't get me pregnant.

The Nose Doesn't Want To Know.
Mood:  smelly
Topic: Pregnancy
Is this blog suddenly going to be all about pregnancy, like Dooce was for a time, like AB's blog is about to be? Yes, very likely. Deal with it. Even the fourth time around, pregnancy is endlessly fascinating.

This morning I experienced the sudden onset of Preggo Nose. It's like waking up bionic: Suddenly you can smell bacon frying two counties away. I emerged from the shower, all redolent of white tea and ginger sugar scrub, to discover that suddenly I could smell the bedroom. Not that it smelled bad, mind you, despite being inhabited by three creatures of the male persuasion. But all at once I could smell every individual smell in that bedroom.

Getting dressed, I sprayed on a bit of one of my favorite perfumes, Gardenia Passion by Annick Goutal. (That is a shameless plug, because even though the shit is from France and costs insane amounts of money, it's the only gardenia scent that smells like actual gardenias and not like the proverbial French whorehouse.) Ordinarily Gardenia Passion is a delicious, subtle scent. Today it was not. Today it was:

OMG DEATH BY GARDENIA CHOKING CHOKING CAN'T BREATHE GASP SMOTHERING IN GARDENIA HELL CHOKE GASP DYING *argh*

I was okay once it cleared out a bit. Then I went downstairs and, in passing, threw a bit of paper into our kitchen trash can. Ben had taken out the trash since dinner last night, but we'd had honeydew melon white tea during the evening. Again, ordinarily a delicious, subtle smell. But when I leaned over that trash can, I was abruptly knocked flat on my back by a white tea battering ram. Same thing on getting to the office: I walked past the Christmas tree and nearly smothered.

Now I know how a bloodhound feels. There are many nice smells in the world: Christmas tree, dry leaves, wood fire, and babies (okay, not the nether end) are among them. But most smells in the world are not nice. The public, for example. I'm going to have to stay out of public places for the rest of the first trimester, because most people just don't smell very good, either because they have not washed enough or because they have chosen to douse themselves in cheap fragrance and/or *gag* hairspray. And smokers! California is better than most places, but even here, people smoke outdoors! And I can smell it from five miles away!

The up side: I get out of poopy diaper duty for the next eight weeks. Because Ben knows that if he doesn't change that diaper for me, he is going to have TWO messes to clean up.

Shit, I just realized I mentioned white tea not once, but twice in that post. My Midwestern, Eastern and Southern friends are probably saying There she goes with more of that wacky California shit. Time to go outside and kick my own ass again.

Believe.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
If you want to see true magic, take a look at Christmas through a little child's eyes. (Shit, that sounded trite; but damn it, it's true. Sometimes you have to be trite to be true. Excuse the hell out of me.)

Last evening I darted outside to the mailbox, and as I closed the box I noticed a group of people walking into the courtyard, one of whom was decked out in full Santa regalia. One of our lesser-known neighbors, no doubt, having some party or get-together. But baby, there was Santa! Right there at our house! I ran inside.

"Sam, come here, honey. Come quick. Hurry, baby."

Sam raced to the front door in time to see Santa walking past our very own front doorstep. He didn't notice Sam at first, but one of his companions nudged him. So he turned and waved: "Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas! Merrrrrrrry Christmas!" The guy was no professional, but it was a great performance. Dead on.

"Thank you," I said. "Thank you," Sam whispered.

We went inside and went back to watching T.V. It was a cinematic montage of Christmas movies dating from the very early days of filmmaking through the present. Sam didn't say too much, but I heard him whispering to himself, "He is coming. He is coming." My little skeptic. He believes!

And then a clip from Miracle on 34th Street came on. "Look, Sam," I said. "It's Santa!"

Sam looked up. "That's not Santa," he said flatly. "That's a fake Santa."

What can I say? Sam has very exacting standards for his magic.

Coming To Grips.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Pregnancy
Forty-eight hours after learning I was pregnant, we've mostly calmed down, and now that I've been to the ob/gyn and had the pregnancy confirmed, I think even Ben believes it. We're somewhat less terrified and somewhat more happy, although we have no idea what we're going to do with three kids under the age of five. (Probable answer: Run around chasing them a lot, and say "no" a lot.)

I had to take the boys with me to the ob/gyn's, and after I had chased Matt out from behind the receptionist's counter, saying "Matthew Crumpacker, I am talking to you!" I said to the receptionist, "And I want another one exactly WHY?" At moments like that, the reality of another one really hits home.

Of course, we have the heartbeat thing to get through; my ultrasound is January 6 (the day before Matt's second birthday, delicious irony), and we won't even know until then whether this pregnancy is viable. Up until this morning, I thought it wouldn't matter if it wasn't. But the idea is starting to grow on me.

Damn, getting attached again. The potential heartbreak of a precarious pregnancy. The worry doesn't stop until your newborn is in your arms, and even then? It's really only just beginning.

The Pregnancy Test.
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Pregnancy
Was. POSITIVE. This. Time.

We don't even know what to think. We were completely not planning this, and we have no idea what to do, or what to think, or how to react. We are still in shock.

I guess that explains the Asian food. And the Polish food. And the lack of a period.

God help us.

Res Judicata.
Mood:  sharp
Topic: The Tao of Ben
More insights from my husband:

There is a legal concept called res judicata. That's Latin, of course, as we pretentious legal types tend to use. What it means is that once a matter has been litigated and determined on the merits, it can't be litigated again. So the legal determination of a matter, we say, has res judicata effect.

In the Scott Peterson trial, evidence was introduced showing that after Laci's death, Scott had purchased the Playboy channel, but shortly thereafter cancelled it and bought a harder-core porn channel instead. All alone in that house with a porn channel. We all know what he was up to. This evidence was not contradicted or rebutted in any manner.

Therefore, it's res judicata that Scott Peterson is a jerkoff. Ewwwwwww. Most men are wankers -- I mean, scratch that. All men are wankers. But the fact that Scott Peterson is a wanker is a matter of public record and therefore subject to judicial notice. Hee!

Fuck The Symphony! Santa Isn't Coming.
Mood:  party time!
Okay, this is absolutely the funniest thing on Earth, ever. Miss Doxie is an everlovin' genius.

Fuck The Symphony

Meanwhile, Sam is insisting that Santa isn't coming, and reports that he told this to all the kids at day care. I'm baffled. "Sam, you went and talked to the guy. You sat on his lap. You told him what you wanted. Why wouldn't he come?" To which Sam replies, "He's just not." I told him that if he didn't believe, Santa would come and bring presents only for Matt and not for him. Still no dice. He is adamant.

It would be a really dirty trick to label every present for Matt and make my threat come true. Fortunately for all involved, I'm not that sadistic.

Hmmmmmm.
Mood:  cheeky
The other day I was going through our old VHS tapes (remember those?), some of which date back to our first VCR back in the early '80s. Among many questionable treasures, I encountered the Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen video The Curse of Thorn Mansion, wherein our intrepid heroines, then about 7 years old, promised to "solve any crime by dinnertime." Back before they got skinny and pouty and started posing for pictures hugging each other without terribly many clothes on. It was Erika's movie, back in the day.

Sam and Matt are fascinated by it. The nonexistent plot, the dreadful acting, the insipid songs. They are right now sitting together, not whacking on each other or telling on each other for a change, completely riveted.

Funny, you guys. Guys 20 years older than you (shit, 40 years older than you) are right now reacting to these two about the same way. Some things really are timeless.

Who Stole The Kiszka?
Mood:  hungry
Topic: Pregnancy
It has become apparent that I have completely lost my mind, culinarily speaking. Apart from wanting to eat nothing but Asian food, I have developed an unnatural focus upon Polish food. For the record, half of the blood running through my veins is of Polish origin (my mother was born Downarowicz, my maternal grandmother was a Zambrycki), but this, in the words of Elvis Costello, is strange and sudden.

It's so strange, sudden and expensive that I just placed an order on a Chicago Polish cuisine website requesting Polish rye bread, mustard and horseradish, together with kiszka, veal sausage and kielbasa. Do you see where that is unnatural? I might as well, I don't know, move to Wisconsin or something. (What say, Lisa?) Talk about culinary contradictions. I couldn't be more inconsistent if I sat down and thought about it.

Good thing we know I'm not pregnant. Because given my recent culinary tangents? I would so be convinced I was completely pregnant. And Polish. And Japanese.

The Pregnancy Test.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Pregnancy
Is. Negative!

Mommy: *still has no period and wonders WTF*

Daddy: *is relieved that he won't be the father of an 18-year-old at age 67*

Mommy: *may be menopausal, in which case buh-bye, AF!*

Sam & Matt: *have no idea*

Erika: *is grossed out that pregnancy is even an option, because that means we have been having sex, ewwww*

You: *should probably be grossed out too*

Mommy: *brought kimchee and miso soup for lunch, so is definitely turning Japanese and, apparently, Korean*

This story: *is over*

I've Got A Secret.
Mood:  lucky
I found out something highly alarming today, and I can't tell my husband. So I'm going to tell you.

It crossed my mind that we seemed overdue for an insurance premium bill for my minivan, the vehicle I use to drive my kids to and from day care every day. The vehicle we use on all weekend outings. Our primary vehicle. So I e-mailed our insuance agent: Hey, what up? Seems we're overdue for a bill. Just confirm we're current, okay?

He e-mailed me back to say that the policy had been cancelled some time ago for nonpayment. Hello? As you can imagine, I almost literally peed my pants. My stomach curled up into a tight little ball and remained that way until the problem was resolved. Some problem with the mail, apparently; there had been premium bills and notices, but I somehow hadn't received them. I got the policy reinstated as of today, but the terrifying fact remains that I unwittingly drove my boys around with NO INSURANCE for a few months.

And I can't tell this to Ben, even though it is fixed now and nothing disastrous happened. Because he is a civil defense attorney, and the thing he fears worse than anything is LIABILITY. He fears it more than he fears the clap or reality T.V. or televangelists or Rosie O'Donnell. If I tell him what happened, he may have an actual heart attack, or at the very least will spend several sleepless nights envisioning what might have been.

Talk about dodging a bullet. I am a very safe driver with a good record, but you know how things tend to happen. Somehow I managed to slip under the radar of Murphy's Law. What Ben doesn't know won't hurt him, but I am here to tell you Whew!