Schadenfreude Department.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Evil Things
My husband and I don't get to spend enough time together, but most workdays we have long, entertaining e-mail conversations. This afternoon we were discussing Paula Abdul and her increasingly shrill, insistent denials to the press that she is addicted to drugs. Apparently the lady is unacquainted with the concept of protesting too much. I am proud to say that I have never seen American Idol, but I understand from Howard Stern that poor Paula is barely coherent.

Ben's take on the situation: These days, drug abuse is a more acceptable explanation than brain damage or sheer stupidity. Sadly, Anna Nicole Smith's public behavior incorporates unmistakable elements of all three.

We have also been talking about Central Coast dry riesling, a 56-year-old Los Angeles attorney who moonlights as a porn star (I find the fact that the guy is appearing publicly naked at his age far more shocking than the fact that he's a member of the Bar), and the "finger in the Wendy's chili" hoax that spawned so many tasteless comments about finger food.

And, of course, we can't mention schadenfreude without bringing up Michael Jackson. Did you hear the one about Michael Jackson, the young boy, and the jar of Vaseline? It would be funny if it wasn't the subject of proposed testimony barred from evidence by the presiding judge yesterday because it was too inflammatory. You can't make up stuff like this. I'm sure that kid could tell us a thing or two about what's inflammatory.

The Other Side Of Summer.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Music
Friday is here, and this week just gone by has been a special gift from Hell. Today's new pregnancy complication is sciatica; my initial impression is that I'd prefer roo-roo, although I'll have to get back to you on that. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything; and therefore we will move directly to the

Morning Commute Soundtrack: Elvis Costello's Mighty Like A Rose (1991). A strange offering, it's one of the Apocrypha, the lesser-known EC albums, or what some would call simply the bad albums. Bad isn't the word -- it includes some of the Paul McCartney collaborations, including an uncredited McCartney lead vocal on Playboy To A Man in full scream mode -- but it's wildly uneven, falling as it did in the wake of the acrimonious departure of bassist Bruce Thomas and the breakup of the Attractions.

I have a strong affection for this album, including as it does some tracks very close to my heart, but there is also plenty of stuff that leaves me scratching my head and wondering why he bothered -- in places it's ponderous, dissonant or trivial; at its worst, it's all three. Despite all that, well worth the listening.

Someone asked me if I know a lot about rock music. I don't. In specialized areas I am a wealth of useless knowledge; apart from that I'm indifferent and staggeringly clueless. It's true I did college radio for a few years, back in the days when DJs were still literally spinning records; sometimes, when we were short-staffed, I was on the air for 12 or more hours at a stretch, moving from genre to genre in four-hour increments.

It was a hell of a good time. If only I'd had the same tenacity for academics. But it didn't teach me anything about music, apart from the fact that if some drunk guy calls up at 3 a.m. and requests Cat Scratch Fever during the experimental music slot, it's perfectly legitimate to agree to play it, but do it by putting the turntable in neutral and propelling it with one's finger at varying speeds. (I wonder to this day whether he ever noticed the difference.)

Monstrous Pregnant.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Pregnancy
By the calendar, I won't even hit the third trimester of pregnancy for another couple of weeks. No matter; yesterday I felt myself move into the final stage. I've done enough of this to know the signs.

Physiologically, it's perfectly understandable. The uterus, in its undisturbed state, is about the size of a plum and nestles safely behind the pubic bone. My uterus, as of this morning, topped out about three inches above my navel. I'm a short girl and short-waisted; there's not a lot of space between my ribs and my pelvis. What this means is that not only do I have a belly the size of a Volkswagen, but all my internal organs are being shoved about rather rudely.

The practical result of all that is chronic heartburn, shortness of breath and backache. My belly has developed corners; it seems to move independently of the rest of my torso. And the Braxton-Hicks are not so much contractions as a perpetuity. I spent enough fruitless time on the fetal monitor during my last two pregnancies to know that this is not a sign of premature labor, just my peculiar version of normal.

Does this sound like endless kvetching? It's not, really. There's a fair amount of discomfort, true, but mostly I find it fascinating to have my body taken over by another entity, its form and function changed so radically by someone who weighs, at this point, only a pound or two. She moves in me, and I try to guess from the sensations what she is up to in there. As I told Ben this morning, it's a lot like the movie Alien, only with luck my little Julia won't actually burst through my abdominal wall to make her appearance.

Morning Commute Soundtrack: Babylon And On (1987) by Squeeze. At this point, the band's lineup included Jools Holland but not (thankfully; my God, that guy is tiresome) Paul Carrack. I think this is Sam and Matt's favorite Squeeze album; listening, Sam remarked, "I like Squeeze. They're very good at singing."

The track Some Americans features not a guitar break but a sitar break by the adorable Glenn Tilbrook. The best-known single, Hourglass, spawned a cool, trippy music video; five years later, the movie Toys (1992) would feature an ersatz MTV video that echoes many of its visual elements (and also borrows heavily from the painter Rene Magritte). (Reader Challenge: If you can procure for me the Hourglass music video on DVD in Region 1 format, I will give you oral. I'm only about 65% kidding.)

Hello, I'm Eleven Years Old.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Evil Things
About ten minutes ago I read in the Sts. Simon & Jude RCC parish newsletter that Karol Wojtyla, later known as John Paul II, was appointed Titular Bishop of Ombi [Poland] on July 4, 1958.

I've been giggling to myself ever since.

Corporate Juggernaut.
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: Evil Things
I have surrendered to the corporate juggernaut known as Starbucks Coffee Company. It's true: I glibly toss about words and phrases like venti, frappuccino and no whip, and an almost invariable part of my morning commute is the stop for a venti (that's Starbucksian for large) nonfat cappuccino.

Even on the weekends and away from my standard morning route, I will track down a Starbucks and get my usual. That's not hard to do, given that there appears to be a Southern California zoning ordinance mandating at least two Starbucks stores in each square mile. I'm not really exaggerating -- in Newport Beach, a city of 25 square miles, there are ten Starbucks.

I know. Reprehensible. I don't even care if it does turn out that Starbucks is merely a corporate front for an evil empire bent on world domination. Hey, I'm a registered Republican -- according to some of you, I'm all about that sort of thing anyway, right?

And I must give due credit to Nicole, the girl who mans (womans?) the coffee bar at the Starbucks at Harbor & Adams in Costa Mesa during weekday morning drive time. That chick has a photographic memory and the quickest hands in the business. The moment I walk in the door, she queues up my drink, and it's always ready by the time I hit the cash register. Her personal best is two minutes from the time I shut off my car until the time I start it back up with cappuccino in hand. Nicole is fucking awesome, and I hope the corporate juggernaut is taking good care of her. Hell, for all I care, she's sleeping with Number Two. (Eeee, sounds messy.)

Morning Commute Soundtrack: Show Some Emotion (1977) by Joan Armatrading. Her style was echoed in ensuing years by Tracy Chapman and then Macy Gray, with increasingly limited success. As with most things, nothing can compare to the original.

Benedict XVI: The Short, Conservative Yet Individualistic, Peaceful Papacy.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Miscellany
So, Cardinal Ratzinger of Germany got the nod. Ben said Sieg Heil! but it would be wrong to say that, especially considering I've blogged an oblique Nazi reference as recently as, I don't know, yesterday.

The good Cardinal, or Benedict XVI as he shall henceforth be known, was one of J2P2's right-hand men. But not, as some say, a clone: he has signalled this by not choosing to be John Paul III, as some predicted he might do. Despite the close ties to his esteemed predecessor, he's his own man.

Realistically, and not in a mean way, you know, it's not going to be the longest papacy on earth. Our new Pontiff has just turned 78, and we can safely assume we're not in for another 26-year reign. Some might say the Catholics are using him as a placeholder, but I get the idea that no one should underestimate him. John Paul was no dummy, and that remained true right up till the end. Like all good leaders, he surrounded himself with shrewd advisors, and Cardinal Ratzinger was prominent among them.

It will be disappointing to the more liberal voices among us that Pope Benedict has made it very clear that like John Paul, he's going to brook no talk of homosexual marriage or female clergy. I happen to agree with their point of view, and I'll not debate it with you. Consider the source -- y'all know I tend to be a righty. I have mostly been a very lousy Catholic, but that doesn't give me standing to argue Church dogma with the Holy Father. It is what it is.

As a final tidbit, the name this pope chose could be just as revealing as the name he didn't choose. To give you a brief bit of history, Benedict XV reigned at the time of World War I and in 1917 made a Plea for Peace to the leaders of the world. They mostly ignored him, but at this moment in history, the name Benedict could be particularly timely.

That is all. We now return to our regularly scheduled roo-roo.

Roo-Roo.
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Evil Things
By popular demand:

Two men were captured in the bush by cannibals and taken captive. They were brought before the tribal chief, who informed them both that they would be killed. He advised the men that they could choose to be put to death one of three ways: By boiling water (and he pointed out a large cauldron being heated over a campfire); the quick death by spear; or roo-roo.

The first man thought for a moment and asked the chief what roo-roo was. The chief replied that roo-roo was an ancient sexual ritual. The first man chose roo-roo.

The chief replied, "That's an excellent choice." He led the man to a large tree, where he was tied naked to the tree, raped by all of the men in the village, and left to die.

The other man had witnessed his partner's demise and told the chief that he preferred to die the quick death by spear.

The chief looked at him and said, "That is also an excellent choice. But first, roo-roo."

Simple Twist Of Fate.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
The soundtrack for this morning's commute was Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks (1975). It's a great album, of course, but . . . maybe this is peevish of me, but it's a bit too see-you-next-Tuesday around the edges, you know, all that relationship examination and talk about feelings.

It's odd listening with a critical ear to the musicians I adored unconditionally 25 years ago. Unconditional adoration is not something I tend to go handing out these days, and even with those I love the most, at a certain point I will say Hey, you're the greatest, but this thing you're doing right now is, honestly, bullshit. You see? Peevish.

I prefer the Dylan of Blonde on Blonde, the rough edges and raw energy: I want you, so bad. I do understand that Dylan's marriage was falling apart at the time he wrote the songs for Blood on the Tracks, so I suppose he deserves some slack. I can't seem to tap into those emotions anymore.

I never really think about being apart from my husband. Ben and I have neither drama nor indifference between us, and if you think about it, it's usually one of those two things that will tear a couple apart. (Well, I suppose sex with other people is also a biggie, but my husband and I are pretty damn clear in our mutual understanding that it doesn't happen.) This looks to be a "till death do us part" situation, and from where we stand now I can't easily empathize with sturm und drang.

Someday, of course, death will do us part. Selfishly, I sometimes sort of hope that I will go first, because that would spare me having to go on without him. But it will be strange if I am the one left behind, because for the first time in my life I would truly lose my love -- he wouldn't just be off with someone else, he'd be gone. Gone where, I do not profess to know for sure, but lost to me in this life for certain. If someday I have to find out what that's like, I hope it's a very long time from now.

This started out to be an album critique and ended up as something completely different to that. Love and loss are not topics I usually tackle over morning tea. I guess maybe I was wrong about Blood on the Tracks -- I guess it does have the power to move me even today, only for different reasons.

Ahem. The office is coming to life around me, so I will shut up and write this here settlement agreement. But first, roo-roo! (If you know the joke that goes to that punch line, you get extra bonus points.)

Papal Conclave.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Evil Things
As you can imagine, I await the results of the papal conclave with bated breath. (That's bated breath as in breath held in abeyance, not baited breath as in breath which smells like dead fish or perhaps breath designed to lure and entice.) It is important to be clear about these things, and if you're among the approximately 98% of Americans who tend to confuse the two, there went a complimentary spelling lesson! You're welcome.

One of the topics of my most intensely burning curiosity, vis-a-vis the papal election, is the name which the new Pope will choose for himself. This is the subject of much speculation, and I believe Vegas is even posting odds. My choice? I vote for Pope Vinnie I. You'd think, with all these Italians holding the office over the years, someone would have picked it by now. I have a strange affection for that name. I once had a turtle named Vinnie, and in fact, when I was in the hospital having my oldest, I tried very hard to persuade my roommate to name her newborn baby boy Vinnie, just to see if I could do it. God, I'm an asshole.

My Three Youngest Kids & Their Nana.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Miscellany
Belly Shot. (Not to be confused with one of those shots of hard booze you take out of someone's navel.) I forgot to make Ben take a belly shot over the weekend, so here is one taken in my home office mirror at 6:30 a.m. That explains the shitty lighting and the reason my head, which appeared only as a flash of white light with curly brown hair anyway, is cropped out. Typically huge for one of my pregnant bellies at 22 weeks, and I must say there is nothing like a gigantic belly to make one's enormous Polish ass look smaller. And one's boobs, now that I think about it. You win a few, you lose a few.

Despite my ongoing Fear of Fatness, the scale revealed this morning that I've gained only 14 total pounds so far this pregnancy, and clearly that's all belly. I'm relieved; I keep expecting to get on the scale and find I've gained eight hundred pounds, all of it composed of Italian food and all of it residing in my thighs.

This week I'll get Ben to photograph my belly uncovered, so as to display the lack of stretch marks about which I am so insufferably smug. That is, if I can persuade him that I'm not using such photos to entice Internet wankers. Did you know there is a whole subclass of online porn featuring pregnant women? It's unspeakably perverted -- I fail to see what could be sexually attractive about a naked pregnant woman, except possibly to the guy who impregnated her, but it's true. Ben, however, can put his mind at ease. He and only he will be forced to look at my pregnant nakedness.

Speaking of the guy who impregnated me, we were reflecting the other night that our two youngest children, Matt and Julia, owe their existences to booze. It's true: Matt is the result of bathtub-sized Margaritas in Old Town San Diego at a time when we were fixing to get ready to try to make a baby anyway; Julia is the product of a bottle of good Central Coast zinfandel and an ill-timed, spur-of-the-moment decision to skip the condom. Let this be a lesson to the young. Alcohol really does lead to teen pregnancy, or worse, middle-aged pregnancy.

Sam & Matt Shots. They were clowning around Friday night and I got some truly choice photos, having somehow persuaded Haz Matt to hold still once or twice. We did not, by the way, instruct him to pose with underwear on his head, although it's just the sort of thing we would go and do; it was solely his own idea. Shortly after these were taken, Sam procured another pair of miniature jockey shorts which he wore on his own head in a number of fetching styles: Ninja, with only the eyes and nose showing; Babushka, over the forehead and under the chin; and Monster, covering the entire face with the hands making rahhhhh! claws. Their father was so proud of them: Not even in preschool yet and already wearing underwear on their heads. Surely bright futures await both of them.




My mom is doing a whole lot better and is going home from the hospital this morning. Let's hear it for old girls with gumption! She had me really scared the night her lung collapsed, but she has bounced back admirably and we were giggling together when I went to visit her last night. I am so jazzed about this -- she's got a ton of fight in her, and that's going to be of enormous help. We still don't have a prognosis, but I'm more optimistic than I've been since the initial diagnosis.

Have a winsome and productive week, y'all. Remember, Arbeit macht frei!

Suspending The Smartassery And Cuss Words For A Moment.
Mood:  down
Topic: Miscellany
If there's one thing I don't like, it's people who spread doom and gloom about the 'Net. Hey, if I wanted to be depressed, I'd contemplate the sheer amount of big housework projects I should be doing on the weekends. So as a rule I'm all smartassery and sunshine. But let me get serious for just a minute.

My mom's in the hospital. She's recently been diagnosed with probable lung cancer, and yesterday after her needle biopsy her lung collapsed. This might not be so bad for most people, but Mom's been in poor health for as long as I can remember -- since she was my age, really. Always some health issue. She's 75 years old and to be brutally honest, if you'd asked me 25 years ago, I wouldn't have predicted she'd make it this long.

I visited her in the hospital last night. I don't like the way she looks. We lost my dad to lung cancer six years ago. It is not a gentle way to go into that good night. She is scared, and I don't blame her.

I promise I won't have on about this any more, but two things: (1) say a little prayer for her, if you pray; and (2) for God's sake, if you smoke, think that this could be you someday. You won't always be young and perky. One day you might be 75 years old, gasping and frightened in a hospital bed. I may sound like a prat, but honestly? I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy.

That is all. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming. Want to hear a quick joke? This is from Garry Shandling: I think my dog is gay. His dick always tastes so bitter. There. That sounds more like me, doesn't it?

His Vocabulary's Better Than Mine, Too.
Mood:  amorous
Topic: The Tao of Ben
At this rate, I'm going to have to start a new category called Ben Crumpacker Is A Prick. He just sent me an e-mail containing the word miscegenation, and damn if I didn't have to look it up. Webster's defines it as a mixture of races; especially: marriage, cohabitation, or sexual intercourse between a white person and a member of another race. Lest anyone jump to the conclusion that Ben is a racist, I will hasten to add that he used the word in describing the plot of the movie Love Is A Many-Splendored Thing (1955). At that time, of course, miscegenation was considered a big deal. Today, one of my most beloved Internet friends partakes of it frequently, with great relish, and with a particularly gorgeous specimen of malehood. Take a bow, Vince Chao. Let's hear it for miscegenation!

Note to my husband: I'm the one who is meant to be tossing about words that send people scurrying to Webster's, you prick. The fact that you can do that to me is one of the myriad reasons you are a prick, and is also one of the even more myriad reasons I adore you.

Fertility Goddess.
Topic: Pregnancy
I'm only five months pregnant, but good Christ, I've got a masterpiece of a belly going on. This morning, kissing me goodbye, Ben said "Wow, you're really busting out all over" -- meaning the belly, the boobs, the whole package. (I'll have to have him take a photograph over the weekend. Exhibit B, you know.)

Times have changed, and pregnant women no longer dress in garments made from 20 yards of fabric which resemble oversized tents. I tend to wear maternity clothes that don't leave a whole lot to the imagination concerning the size and extent of my belly. I don't especially want to look like Lucy Ricardo did in 1953, and at my age, a pregnant belly is a bit of a miracle. I'm proud of it. But it seems that pregnancy and breastfeeding make a lot of people uncomfortable.

At the risk of being dooced, there is a high-level executive in the company where I work who seems unable to look at me when I'm pregnant. All that fecundity, I think, makes him uncomfortable -- he a guy who is into decorum, who still wears an impeccable suit to the office every day despite the fact that we switched to a "business casual" dress code years ago. He also didn't appreciate my practice, while pumping milk at work for my son, of simply hanging a photograph of a cow on my locked office door to signal that I was pumping. It seems a lot of people aren't at ease with such things.

There's been a lot of debate going on lately about breastfeeding in public. I do that -- I don't put a blanket over my baby's head or hide in the restroom, either. You would be amazed how few people have ever caught on that I was breastfeeding. If you wear nursing tops, with a bit of practice you can master enough sleight of boob that no one ever knows what you're up to. But some people get plenty shook up if they realize someone is nursing in public.

There are those who would immediately say that these attitudes are based in hostility toward women and objectification of their bodies, but I don't buy that. It's a knee-jerk oversimplification. Probably more like a manifestation of the basic Puritanity of our culture. Americans have a million neuroses about sexuality and reproduction, and I'm afraid this is just another one.

Me, I'm going to continue to flaunt my belly. I won't bare it in public, and I won't expect you to find it sexually attractive unless you are personally the cause of my pregnancy. But I'm not going to put on a burqa either.

Sam's Peepee Goes To Preschool.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Sam
This morning we did it; we went and toured Sam's new preschool. He starts in September, and the only trick is going to be getting his peepee (not to mention his behind) in order by that time as far as the peeing and the pooping and when and where to do those things.

I have faith in him, though. He was fascinated by the four-year-olds' room and kept asking the director "What's that for?" and "What do we do here?" So he's motivated. We stopped at Starbuck's beforehand for Mommy's venti nonfat cappuccino and he peed in the toilet like a champ, although I'm going to have to work with him on making sure his peepee is actually pointing into the toilet before he lets fly. "My peepee is getting really good at peeing in the toilet," he mused afterward.

Sam's peepee has quite the personality. Sometimes I will take him to the bathroom and he will try to pee but then explain, 'My peepee says No no no." His peepee says other things, too, and Sam will sometimes wag his peepee up and down and make it "talk" as it says these things. Ben and I find it endearing that his peepee says No no no in the first place. Most guys' peepees don't say anything except Yes yes yes, and that goes for their whole lifetimes.

So, you know, I think Sam and his peepee are going to do okay. Mommy, on the other hand, is a bit of a wreck. Preschool this fall means kindergarten next fall, and excuse me, didn't I just give birth to this kid ten minutes ago? Mr. Baby is all grown up. This is all a bit much for a hormonal pregnant mommy.

In other news, I finally got up off it and bought a domain name. The Mr. Baby Blog is now located at www.MrBabyShow.com. Our motto: Same shit, different URL!

Saint George.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
Lately I've been listening to a lot of George Harrison's solo work. It's true that he tended to be a bit too Hindu around the edges and sometimes took the whole spirituality thing a bit too far, but you know, there was something about him. He uplifted like a good support bra.

In fact, the two songs Ben has been instructed to play at my funeral are George Harrison solo efforts. You'll have to show up to the funeral to find out which ones. Be sure to bring lots of Bombay Sapphire and a cute girl for Ben, since with three kids he is going to have to remarry by nightfall.

The thing that got me started on George Harrison was unearthing a couple of his albums in a box of crap in my office. These were The Traveling Wilburys, Vol. 1 (1988), from the supergroup he formed with Bob Dylan, Jeff Lynne, Roy Orbison and Tom Petty, and the greatest hits collection Best of Dark Horse (1989). Brilliant stuff. By today's standards, it's fucking Mozart. People aren't making music like that anymore.

There is a George story that Ben likes to tell which may be apocryphal, but I like it anyway. The story goes that during the Beatle days, George was sitting in his hotel room playing the ukelele when a girl arrived at the door and announced to whoever answered that she wanted to give George, umm, oral pleasure. George agreed, but kept on playing his ukelele -- she did what she came to do and brought the act to fruition, and then she left, and George never said a word or stopped playing the ukelele. Talk about cool.

Of course, George died of lung cancer in November 2001. They're really dropping like flies these days, aren't they? One of the things about getting older that really freaks me out is the way the heavens start filling up with Famous Dead Guys, and it just gets worse as the years go by. Saint George, you had a good run and left some good music. I don't know where you are -- the normal Heaven or some Hindu place or maybe reincarnated as God only knows what -- but you were a good one.

But It's True.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Pregnancy
Today, after a meeting with my boss, I heaved my increasingly pregnant self to my feet with an audible groan. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"My arse hurts," I replied. She looked a bit taken aback. Hey, don't ask, don't tell. She asked!

If the truth be known, my arse does hurt. I hope the energetic, sexually active part of pregnancy isn't over already. I hope I'm not into the slow, heavy, achy part. Even if this baby is early, as my babies tend to be, I am looking at 16 more weeks at the very least. That's four months of a sore butt. Kid, just for the record, when you get here, you'd better be nice to me. I don't suffer ass pain for just ANYONE, you know.

Poop Talk Du Jour.
Topic: Poop
It's time to talk about poop, since I haven't done it in a while. I know I've talked about farts within the past 48 hours, but farts aren't poop, and the rigors of bloggery demand frequent entries on the subject of defecation. So I will talk about Sam's diaper, and what's in it, and the fact that he shouldn't be wearing it anymore.

It's true -- Alert Readers may have noticed that when talking about smelling the kids' butts for poop, I used the plural. Sam, less than three months shy of his fourth birthday, is still in diapers. This is not just because I'm a terrible mother; Ben and I, as well as the day care lady, have tried and tried to get this kid out of diapers. We've attempted every tactic known, so please don't e-mail me with your helpful hints, because if you do, I will find out where you live and mail you one of Sam's dirty diapers.

Ben's mother, my sainted mother-in-law, is going absolutely insane with annoying helpfulness on the potty issue. She clips out articles and mails them to us, asks Ben about Sam's potty progress every time they talk on the phone (which is about five times a week, for God's sake), and is always suggesting some video or Dr. Phil quackery or what have you. Poor Ben is the one who has to undergo these torrents of wisdom, and he's also the one who has to undergo my responsive ravings: Tell her I am NOT taking potty training advice from someone who has never toilet trained a child [Ben's grandmother trained him], and even if she claims she DID train you, THAT WAS FORTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO. My poor husband. I wonder which is worse, a bossy mother or a wife who doesn't take kindly to her bullshit advice?

The latest wrinkle in Sam's failure to toilet train came today when I called his prospective new preschool and was informed that while they take kids from infancy on up, they are not prepared to take on an almost-four-year-old who is not toilet trained.

It's just the latest logistical difficulty in a series of many. Sam is showing signs of growing out of the largest size diaper (he is very tall for his age and looks at least 5 years old, which makes it all the more incongruous that he still poops in his pants), and I've told him that he will end up wearing Depends like a nursing home inmate, but he is not impressed.

Nor is he fazed by the announcement by Katrina, his "girlfriend" at day care, that she is having second thoughts about marrying a guy who still poops in his pants. (Hey, it would be a dealbreaker for me, too.) I've even tried explaining to him that changing his poopy diapers is just too disgusting and I really can't handle it anymore. No dice. I really think the kid is just being stubborn, and the day care lady is in agreement with the preschool people that he'll train when he's ready, that pushing him too hard will just backfire. So that, for now, is that.

People say Well, he won't go to college in diapers, but I have my doubts. Someday I will help him pack his bag for college, and its contents will include both Trojans and Depends. Mark my words.

Of Marriage And Fidelity.
Mood:  amorous
Mean girl that I am, I should probably apologize to Ben for blogging a fart story about him. Even though he says that the farting is all my fault for cooking lamb shanks for dinner: You feed me dead sheep, what do you expect? But it's disrespectful to tell such tales, and really, I do very much love and respect my husband. Yesterday, for a moment, I was reminded exactly how much.

I was jolted awake at 6:30 a.m. by a nightmare that sent me bolt upright in bed with pounding heart -- I dreamed that he was leaving me. No discussion, no debate -- in the dream, he calmly and coldly announced that he was moving to San Diego. Waking, I quickly realized that all was in fact well, that he and the boys were there sleeping beside me where they belonged. But I was so upset that further sleep was out of the question. It was only a dream, but it reminded me how much you can't take your marriage for granted.

Although I guess many people do. Are Ben and I the only people on earth with a truly joyful marriage? Even after five years we are giggling best friends, we are still mad with lust for each other. That's easy to maintain when you're dating, when you spend your time together on jet ski trips and pub crawls and all-afternoon boink sessions. A lot of our time, though, is spent wiping noses and asses, and sex is a thing dearly to be desired but difficult to actually achieve, what with two toddlers who never seem to fall asleep until Ben and I are too exhausted to do much more than grin apologetically at each other. So the degree to which we're happy together is truly a rare thing.

By contrast, most of our friends' marriages seem to fall somewhere along a continuum ranging from neutrality to misery. Worse, very few of the couples we know are actually faithful to each other. Of the men, even the ones who aren't openly cavorting with barely legal South American girls (whom they pay by the hour or by the day) are having clandestine adventures whenever the opportunity strikes. Are we the only married people on earth who aren't cheating on each other? I ask Ben. And he quickly points out the two married men of our acquaintance who don't cheat on their wives, or at least who haven't been caught at it or admitted to it -- but they aren't good examples, either. I know these guys, and for them, marital fidelity is like investing or flossing; it's the right thing to do, but there's no joy in it.

My husband and I, though, truly have the hots for each other. Some of that is due to deprivation and some to sincere effort; despite three pregnancies in my 40s, I make a concerted effort to stay cute, to wear a size 4 and wear my hair long and not skip jewelry and makeup. And God was kind enough to give me no stretch marks whatsoever. It's only fair to keep up my appearance; I could hardly expect Ben to stick close to home if I had gained 60 pounds, chopped off all my hair, and developed a sudden distaste for the male body in general and his in particular, the way so many wives do.

And in that regard, we're also different from every other couple I know. There seems to be something about having babies that makes women go cold on sex, and most of them won't even get on their knees and do their poor husbands a favor. No, they want to be romanced. You love the guy, don't you? I ask such women. He stays married to you, he supports your children, he comes home at night, right? So what's the problem? He wants sex; you don't; do him a favor. And they look at me like I've suggested they bury their noses in shit. Surely they are failing to grasp the secret to a happy marriage and to male fidelity: Give him a reason not to cheat on you. But they don't get it.

Not everyone has a marriage as happy as mine. But I think sometimes that's due more to lack of effort and imagination than to anything else. Ben and I don't have a perfect life by any means -- we wish there was more money and less baby shit; I wish he wouldn't fart into my sofa; he wishes I wouldn't blog embarrassing revelations about his bodily functions. But I love my husband. And my dream reminded me -- should remind us all -- that we should never take anything we love for granted, because maybe someday it's gone.

For Whom The Smell Tolls.
Mood:  smelly
Topic: The Tao of Ben
There is a standard Crumpacker method for checking if one of the boys has poop in his pants: Quite simply, we smell their butts through their pants. Ben was quite scandalized the first time I held up baby Sam and demanded, Smell his butt! But you know, it's a good method. I have heard of parents who check for poop by thrusting a hand inside the kid's diaper. Now that strikes me as foolhardy. Compared to the hand-in-the-diaper method, smelling their butts, while it probably looks a bit strange in public, is downright safe and sanitary.

This afternoon I thought I caught a telltale whiff, so I started polling my kids. Do you have a poop? I asked Sam. He shook his head. Matt, do you have a poop? Sam, who is my good little helper, immediately offered, I better smell his butt. And he duly did so, and announced after a moment that Matt in fact was poop-free.

Sam's sense of humor, these days, is firmly rooted in the absurd, so in the spirit of the moment, I suggested, I'd better smell Daddy's butt. Sam squealed with delight as I approached his father and said Sit up, I need to smell your butt. And I did exactly that -- I took a big whiff, thinking I was safe. I mean, you'd hardly expect the guy to have a poop in his pants, right?

I almost fell over -- it smelled pretty damned bad. You've been farting! I accused him. He grinned. Not lately, he replied. I was left sputtering with indignation and disgust.

Ben just laughed at me. See? he said. Don't go around smelling people's butts. And I have to agree. Next time you get the urge to smell the butts of the males in the room, I recommend limiting your inquiry to the toddlers.

Gimme Gimme Gimme.
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Matt
As some of you may know, two-year-old Matt has finally weaned from the breast. Depending upon who you are -- whether you're a crunchy Mommy type or a college buddy or a smart-ass blogger or what have you -- that information may inspire any number of reactions from Kudos! to Ewwww to About bloody time, or possibly some or all of the above.

Matt is being a pretty good sport about the whole thing, really, but has replaced nursing with a habit which I fear most people would find socially unacceptable, namely that he feels free to plunge his hand inside my bra, any time the mood may strike him, and start rummaging about in there. I have tried reasoning with him, explaining that we just don't do that and that people aren't generally going to let him get away with that type of thing later in life, but he isn't really impressed by any of my arguments. Nor is his father any help whatsoever. He just cackles and gives him a thumbs-up and says Go for it, kid.

Well. Many women say that they wish their husbands would be more tolerant and supportive of extended breastfeeding. And to that I say Be careful what you wish for.