There She Goes.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Pregnancy
There she is, my beautiful baby, as seen on ultrasound this very morning. Measuring right on target, estimated weight 4 pounds 10 ounces at 33 weeks gestation. Hi there, Julie-Boo. Can't wait to meet you.

Watching The Insides Of My Eyelids.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Pregnancy
Back in January, just barely pregnant, I wrote about how sleepy this baby was making me, which was overwhelmingly so. Nearly six months later, I'm back where I started: nodding off at the office, dreaming of bedtime.

I took most of a sick day on Friday so I could go home and get some rest, thinking it would help if I could just get caught up. It didn't. I sent my kids to the park with Ben and his mother on Saturday so I could take a nap. It's just past summer solstice, and these are the longest days of the year; the sun sets past 8 p.m., and us? We're in bed by that time. My favorite show is, once again, the one on the insides of my eyelids.

I don't blog, much. Hell, I barely work. I wait, and I worry, and I pee a lot, and I look forward to bedtime. Someone tell me this will pass, because I've only got so many weeks left until I'm the harried working mother of three kids under the age of five, and I don't want to miss those weeks by sleeping through them.

The World As We Know It.
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: Rants
This is day number 227. You're 32 weeks pregnant . . . There are 53 days until your due date! (18.9% to go)

Why on earth do I keep looking at that pregnancy calendar thingy every day? I know only too well how long I've got left, how soon the changes are coming. Soon we will meet our new baby, but there's a part of me that wants to put on the brakes and slow things down. Are we really ready for this?

Every day, in every aspect of caring for the kids, the thought lurks around every corner: Soon there will be three. As in more of them than there are of us. Folding laundry, writing the day care check every Friday, trundling the boys out to the car in the morning: All those things, very soon now, are going to increase by one child.

I'm tired. So tired. A lot of this is due to the 5:42 a.m. alarm (I always set my alarm for an "odd" time; keeping things interesting, you know) and the sheer physics of dragging around this enormous belly, I know all that, but do I have energy enough for three little ones? Arms enough to hold them all? Heart enough to love them all? I do. I know I do. But some days I feel daunted, and unsure that I am up to the task.

Matt, in particular, tears at my heart. He is the baby; he has been the baby for two and a half years. At nights we cuddle to sleep and I feel his warm little hands grasping my neck and my hair as he drifts off, murmuring in my ear about warm sleepy Matt things. Soon there will be a new baby, needing a world of warmth and cuddles and comforts of her own. Is there enough Mommy to go around?

I felt these things late in my pregnancy with Matt, but this time it's stronger. Have you ever had that feeling of anticipatory nostalgia -- already missing days that aren't quite gone yet? Our lives are about to change forever, and Julia will make our days immeasurably richer, as babies do. Soon we won't be able to remember what life was like without her. But for now, I savor the present.

Because I'm Wearing A Path In The Carpet.
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Pregnancy
Julia. Sweetie pie? Could you please get off my bladder for, oh I don't know, maybe half a second even? Because I sure am tired of peeing, and can't see spending the next seven weeks in the ladies' loo.

Happy Father's Day.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
For me, what summed up the day was hearing, while out in the garage folding laundry, Ben and Matt inside singing You've Got A Friend In Me together. You know, from Toy Story.

Honey, you wanted kids -- I knew that from our very first date, because that was the first time you brought it up -- and sometimes I think you got more than you bargained for. But I know that cuts both ways; as you said today, these little humanoids are worth it all, and more. Watching you with them, hearing them say "Daddy, Daddy!" -- all this is candy to my eyes, music to my ears. Happy Father's Day, sweetie. You're a fantastic dad.

Belly At 31 Weeks.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Pregnancy
Bless Ben's heart, he cut off the top of my head. But my ass looks really small in this shot -- hell, next to that belly, North America looks small -- so in it goes. 31 weeks, 20 pounds and counting.

New Coochie Doc.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Pregnancy
Today I met with my new Coochie Doc, Gregory DiRocco, M.D. He's a peach. My baby will be born at Hoag Memorial Hospital Presbyterian in Newport Beach, overlooking the blue Pacific. That's right, I will grunt out this puppy with an ocean view.

Right now we are looking at a scheduled induction. I know, I know -- this is contrary to everything my crunchy mommy friends would be advising, but it works for us. We hope to welcome Julia Rose Kathleen to the family on or about Sunday, August 7, 2005.

Life is not predictable, and babies seldom are. Me, I'm a creature of habit and structure. The idea of having a baby on a date certain has a powerful appeal -- maternity leave, care for my sons while I'm in labor, everything falls gloriously into place. Miss Julia may yet throw me a monkey wrench (breathes there a child who hasn't disappointed his or her mother even before birth?) but let me tell you, a tentative schedule is better than no schedule at all.

Oh, and my coochie was pronounced in good working order. I am officially Dr. DiRocco's oldest obstetric patient. Whee! Listen to this, he told the nurse. Forty-four years old and pregnant naturally.

Not just naturally, I pointed out. Accidentally, too. The two of them stared at me. I grinned. It's fun to be science fiction incarnate!

Boobie Talk.
Mood:  surprised
Topic: Miscellany
Over the past few days, as so often happens, boobies have thrust themselves into my consciousness at various times and in various forms. No, I've not gone lesbian. But when you're the pregnant mommy of a two-year-old who still clearly isn't weaned in his heart, as well as a lazy lactivist and the wife of a red-blooded American male, there are boobies lurking around every corner.

This week, boobies and the public use of same for their intended purpose is a hot-button issue due to a negative remark about public breastfeeding made by, of all people, Baba Wawa on The View. I have the honor of never having seen that show or, indeed, any current show except Dave the Barbarian. If anything, I'm a little startled by the news that anyone still cares what Barbara Walters has to say about anything apart from the merits of Geritol. However, the idea of public breastfeeding becoming a "mainstream" issue just makes me weary. Please. I just don't have the strength to imagine what will become of nursing as an "issue" in the hands of Middle America, and all I can say is it's a strange country indeed where women can openly talk about their cheesy see-you-next-Tuesdays in commercials for yeast medication, yet it's considered a political act to breastfeed your baby. Nursing your kid wherever you happen to be is so not a big deal that the idea of actually having to think about it makes me want to go have a lie-down. Some lactivist I am. You see? Lazy.

I am also thinking about boobies because Matt has clearly not been weaned, despite my best efforts. This is to say that I spend my falling-asleep period with my back to Matt and my forearms crossed against the old milk jugs just to keep him from digging about in my top with his hands, which is his preferred comfort habit when falling asleep. The other night he told me Don't touch my boobies. I replied that it was kind of rich for me to hear that particular instruction coming from him, until it became clear that by "his" boobies he meant my boobies -- he was instructing me to quit protecting them and give him access already. So help me, I'm going to end up tandem nursing a newborn and a 31-month-old. Again, the very idea of this makes me tired.

While all this was going on, Ben had a sudden change of heart and informed me that after I finish nursing Julia, which we estimate will happen maybe two years from now, he will spring for a boob job. This means one of two things: either (1) he has finally got it through his head that I'm not going to leave him the minute I get my tits done or (2) he has reached the point where my soon to be thrice-postpartum body is really frightening to him. I'm going to set this issue aside for later, because I've got other, more pressing boob matters to worry about.

Maybe I will skip the boob job altogether and just resign myself to aging gracefully, with all the wrinkles and sag and grey hair nature has to offer. Certainly, by the time Julia gets done nursing I will have plenty of all of the above. And by that time, which will be some seven years after conceiving Sam, my boobies will have earned a rest.

Afterword: I'm amending this entry to point out, to those who don't know this, that I weaned Matt from the breast at 26 months because my new pregnancy made nursing so painful it literally made me cry. That is the only reason. I'm all about child-led weaning; the fact that a child is two years old is, in itself, not a reason to wean. Just by way of clarification.

Performance Review.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Sam
Today, after reviewing a brief I had written, my boss remarked, "Great argument. You really nailed it." I smiled and thanked her.

After leaving the office for the day, I picked up the boys at day care and went home to start my second job. My really important job. Sam asked for a snack, and I offered to surprise him -- he likes surprise snacks. "Okay," he said. "But I don't want a fake snack. I want a good snack."

I disappeared into the kitchen and made up a little plate: six Twizzlers arranged on a dinosaur's belly, with a handful of Jelly Bellys in the little round area where the cup is meant to go. (Yes, that's right; I am a horrible mother who feeds her children dreadful snacks loaded with sugar and completely devoid of nutrition. Sue me.) I carried the plate in and placed it in front of Sam.

He smiled. "Cooooool snack," he said.

Back in the kitchen, I realized I was grinning from ear to ear. Some performance reviews are more important than others.

A Boy And His Peepee.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
My Sam is going to be very popular with the girls one day; he's tall, off the charts for height, so probably destined for 6'3" or so; and he has a startlingly large peepee. We don't circumcise, so he's bound to frighten the girls with it, one day. At the very least, he frightens me with it every single morning when the old morning wood phenomenon kicks in. Ten-hut! his father invariably remarks, saluting. I don't know whether to salute or pray to Jesus. If his peepee is this alarming before he reaches the age of four, I hate to think what puberty will bring. Fortunately, by that time I won't have to look at it anymore; or if I do, I will be well within my rights to tell him Either go put on some pants or get out of my kitchen in your underwear.

This morning he rose early, dressed in a pajama top and Scooby-Doo underpants. He was, as usual, pitching a ferocious tent. Pulling persistently at himself, he observed, I can't get my peepee to lay down.

Well, I told him, peepees like to wake up and stretch in the morning, just like you do. It will lay down soon enough.

Still tugging at it, he replied Well, I'm trying to get it to lay down. But it won't. It crossed my mind that here was the beginning of a problem he would have for most of his life, but I refrained from pointing this out to him. It also crossed my mind that as long as he kept pulling at his peepee, it would probably never lie down, but I figure he will discover that soon enough, too. Possibly already has.

It's interesting watching a guy coming to grips with his genitalia, so to speak. I've always wondered what it must be like harboring a bodily organ that behaves so independently of the rest of you; I'm guessing it's something like having a baby moving inside you, this little presence over which you don't entirely have control. The wonder, bemusement and camaraderie with which Sam relates to his peepee are endlessly fascinating and entertaining.

Sharp-Shinned Hawk.
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Geekery
I was puttering about my kitchen yesterday toward sunset when I heard a dire flurry from the backyard, followed quickly by two finches crashing against my kitchen window, then by two rather large mourning doves hitting the back door. Feathers everywhere. I rushed to the window to see the birds recover themselves and beat a hasty retreat, then for just a moment looked directly into the eyes of an adolescent sharp-shinned hawk perched upon the back fence. Well, that explained the flurry and the feathers and the impacts.

I was able to see that he had nothing in his talons, so his little backyard raid went unrewarded, but the birds were spooked badly and my feeders stayed mostly empty for the balance of the sunset hour, ordinarily one of my busiest.

Ben and I have occasionally railed against neighbors' cats in our backyard, to the point where the boys talk about that bad cat who eats our birds, because eat them they do; but this was our first raptor visit. I promptly researched it, of course, and apparently it's a fact of life at feeders; in the wild, the Cooper's hawk and the sharp-shinned hawk routinely prey upon groups of birds gathered to feed, and this was just a backyard reenactment, evidently, of stuff that goes on in the wild every day. I'm not creating the situation by putting out feeders, I'm merely bringing the food chain home to my backyard.

Still, I hate these reminders, and sometimes wonder why the hell I keep all these carnivores about the house instead of harboring iguanas and other vegetarian species. The gecko and the spiders eat live crickets, the python eats live mice, and the raptors prey on my house finches and fat stupid mourning doves. The food chain may be part of nature, but it's neither pretty nor fun.

Friday Playlist.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
I burned a CD of office background music, in no particular order and of no particular logic. The playlist, now I look at it, is . . . strange.

What Is Life - George Harrison
Runaround - Blues Traveler
Sukiyaki - Kyu Sakamoto
Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life - Monty Python (The Life of Brian soundtrack)
What Have I Done To Deserve This - Pet Shop Boys
Don't Let Go The Coat - Pete Townshend
One Week - Barenaked Ladies
Beyond The Sea - Bobby Darin
Oliver's Army - Elvis Costello
Sulu Dance - The Howard Stern Show
Closer To Fine - Indigo Girls
No Such Thing - John Mayer
Carey - Joni Mitchell
The Porpoise Song - The Monkees (Head soundtrack)
You Get What You Give - New Radicals
I Throw My Toys Around - No Doubt with Elvis Costello (The Rugrats Movie soundtrack)
Say You'll Be There - Spice Girls
I Got A Line On You - Spirit
Please Please Me - The Beatles
Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye - Steam
Walk Away Renee - The Left Banke
They Don't Know - Tracey Ullman

The transition of which I'm most proud is the one from the Howard Stern Show to the Indigo Girls -- I think it's safe to say Amy and Emily would be startled quite out of their wits to find themselves in such company.

Ummm, What's Wrong With This Picture?
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Rants
I went to my Primary Care Provider's office today for my Rhogam shot, since my beloved Coochie Doc has not deigned to come out of retirement to poke my ass with yet another needle in the 28th week of yet another pregnancy. It was a bit surreal. The nurse, whom I have known for a while and who is really pretty cool, came in to consult a little form and ask me questions.

Nurse: Um, what is your blood type?

Me: A negative.

Nurse: How about the father?

Me: Um. He's Rh positive, either A or B . . . can't be AB, since one of our kids is O. Do you need me to pick one? Let's say A positive. That's what Sam is. Matt's O negative.

Nurse [looks confused, speaks as if to self]: It says here ABO group. I don't know what that means.

Me [curbing urge to run from room screaming, as well as urge to educate SOMEONE WHO IS PRESUMABLY AN R.N., IN WHICH CASE OH MY GOD]: Uh, who knows. So, how about that needle in my butt?

I weep for the state of American health care. Is this what HMOs have wrought? An ENGLISH MAJOR outfoxing an R.N. on a blood type question?

Confession.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Evil Things
I realized today, weeding my browser bookmarks, that I haven't looked at That Really Popular Blog Everyone Reads These Days in weeks. So I gave it a look, and was something less than riveted. Add that to the list of Things With Which I Became Terminally Bored Right Before Everyone Else Started Thinking They Were Super Fab, along with the Santa Ynez Valley wine region, Sex and the City, Melrose Place, the Doors, novelty-print purses (e.g., sushi menu illustrations, Audrey Hepburn movie stills) and fake-retro tank tops (e.g., Lazy Daze Trailer Park).

Cutting edge? Or just easily bored? You decide.

Remember Them.
Mood:  special
Topic: Miscellany
Setting aside absolutely everything you do or don't think is or was right about Afghanistan, Iraq or Vietnam, please take a moment today to remember the men and women who have died in the service of our country. Focus on World War II if you wish; it's the last time Americans were truly united behind a military cause and stayed that way. In between barbecuing and swimming and visiting with family and friends and enjoying the warm weather, remember them.

Oh, and it's okay to wear white shoes now, if that's the sort of thing you do.

You Don't Know Dick.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Miscellany
Yesterday, casting about for something to do once a trip to the Cal State Fullerton Arboretum proved impracticable (police, barricades, a sign directing Event Parking several blocks away), we diverted to the Richard Nixon Library & Birthplace in Yorba Linda. Yorba Linda is a town rich in religious/ conservative destinations; in addition to the Nixon Library, there is also to the John Paul II Polish Center, where we've gone for the Dozynki (Harvest) Festival every September. Hot and smoggy, but a Catholic Republican's dream town.

I knew Sam and Matt wouldn't tolerate the Nixon Library for long, but I did want to see gardens, and it's got those. "We're going to go see Dick," I told the kids as we parked the car. And then, inside the huge vestibule, which was mostly deserted due to the early hour and where his voice rang loudly off the walls, Sam frightened the docents, who were mostly retirees. by asking "Where's Dick? I want to see Dick!" This is not a question you ordinarily hear south of West Hollywood.

The gardens were nice, and on the way home we stopped off at a store I'd spotted called Wild Birds Unlimited, whose merchandise is geared to the backyard birder and of whom I'd been previously unaware, where I couldn't resist buying a platform feeder and a bag of thistle seed. And then we stopped off for lunch at a restaurant called Amazon Churrascaria, where grilled meats of all description are brought to your tableside on swords. The boys were delighted, and we all ate rather too much, and you haven't heard anything until you've heard a two-year-old demanding "More quail!" and "More alligator!"

We also brought home refrigerator magnets depicting (1) Nixon's famous meeting with Elvis at the White House and (2) Nixon, Bush Sr., Ford and Reagan gathered together for some event or other. This, we confess, was mostly so Erika could be annoyed by them when she comes to visit. We aren't Republicans just to annoy liberals, but it's certainly a perk.

Great Name For A Rock Band.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Matt
Last night, Sam and Matt were taking their bath when suddenly Matt got to his feet.

DELICIOUS NIPPLES! he exclaimed, covered in vanilla bubbles, apropos of nothing. It wasn't even so much what he said, which was remarkable enough, but the way he said it. Matt has a very expressive manner of speech; the word No has four syllables in Matt language. Likewise, the nipples were apparently very delicious indeed. He didn't so much say it; he sang it.

Ben and I looked at each other and almost wet our pants laughing. Delicious nipples, Matt sighed again. Of course, it would be an excellent name for a rock band. Ben said as much to me, and Sam, hearing this, improvised and sang to us:

Delicious nipples for you,
Delicious nipples for you.

And once again I was knocked out by the everyday dialogues that go on in our house. I have no idea where Matt has been getting this -- we don't watch such things on television or in movies, and although it's true he has weaning issues, we don't even use the word nipples. But there it is. Delicious Nipples.

I'm Scared Of Claudette Colbert's Eyebrows.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Evil Things
Every time Ben falls asleep watching TCM, which is pretty much nightly, I'm frightened anew by Claudette Colbert, and in particular her eyebrows. What is it about old-time actresses and scary eyebrows? Barbara Stanwyck is particularly frightening; she looks like a man in addition to possessing scary eyebrows and a large arsenal of those freaky '40s hairdos.

Once, on vacation, I turned on TCM while Ben was out in the kitchen. What's on? he yelled.

I see Joan Crawford in a nightie, I yelled back.

Oh, he said. A monster movie.

Wannabe.
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Rants
This morning I stopped off to gas up the minivan, and in the process, went into the little attached mini-mart for some Gatorade. Inside the store, someone was singing Hit the Road, Jack, badly, along with the radio. It turned out to be the cashier.

Hi! she trilled at me as I approached the counter. I looked at my watch: 7:20 a.m.

It's nice to see someone in such a good mood this early in the morning, I ventured. (I hate that fucking song, and I have a strict rule against insincere pleasantries, but that much was true.)

She chatted cheerily as she made my change, and as I turned to leave, she delivered her parting plug: And at your baby's first birthday party, I can be Pockets the Clown!

I shuddered as I hung up the pump and climbed behind the wheel. First of all: I fucking hate clowns. Hate, hate, hate. Truly, madly and deeply. It's an aversion shared by Ben, Erika and Sam; Erika in particular was frightened by a clown when she was about two, and they freak her out deeply to this day. Matt doesn't mind clowns, but that's only because he is too young to realize the terrifying truth. Clowns are evil. Suddenly I saw the merry cashier in a new, sinister light. Not only is she a clown, she wants me to pay her to frighten my children. Not bloody likely.

In Southern California, it figures that the cashier in the gas station is also a clown, because everyone here is actually something else. Your waiter is an actor and rapper; the girl behind the Clinique counter is invariably a MAW (model/actress/whatever, a species endemic in these parts). Is no one in Lala Land actually doing what they dream?

There should be a local version of the Serenity Prayer. God grant me the serenity to accept the fact that at 35, I'm not likely to become a Victoria's Secret model; the courage to change my opinion that I've got an acting career in my future; and the wisdom to know the difference between talent and self-deception.

Have you seen the movie L.A. Story (1991)? It really is like that here. Steve Martin is from Orange County; he should know.

Grammar Bitch Addendum.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Rants
It's 5 a.m. and I'm researching ways to get my hands on unsweetened soy milk without paying a bloody fortune, since I've recently learned I've got lactose issues. Did you know almost all commercial soy milk is, completely gratuitously, artificially sweetened? Oh, most manufacturers will use fructose or rice syrup so as not to place the dreaded word SUGAR on the label, but please. Apparently soy milk is just too weird for most people to drink without a spoonful of something to make the medicine go down.

Anyway, I stumbled upon a website which discussed the possibility of making one's own soy milk at home, which I was scanning with interest until this phrase leapt out at me: We made due. And I had to stop reading right then and there. Someone who has absolutely no grip upon the English language, who parrots back phrases with, apparently, no sense whatsoever of what words they are saying and what they mean, cannot really know much of anything about anything, can they? We made due? THAT MAKES NO SENSE. DOESN'T THE AUTHOR EVEN REALIZE THIS? And don't even get me started on low and behold, which I see all the time and which makes me want to beat myself to death with an unabridged OED.

As long as we're on the topic, Ben and I would like to add a note to women who describe themselves in writing as fiesty, which is something we have been seeing a lot of late for some reason. And what we have to say is this: Don't try to use words you don't know. If you were really as gutsy and spunky as you're trying to come off, you would have the verve to crack a dictionary now and again.

God, we're assholes. But an asshole who knows how to speak English can at least make himself or herself (theirself?) understood. That is all. Thank you for your time.