"Do You Love Daddy Now?"
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Sam
Sam has developed a sensitivity to the way Ben and I interact, and it's quite enlightening. As you can imagine, Ben and I are both very opinionated, and we have a very hectic life. So frequently we will end up engaged in a spirited debate on some topic (not argument, because there is no anger or rancor involved), or will be rushing frantically around the kitchen trying to get things done with two kids snapping at our heels. And we may raise our voices. Not yelling at each other, more like "Hon! Grab that! I have to keep Matt from pulling everything off the table!"

And when we raise our voices, Sam has taken to coming over to me and saying "Mommy! Do you love Daddy now?" And I assure him that I love his Daddy very much and always will. "Do you? Do you love Daddy now?"

When we raise our voices or talk in a heated manner, even a little, he's afraid we don't love each other. And I think it's very important for him to realize how much we love each other. It's revealing. If Sam has to ask "Do you love Daddy?" that's a reminder to Ben and me that we need to speak to each other with a bit more gentleness and love, and a bit less hotheadedness and haste.

Thanks for the reminder, son. And while we're at it, we love you, too.

Oh, Come On, Now.
Mood:  irritated
I haven't said anything about the election results, because what is there to say? It was a close race between two worthy opponents. Bush won, but it wouldn't necessarily have been any tragedy if Kerry had won. The only way it would have been a tragedy would have been if Kerry had died in office and we wound up with President John Edwards. Now that is enough to cause nightmares. Republicans would have been disappointed, but a Kerry win would have been fine. He seems like a decent guy.

And now we read about this guy, who took the Bush win so hard that he killed himself, leaving a grieving mother and fiancee.

Liberals, can you get a grip? Don't go proving what people have been saying about you.

Fargo Love.
Mood:  lyrical
I have the misfortune to have a cold, which means that after getting a deadline project out the door this morning, I came home sick this afternoon. By happenstance, Fargo was playing on cable.

I am not usually a big fan of Oscar-winning films -- by and large, they tend to be large loads of overblown crap -- but Fargo is freaking brilliant. Absolutely every moment of it is riveting. A detail I noticed today, but never had done before, is that while very pregnant Margie is talking on the pay phones at the hotel, she is persistently and absent-mindedly tugging up the waistband of her maternity pants, of course located at low- to mid-ribcage. Brilliant detail! I spent most of my pregnancies doing that. Very low key, and so accurate.

The other thing I adore about that movie is the great love story between Norm and Margie Gunderson. They are not particularly pretty people, nor particularly young, nor are they shown having sex or with few clothes on. (In which they greatly resemble Ben and me, and we probably should all be grateful that you don't see them, or us, without clothes.) We don't see onscreen passion between Norm and Margie; but moment by moment they show their love for each other in a million little ways, just saying kind things and being considerate to each other. People, this is real love, the love that lasts, the love that means absolutely everything. Forget the epic love stories. They end in epic breakups.

The greatest love story of all time, found (surprise!) in the person of middle-aged, middle-class Upper Midwesterners. Mostly unsung, and extremely cool. Check it out.

Dammit!
Mood:  irritated
This afternoon I completed a long, tedious survey for these people for whom I sometimes complete consumer product surveys, about New and Improved Pampers Baby-Dry diapers. It took a hell of a long time and contained wonky Java that made my computer crash not once but twice.

And at the end? They didn't offer to send me any free diapers to try out. Dammit! GET WITH THE PROGRAM, PEOPLE. THE ONLY REASON I TAKE YOUR STUPID DIAPER SURVEYS IS FOR THE FREE DIAPERS.

Curse, Interrupted.
Mood:  celebratory
I am not a ball fan and I am not a Red Sox fan, but I am a superstition fan. I love the superstition that goes hand-in-hand with sports. I am mostly a hockey fan, and I adore goalies and their rituals, and how you can never utter the word "shutout" when your team has got the other team scoreless 18 minutes into the third period. Because if you do, the opposing team will score immediately and break the potential . . . S word.

So, of course, I adore the Curse of the Bambino. It's pure sports superstition at its very best. And I also adore the way the Sox not only broke it, but annihilated it.

It was the top of the ninth inning, and I said to Ben: "There are two S words we dare not say right now", those words being both sweep and shutout. So we did not speak them, and lo and behold, the Sox got both the sweep and the shutout. I do feel for the Cards a bit -- Ben and I likened the Cards' World Series experience to a public buggering on national T.V. -- but the Sox were so overdue. As one sportswriter put it, since the last Sox win in 1918 we've seen two world wars, man on the moon, the rise and fall of the Soviet Union. And that's not the half of it!

Boston Red Sox: Enjoy the hell out of it. You earned it. And it's about bloody time.

Politics, Simplified, But Not.
Mood:  quizzical
My husband just said the most brilliant thing I've ever heard, so y'all have got to hear it. This is his blog too, although he is too lazy to keep a blog and therefore you've got to hear it from me.

We were discussing politics and political views over dinner (this is probably happening all over the country even as I write, and if you're meant to believe my governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, such discussions cost him two weeks of nooky), and got into details of various issues.

So we brought up embryonic stem cell research, and how we're against it (no creating lives just to destroy them, oh no, that's playing God, and that we are absolutely not meant to do), and abortion, and how we are pro-choice (historically, abortion is going to happen whether legal or not, and if abortion is illegal rich people will just have their daughters fly to Switzerland and do it anyway, and is that just? It's the poor ethnic minorities who will be dying or injured in illegal clinics, not the wealthy privileged. And if abortion were outlawed, who would take care of these unwanted babies? Not wealthy Republicans, that is for sure. And we are here to tell you that, because we are comfortable Republicans, and you know what: If you have a baby and don't want it, we are absolutely not going to bring it up for you. Sorry, but we've got our hands full with babies we produced on purpose.)

And I pointed out to Ben that people have told me that if I am pro-choice I must be in favor of legalizing murder, too, because it's the same thing, and how can I be such a hypocritical hypocrite? And furthermore, how can I be in favor of the death penalty (which I am), because killing is killing no matter what? Yet I believe in the death penalty, because I think that when you kill, you forfeit life. I was in favor of executing Andrea Yates. Systematically drowning babies? I think she should be drowned, and like her oldest son, the one she drowned last, she should be given a few opportunities to run away and to say "I'm sorry!" just before she goes under water for the last time, just like Noah. I think that would be just, for her to suffer the way her children did.

Yet people say to me: If that's what you think, then why shouldn't people who get abortions be put to death? And that is a moral conundrum. So I can say only Yes, I see your point. But at some juncture we've got to balance the equities.

But this has gone into a rant, and I'm probably going to get hate mail for this post. But I miss my point. My point was originally what Ben said to stop me dead in my tracks: "The Republicans and the Democrats both want to kill you. They just differ on when they should do it." Meaning: The Republicans will preserve your life at any cost until you are born, whereupon they will desert and/or kill you, whereas the Democrats will kill you before you're born, but if you manage to get born, they will support you at taxpayers' expense for the rest of your life, even if you refuse to work, or if you kill people, or what.

Oh boy. In the words of my middle-aged Jewish friends: What a world! I will be glad when this election is over, whichever way it goes, and we can get back to the business of being Americans again. God bless us all, Republican, Democrat, and everyone.

Okay, I just got an insanely exciting phone call that my good friend Amy just had her baby, so I will say: Welcome, Tobey Charles Westcott. You are so loved and wanted, you could never imagine. Congratulations Amy, and good night all.

Tarantula.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
We have a new member in our family: Beast Boy, a baby Costa Rican zebra leg tarantula. Sam announced on Saturday that he wanted a tarantula, and I've got a soft spot for the little guys myself. Erika's father had a tarantula for years.

He is a very cute little spiderling. I hope he thrives, because I like him very much. Sam is thrilled.

Further Poop Talk.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Poop
I just posted a comment on Dooce which reveals how often my husband poops. I'm going to tell him I did, because he's a good sport, but can you imagine? How often my husband eliminates is now a matter of public record and therefore subject to judicial notice in a legal proceeding.

Isn't the Internet a stunning phenomenon? Such a strange melding of intimacy and anonymity.

I just realized this is my second poop-related post in a row, and just the latest in a series of many. I should rename this The Poop Blog.

Of Poop, Parenthood And The Legal Profession.
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Poop
So Ben was just talking on the phone to one of his friends (well, okay, his stupid buddies I generally call them), and apparently he's still traumatized from a poopy diaper of Matt's he changed a few days ago. It was a really bad one. I wasn't there, but I knew it was bad, because I could hear Ben saying "Oh man! Oh mannnn!" from upstairs.

He said, "For the next hour, I could still smell that poop! There must have been shit molecules in my nose hairs." Yes, honey, that's right. Furthermore, Sam at three years, three months is still nowhere near toilet trained and has never pooped in the potty. Changing him, I explained one day that it was just too disgusting and he needs to get trained, but does that impress a three-year-old? Answer: It does not. Not one tiny bit.

It made us think, though: Our entire lives are spent dealing with poop in one form or another. We are both in the legal profession (he is an attorney, I'm a paralegal), and that profession consists mostly of people pooping upon each other, if you want to cut to the chase; I mean, it's that adversarial.

Ben puts it this way: "I open my mail every day, and every envelope has a pile of turds in it. And then I take an envelope, and take a big grunt in it, and mail it right back. And the phone rings, and I pick it up, and a big turd squirts out the phone and right into my ear. So I put the phone to my ass, and take a big grunt right back into the phone at them. And then we appear in court, and everyone flings feces at each other until the judge makes a ruling." Nice, huh? How did otherwise nice people end up in a profession like this? Because someone told us it was an honorable profession, that's why.

Legal careers and parenthood: No one ever tells you about the poop. My God, so much poop.

I Am So Freaking Witty.
Mood:  surprised
Y'all believe it or not, I have a life apart from babies and, um, babies. Here are a couple of the most recent bits of my oeuvre:

On the Howard Stern Message Board, responding to a query about how a woman can keep a guy:

(1) Shut up already.

(2) Get rid of your cat.

(3) Don't listen to anything your girlfriends tell you about him.

(4) When you don't feel like having sex, get on your knees already. You love the guy, right?

(5) Get rid of your guy friends. They only want to fuck you, and he knows it.

(6) No guilt trips. No lies.

(7) Don't ever ask him to get rid of his boat, his guy friends, or his dog.

(8) Never expect him to remember birthdays, anniversaries or Valentine's Day without reminding him. Also, no "magical" requirements. He can't read your mind and he won't surprise you with a diamond bracelet, so don't expect it. Remember, a life burdened with expectations is a heavy life; its fruits are sorrow and disappointment. If he comes home to you every night, consider yourself blessed.

(9) Never gossip about him to your friends. What happens between you is private.

(10) Grit your teeth and get along with his mother, even though she is a complete overbearing bitch.

Posted on Dooce in reference to a post about kids climbing on furniture with Cheeto hands:

Hee. And hee! It's gorgeous landscape, and of course you, Heather, have no right to be so thin within a year of having a baby. But the Cheeto hands truly made me laugh. My younger son, 21 months, is commonly known as Cheeto Boy, and everything in my life has been climbed on and smeared with Cheeto hands by him and his big brother.

Tell your sister there is a new sort of Cheetos, White Cheddar Cheetos, I learned about on one of my mommy mailgroups. I am insanely excited about these Cheetos because not only are they more "natural", they do not contain the orange Cheeto dye which is fatal to all furniture, minivan upholstery and Mommy's Lucky jeans.

And in response to a guy who wanted to move to Utah:

Daniel: I wouldn't assume they have anything in Utah. My adult daughter moved to Salt Lake for three months, and the beer is something like $20 a twelve-pack, plus I am here to tell you that Wasatch Brewery hefeweisen completely sucks. I had to double-check to confirm I was not drinking actual urine.

Y'all see? I am a wealth of useless information. It's 8:30 a.m. and my kids are waking up. See you later.

Sam Speaks.
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: Sam
Some odd Sam-isms:

He loves to go to the Ninety-Nine Cent Store, but he calls it the Ninety-Cent Cent Store.

He likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which he calls peanut butter and sandwich.

He has a mask like the ones in the movies Scream and Scary Movie. For some reason he calls that a Pussy Ghost. We've asked him why, but he just looks at us like we're simpleminded and patiently explains, "That's what kind of ghost that is."

He has a He-Man and the Masters of the Universe castle playset with action figures. He calls the castle his Salmon Game and the action figures his Salmon Guys. Again, we're completely mystified as to what is salmon about them.

Strange how this kid's mind works.

Remote Ass Pickle.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Sam
The interesting thing -- well, I say the interesting thing, while actually there are so many interesting things -- about having an articulate three-year-old is trying to guess what goes on in his mind. Sam's speech has been very easy to understand for the past year or so. His thought processes? A little less so.

On Saturday we were driving through the Mohave Desert, that hellish stretch of California Route 177 between Vidal Junction and Desert Center. Ben was driving, and I was sneaking a beer in the passenger seat (what the hell else is there to do out there?). Sam, as usual, was chatting away in the back seat, and as is too often true, a lot of his conversation had to do with butts. And poop. And stinky butts. We honestly try not to encourage this, but Ben and I are mentally eleven years old, and when someone talks about poop and butts, we can't control ourselves. We giggle madly despite our best efforts.

So Sam is talking a mile a minute in this fashion, when suddenly he announced he had a pickle in his pants. (Well, son, you're not altogether wrong on that one.) The conversation deteriorated from there:

Sam: I have a pickle in my ass!

Mommy and Daddy: *giggle like fools*

Mommy [under her breath]: I'm not so sure that's something we want him to have.

Sam: Ass pickles! Ass pickles!

Mommy and Daddy: *snort* *giggle*

Sam: Remote ass pickle!

Daddy: *swallows his tongue*

Mommy: *sprays Bud Light all over the dashboard*

Mommy, Daddy and Sam: *giggle uncontrollably for the next four miles*

The concept of a remote ass pickle was just too much for us. What exactly does it do? (We figure we know the answer to this.) Can you operate it from across the room while sitting comfortably in your chair?

And more importantly, just how does Sam think up this stuff?

A Good Daddy.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Yesterday on the way home from day care, Sam and I were talking about his new toy, which we got at deep discount at Toys R Us. It was a plastic castle that required construction, and of course, Ben did the daddy thing, broke out his trusty screwdriver and built the castle. Sam was delighted.

Contemplating this, Sam mused, "My Daddy is a good daddy."

Sweetheart: I couldn't agree more. And Ben, thanks again. If there's anything in the world more delightful than these boys, it's watching you with them and seeing the pure joy you bring them. Every day, in big ways and little ways. You are a blessing.

Nothing To Say.
Mood:  incredulous
So last week, in a moment of morbid curiosity, I watched the beheading videos. (Warning: that was a link, and if you click on it, and watch the freaking things, don't blame me. I warned you.)

Ben said Why would you want to have images like that in your head? You'll flash back on them for the rest of your life.

Well, no, I don't think I will. I can't say I'm glad I watched them, but I'm not sorry either. It just staggers the imagination to contemplate that there are people capable of doing such things, and not only doing it but filming it, and not only filming it but celebrating it. You sort of have to see it to believe it.

Gag Reflex.
Mood:  irritated
Topic: Sam
My little darlings have bronchitis. There's something going around day care, so it's inevitable that we ended up in the doctor's office this week, both of the boys hacking and coughing like two-pack-a-day smokers. We came away with the inevitable prescription for antibiotics.

Now, both Matt and Sam are pretty good sports about taking liquid Motrin when they need to. We've got them to the point where they will just sip it right out of the little syringe, no problem at all. The liquid erythromycin they've got now, although I haven't tasted it, smells pretty good. I didn't anticipate a problem.

However, Sam, for whatever reason, has a deadly hatred of the stuff. And I swear this course of antibiotics is going to do us all in. Getting the stuff into him is an intense physical struggle.

The past two nights, while I can get the stuff into his mouth, he absolutely refuses to swallow. Picture this: his father pinning him on the kitchen island while I force the syringe into his mouth and try to force him to swallow. Oh, I know all the tricks -- aim the syringe into his cheek, hold his nose to get him to swallow. Somehow he manages not to swallow, to force the stuff back out of his mouth, even while I'm pinching his nose shut. This entire time gargling the medicine and wailing at the top of his lungs. Which makes Matt, who is standing by, wail at the top of his lungs. And Ben and me yelling "Just swallow it already!" over the din. Inevitably Sam forces the stuff back out of his mouth, by this time mixed with mucus, and we have to start all over again. The process takes about fifteen minutes, and by the time we're done, I'm expecting Child Protective Services at the door at any moment.

What's a parent to do? He has to get his antibiotic; this could go into pneumonia. Sam is a smart kid, and I've tried reasoning with him, bribing him, threatening punishment. God help us, last night we spanked him (two quick swats on the bottom). Nothing works. Ultimately it boils down to the physical struggle, and it just leaves us all exhausted and terribly upset.

I'm hoping tonight he relents and swallows it. I'm not sure how many more times I can live through this. Muleheaded kid! Once again I am left frustrated by, but secretly in awe of, Sam's terminal stubbornness. That little shit! That incredibly stubborn, wonderful, pigheaded, adorable little shit.

Do Your Duty.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Poop
(It transpires that this is the second in a series of entries on bodily functions. Bear with me, y'all. This is some important stuff.)

Speaking of bodily functions, it's axiomatic that no one likes to do a Number Two away from home, and women would like you to think that they don't do Number Two at all. In the women's restrooms in my office building, there is an entire set of taboos and protocols surrounding the pooping process, a very specific set of rules.

Men have no such compunctions. My husband assures me that when faced with taking a dump in a public restroom, a man will simply lumber into the stall, settle in, and start blasting away without any regard for his surroundings. And if there happens to be a guy in the next stall who makes a rude noise, the first guy will make an even ruder noise, as if to say Oh yeah? Quite a cozy scene, wouldn't you say? Two guys in adjacent stalls, reading the paper and grunting away. Cozy. Also, disgusting.

Women, in truly public bathrooms such as those at the swap meet or Target, can sometimes adopt the same approach. There can be a woman in the next stall, and you feel kind of bad, but then again, you think Who is she anyway? Some old bat from Fountain Valley I'll never see again. Who cares what she thinks? Take that, grandma. Well, that's fine for the public, but the women's restroom in an office building is a more selective atmosphere. You will, and do, see these women every day. Which makes you a bit more shy.

Take, for instance, the women's bathrooms in my office building. It's a small building, and each floor has a women's restroom with exactly three stalls. This is sort of an intimate atmosphere. You're not going to get away with anything in there, if you catch my drift. So the trick is to do Number Two without being caught at it.

The ideal scenario is to walk in there, find the place deserted, do your dirty deed, and make your escape as quickly as possible before anyone else can come in and attribute any rude smells in the air to you. (The only thing worse than this is when there are rude smells in the air which you didn't produce, and then someone else walks in and you know she totally thinks it's you who stunk up the joint. And you want to turn to her and deny it, but that would only make her think it was you for sure.)

However, sometimes you don't manage to get in and out of there without interruption, so it becomes necessary to pretend that you are not, in fact, going Number Two at all. This gets insanely complicated. Consider this scenario, which I have seen time and time again:

Woman One walks into the restroom, goes into the far stall, and starts making a duty. Suddenly, the restroom door opens. She freezes! stops what she's doing, and hunkers down. Woman Two walks in and goes into the near stall, also intending to make a duty. Woman Two realizes that there's someone already in there, so she sits quietly and waits, hoping that Woman One will finish her business and get the heck out so that Woman Two can poop in peace. Woman One also sits quietly; she is absolutely not going to finish her business until Woman Two has finished hers and left. The silence and stillness grow deafening. It's a stalemate -- neither of them is going to finish or leave until the other one does. (And poor Woman One has been suspended in mid-dump.)

Suddenly, the door opens again -- and in walks Woman Three! who goes into the remaining, center stall. Aaaaaaaah! think Women One and Two. Woman Two pulls her pants up and flees, resolving to poop later, or poop on a different floor, or perhaps never poop again. Woman One continues to sit, aware that it could be a good half-hour before she can finish up and get back to the office. And Woman Three, because she knows what's going on and is also a total bitch, makes sure to spend an inordinate amount of time peeing, pulling up her stockings, and fussing with her hair and makeup before she leaves the restroom and lets poor Woman One finish up.

Editor's knote: Of course, I personally have never been any of these women. I speak strictly as a field observer. Shut up.

You see what I mean? It's absolutely nuts. All because we are trying to pretend we don't do Number Two. Maybe the men have the better approach.

You Picked A Winner.
Mood:  incredulous
Why is it that men think they're invisible when they're in their cars? News Flash: Men, when you are driving and picking your noses, people can totally see you.

We've all observed it; but yesterday, I got stuck behind the king-hell nose-picking driver of all time. People, this guy was on fire.

He dug and dug. After each dig, he cocked back his hand and admired what he'd retrieved, then he reached in to dig some more. He switched from his right hand to his left and back again, searching for that perfect angle.

All this time, he was drifting along at 30 mph in a 45 mph zone. No way was this guy going to let mere driving interfere with his nose-picking. Traffic was streaming past us at breakneck speed, so I couldn't pass. I was his captive audience.

Then he got the rearview involved. He craned his neck back and kept mining, navigating with the rearview. Had he been using the rearview to look at something other than the inside of his nose, he could have seen me behind him, giving him the stink-eye and also making gagging faces. But no, this guy was involved. By this time, he was starting to thrash around a bit, twisting in his seat at an odd angle. I wanted to tell him and his nose, Y'all get a room already, will you? But he wouldn't have heard. You know, the nose thing.

Finally I got past him, turning to get a look at what sort of person would pick his nose with such feverish intensity. I was reminded of a story from Ben's college days, when he and a carload of buddies passed a guy who, despite having his wife and kids in the car, was picking his nose and driving. When they passed him, they honked the horn, and the guy whirled around to see the entire carload of smartasses waving and picking their noses. I was tempted to do that, but refrained.

Because I know it wouldn't have helped. You can't stop a guy on a quest, even (especially?) a quest for that One Perfect Booger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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