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

Fuck The Symphony

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mommy: *still has no period and wonders WTF*

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

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

Sam & Matt: *have no idea*

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

You: *should probably be grossed out too*

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

This story: *is over*

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

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

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

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

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

Turning Japanese (I Really Think So).
Mood:  on fire
Topic: Pregnancy
So, you want to know what I had for dinner tonight? Monkfish liver sauteed in chili oil, wasabe oil, soy sauce and rice vinegar.

In recent weeks, we've been shopping a lot at Mitsuwa Asian market. Stocking up on all our favorites: sashimi, Pocky for the kids, brown rice green tea, sake of course, spicy kimchee. And this monkfish liver, with which Ben absolutely refused to have anything to do. The way he sees it, not even Asian people eat that stuff; they put it out there as a trap for the unwary: "Ha ha! Silly white girl! No one eat that shit!"

It was freaking good.

More and more, I don't want to eat anything but Asian food. I just love, love, love the stuff. Of course, maybe I am just pregnant and having insane food cravings (I am, after all, late). But that remains to be seen. Tomorrow. (Note to self and husband: Embrace the condom. The condom is your friend.)

I knew things were getting bad when my friend Lisa pointed out that she had never heard of any of the favorite foods I had identified. Criminey, I sound just like someone from California, don't I? Twenty years ago, I would have wanted to beat myself up. Kimchee. Please.

Japanese or pregnant. And definitely from California. Oh boy.

The Sweetest Thing.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Matt
Oh, my Matt. This child slays me. On weekday mornings, he is invariably asleep when I gently put on his slippers and sweater, and sometimes he barely stirs. I lift him carefully to my shoulder, and he is unspeakably warm and soft as he puts his little head on my shoulder and burrows his face into my neck. So sweet and trusting. I love it that he feels so safe in my arms.

I carry him out to the car. It's been cold in the mornings, and when I sit him in his seat and start to buckle him in, his face crashes and he starts to cry. Poor little guy. Pulled from his warm bed and his mother's arms! I tuck a blanket around him, and soon he falls asleep again.

This morning when I got him to day care, he didn't want to let me go -- just held on tight with that little face burrowed into my neck. And then he raised his face to mine and said "Mommy!" in the happiest voice, with the biggest smile. Little angel. He just spent the entire weekend with me, yet he looks and sounds like I'm his hero and he hasn't seen me for weeks.

He cried when I handed him over to the day care lady. I walked out the front door with his howls trailing behind me. I've learned it's easiest on Matt if I make a quick escape instead of prolonging my departure, so I kept going. But I knew what he meant. Honey, it was so hard to tear myself away from you.

See you tonight, pookie pie.

I Miss My Husband.
Mood:  amorous
Ben and I have a habit of e-mailing back and forth throughout the day. Nothing major; he mostly sends me news articles and fashion show photos of preposterous outfits. I send him tales of how adorable the boys were on the way to day care, or remarks about what to have for dinner or errands we need to run. Sometimes I get embarrassed looking through my "Sent" folder; the bulk of the e-mails I send from my office address are to him.

Today he is in San Diego taking depositions, not at his computer. I can't e-mail him! And I miss him.

It must be a good thing, after five years of marriage, that we can't bear to be separated from each other. It's true: If he has to travel on business, he arranges for the kids and me to go with him because neither of us can sleep unless our spouse and kids are there. I know it's silly. But in a good way.

Recipe For A Happy Weekday Evening.
Mood:  happy
(1) Take one Mommy, one Sam and one Matt. Stir in Pop-Tarts, Cartoon Network, chocolate milk for Sam and juice for Matt. Add lots of happy shouts. Mix well.

(2) Add a Daddy. Stir in several happy shouts of "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" plus a big Matt hug and a patented open-mouthed Matt kiss.

(3) Insert dinner. Here's the subrecipe: Langostinos and scallops with Asian vegetables in Beijing sauce (thank you, Trader Joe's). The seafood was cooked in a mixture of soy sauce, toasted sesame oil, Chinese chili oil, rice vinegar and wasabe oil. It was incredibly freaking delicious. Oh, and with a big dish of nice spicy kimchee! Add a glass or two of Bonny Doon Big House Red for extra fun.

(4) Draw bath. Insert naked boys. Add Cinnamon Buns shower gel to taste. Play and splash thoroughly. Administer shampoos. Towel off adorable little butts; administer diapers and jammies.

(5) Spend hellish half-hour grappling with major Internet snafu with guy on phone who sounds suspiciously like Fisher Stevens in Short Circuit (1986). This is best glossed over, except for the happy ending wherein I regained my Internet connection. Like I could live without it.

(6) Snuggle up one happy family way too much past bedtime (thank you, SBC and Fisher Stevens guy), tuck in and go to bed.

Repeat five days a week.

Arms To Hold Him.
Mood:  sad
I have never in my life read anything so heartbreaking as Sharon Rocha's testimony about the murder of her daughter Laci Peterson. No wonder the jury was crying. I've been crying in my office just reading about it. Some things are just too sad to imagine. That poor woman. She should be laughing with her daughter and playing with her grandson right now. Getting ready for Christmas. Taking Conner to see Santa.

I can't wait to see Matt tonight and hear him say he loves me.

I have a feeling Scott is toast. And I don't feel the least bit bad about it.

I Love You, Too.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Matt
This morning, Matt said "I love you" to me. If there is no sweeter sound in Heaven or on Earth than Matt's voice, then there is nothing anywhere so sweet as that voice saying those words.

I love you too, Boo Boo.

Boobies Out!
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
Matt has always asked to nurse by saying na-na; it was his first "word". Today I was sitting at the computer when he came up and asked for na-nas. And then he said, "Boobies out!"

I just about peed my pants laughing. When he was done nursing, he got down from my lap, waved bye-bye at my chest, and said "Bye-bye, na-nas!"

You have to like a guy who has that kind of relationship with his food source.

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 . . .