What I Have.
Mood:  bright
The food guy came around to the office today, so I looked in my purse to see if I had any cash. I did not. But I do have:

Darth Vader
Used Kleenex from wiping a little snub nose
Anakin Skywalker
Small plastic turtle
Tootsie Pop
Obi-Wan Kenobi

There appears to be a Star Wars convention going on in my purse. Can you tell I'm a mommy of little boys?

I Do, I Do!
Mood:  happy
As you know, my boys are heartbreakingly adorable.

The latest heartbreakingly adorable thing they do is this: I will ask them if they want something -- "Who wants a cookie?" "Who wants a bath?" "Who wants to put on their jammies?" and the two of them will chorus "I do, I do!"

It's especially wonderful when Matt does it -- that little lisping baby voice, "Ah do, ah do." Completely melts my heart. If there is music in Heaven, it sounds exactly like Matt's voice.

Meanwhile, in other news, it's almost Thanksgiving. So much I have to be thankful for. Cole's death brings it home all the more. I have a wonderful husband, a daughter who is really coming into her own as a woman, and two incredible, healthy, happy boys. Truly I have been blessed, and don't think I don't know it.

Well, Shit.
Mood:  irritated
I had a big fight with my mom today. It all stemmed from Dr. Phil and breastfeeding. Let's just say that I am in favor of breastfeeding and not fond of Dr. Phil. My mom feels the inverse. Why is it that some people need to start fights instead of just agreeing to disagree? Shit, how do you think I got through the last election?

It was the breastfeeding thing that got to me. Usually I am smart enough to smile and let it go, but she had to keep making negative remarks about the fact that Matt is "still" nursing. I love that -- it's always "still" nursing. At what age does that start? Six months? NEWS BULLETIN, PEOPLE: GOD GAVE WOMEN BREASTS IN ORDER TO BREASTFEED THEIR BABIES. BOTTOM LINE. GET OVER IT.

I guess I really am a breastfeeding nut. And I feel bad that I'm so much of a breastfeeding nut that when my mom said to my husband, "You should be discouraging her from breastfeeding," I didn't have the sense to shut up and let it go. No, I had to mount the soapbox. "Why do you think breastfeeding should be discouraged?" I ought to know better. The next thing I knew, it had degenerated into an ugly tirade that had nothing to do with breastfeeding and everything to do with my flaws as a human being which are, apparently, innumerable.

Sorry about that, Mom. I will call you in a few days, once you've had a while to feel properly wounded and outraged. Next time I will keep my mouth shut. But Matt will nurse as long as he wishes.

He's With The Angels Now.
Mood:  sad
Cole Webb passed away last night at the age of 27 months. He had a genetic disease called SMA (Spinal Muscular Atrophy) Type I. Ninety percent of children with SMA Type I do not survive to the age of two.

Cole could not breastfeed, but his mother Kristin faithfully pumped breast milk for him his entire life. I believe that is partly responsible for Cole surviving as long as he did.

If you are reading this, please consider making a donation for SMA research:

Families of Spinal Muscular Atrophy

I will leave you with a photograph of Cole taken earlier this month. Such a beautiful child. As a dear friend said, he is running and jumping and playing in Heaven.

Please, Make It Stop.
Mood:  irritated
For two days I've had Wannabe by the Spice Girls stuck in my head. I can't make it go away, and you know, they really can't sing, any of them. It's even more insidious than Copacabana.

And now at least one of those songs is stuck in your head, too.

Boys At Dawn.
Mood:  crushed out
Today, for some reason, they both woke up at 6 a.m. That is a huge disruption to my routine, but today I was so glad they did it.

Matt opened his eyes, climbed right out of bed and followed me to the bathroom. He has my fine hair, and he gets the most tremendous cases of bed-head; it was sticking up at all different angles. And there he stood, grinning at me and saying "Mommy! Mommy!" while I peed, like he hadn't seen me in weeks.

Sam woke up next, and the two of them played with their Daddy while I got ready for work. And we dressed them in their sweaters, and carried them outside, and tucked them into the car, and their Daddy kissed them goodbye. On the way to day care, Sam started to cry: He didn't want to go to day care. He would miss me too much. And I turned around and looked at the two of them, and my heart melted. Again.

Never in my life, before having these boys, have I found such pleasure in little details and routines. Thank God for them. I can't wait to see them tonight.

Our Babies Would Have Been The Same Age.
Mood:  not sure
My heart went out to them the first time I saw her picture on T.V. -- I'm talking about Laci Peterson, the pretty pregnant brunette with the most brilliant smile I have ever seen. I was about eight months pregnant with Matt; she was about eight months pregnant with Conner. I believe Conner's due date was a week or two after Matt's.

They've haunted my mind ever since. I've followed Scott's trial very closely, and to be honest, for most of this time I'd been expecting an acquittal. Beyond a reasonable doubt. That's a very difficult burden for the prosecution to overcome without a murder weapon or witnesses.

Today I looked at Matt, laughing and toddling around the room, hugging his mommy, saying words, and I realized that's how old Conner would be. So much Scott took away from so many people. You really can't think about it too hard, because it's almost too much to bear. Conner never got to laugh and grin into his mommy's face and see that beautiful smile beaming back at him.

And so justice is done. There will be years of appeals, but there is a grim satisfaction in knowing that sociopathic bastard didn't slither out of the courtroom this afternoon and back into the bachelor life he wanted so much. So much that he killed his wife and firstborn son.

Her smile. I will never forget her smile. I hope Scott never does either. I hope he dies remembering it.

Matt Leaves A Floater.
Mood:  smelly
Topic: Poop
Last night while getting the boys ready for their bath, I noticed that Matt smelled like he had a poop. Ben went off to change him while I ran the bath and put Sam in. When he came back, Ben said, "Well, it could have been worse, right? He could have done it in the tub."

Surely you see where this is going.

The boys had a great time playing in the tub, and I was thinking about starting to wash their hair when it happened -- the brown explosion in the water. Sam leapt to his feet. "Mom! Poop!" And I don't mean just any poop, either. It was a bad one, the opposite of small, the opposite of firm and compact, the opposite of odorless. And let's just say it was clear they'd fed him mixed vegetables at day care. I started to gag.

I hustled the boys out of the tub -- fortunately Matt had blasted in the direction opposite Sam, so they were both surprisingly unmuddied -- and into the bedroom. Poor Ben was left with the task of cleaning up the tub.

After the boys were dressed, Sam said "I've got to tell Erika." (The boys take their bath in Erika's bathroom.) "No, Sam," I told him. "She doesn't need to know." Apparently Sam disagreed, because he stuck his head down the stairwell and yelled "Erika! Matt took a dump in your bathtub with corn and carrots!"

It took poor Ben about 20 minutes to clean up. Did I mention there is a "shag" bath mat in that tub? He said cleaning that was the worst part. And he could still smell poop an hour after finishing it up. And then he came downstairs and had a diet Coke, and he put some vodka in it, and who could blame him? I wasn't saying a word. I was grateful to have been spared the cleanup.

And probably he will never let the boys take a bath again, and if they do? And there's an accident? Guess whose turn it is for poop detail.

And thus the poop saga continues . . .

"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?