A Sick Cow.
Mood:  hungry
Topic: Pregnancy
The pregnancy thing has set in, full swing. How is it that I'm 6 weeks pregnant and already visibly bloated? (It's true; Ben reluctantly confirmed it.) It's not like I'm eating that much, but suddenly my belly is poofed up. Now, it's true that with Matt I was in maternity clothes by 8 weeks, but let's face it, that was more FAT than anything else, since I'd not yet lost the Sam weight. At this moment I weigh about 40 pounds less than I did when I conceived Matt. So why the fat belly already? Huh? I feel like a cow.

And make that a sick cow. I have a feeling I ain't seen nothing yet when it comes to morning sickness (unless I'm having a girl, since with Erika I didn't have morning sickness), but I basically have three digestive states at this point: Ravenous, Actually Eating Right Now, and Feeling Sick. I'm always in at least one of those states; sometimes two at once, and occasionally all three.

Furthermore, I'd forgotten about the pregnancy headaches. I always said that God makes you forget certain things, otherwise no one would ever have more than one child and the human race would die out. Damn these first trimester headaches. They are nearly constant, and I'm loathe to gulp Tylenol because TYLENOL DOES NOT WORK. It's a lot like the Catholics and the rhythm method that way -- the only thing you're allowed to use DOES NOT WORK. Surely there's a lesson there, although I'll be damned if I know what it is.

In general, though, pregnancy is pretty cool this time around. For once I'm not stressed about the outcome, and do not race to the bathroom every 20 minutes to see if I'm starting a miscarriage. I no longer panic at every cramp and twinge. I do worry about getting fat, because I sure did get fat with Sam and it took me three years to take off all that fat, but WTF? If this pregnancy pans out, I will have had THREE BABIES PAST THE AGE OF FORTY. Surely I am entitled to look like a cow.

A sick cow. But a sick, happy, peaceful, contented cow. Not so bad. Not so bad at all.

You Want A Menu? Here's Your Fucking Menu.
Mood:  loud
Topic: Rants
I have concluded that the holidays, my mother-in-law, and the first trimester of pregnancy are not at all a good, peaceful mix. People, if I make it through to Saturday afternoon, I am going to deserve a fucking Nobel Peace Prize.

(You don't really think of a mommy blog as a place you're likely to hear much of the "F" word, do you? Well, you're EXTREMELY likely to hear it in this one. And I am here to tell you that if you had to deal with my mother-in-law, you'd be saying plenty more than just the "F" word. My mother-in-law is a woman so infuriating that she could make St. Francis of Assisi kick babies.)

A few weeks ago, when the Christmas discussions opened, MIL floated the idea that since her husband, Ben's stepfather, was in general against Christmas, we probably wouldn't see them Christmas weekend at all. Fine with me. We'd see them the weekend before, or the weekend after.

Sometime around last weekend, it then transpired that she wanted to come see us Christmas weekend. Fine. Christmas Eve, December 26, whatever. Okay with me.

During last week, it changed again -- she wanted to come on Christmas Day. I went slightly ballistic. Now she suddenly decides this? I ranted and raved for an evening, then relented. Fine. Let her come Christmas Day. I will cook a turkey or a ham. Fine. Whatever. No sense fighting a woman whose will is like a bulldozer combined with several forces of Nature.

Over this past weekend, the final straw: She ANNOUNCED (no one invited her, of course) that she was coming down the day of Christmas Eve, SPENDING THE NIGHT, waking up with us on Christmas morning, and then going home during the day. Do you see how bad this is? This is bad because (1) our spare bedroom is being used for storage, she expects to sleep there, and we are going to have to spend HOURS OF TIME which WE DO NOT HAVE to clean it out before Friday; and (2) this is a woman who expects everyone, even family, to spend an hour showering and dressing before they appear each morning. And guess what? WE ARE GOING TO HAVE CHRISTMAS MORNING LIKE A NORMAL FAMILY WITH CHILDREN, which means the kids are going to get us up at daybreak, and we will all go downstairs forthwith, and we will not even have brushed our teeth, and my hair will be sticking up everywhere and I will not be wearing a bra, and NO WE ARE NOT GOING TO STOP AND BREW A POT OF TEA AND PULL OUT LITTLE FUCKING CHINA CUPS AND SAUCERS BEFORE THE KIDS OPEN THEIR PRESENTS. You hear that? A normal family. Disheveled, happy, in our pajamas. Whether she likes it or not.

So we pretty much got past all that. I informed Ben that clearly his umbilical cord was not yet cut, and it was clear who the female head of household was at our house, and it certainly wasn't ME, and if he moved any of the outgrown baby clothes, which I had yet to sort, out of the spare room and put them in THAT FILTHY GARAGE WHERE I WOULD NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN, I was going to strangle him with my bare hands. Loving talk like that. Finally we ironed it out, and I hissed through my teeth that Yes, darling mumsie can spend Christmas Eve, damn it all to hell and back again.

Is that all? That is not all. Last night Ben told me, "Mom wants me to call her tomorrow to discuss the menu."

The MENU? THE FUCKING MENU? Does this woman know nothing about me, or indeed about her son? We are the last people in the world who are going to PREPARE A MENU. She does, though. When we came over for Thanksgiving dinner, there it was, carefully handwritten out and magneted to the fridge: "Menu." And it listed everything, from the fucking hors d'oeuvres and cocktails right down through dessert and "choice of coffee or tea." Hello? WE HAVE TWO FULL-TIME CAREERS AND TWO FULL-TIME CHILDREN. MENUS ARE FOR PEOPLE WHO, I DON'T KNOW, DO NOT WORK AND HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO THAN SIT AROUND FOR AN ENTIRE WEEK PLANNING A SINGLE MEAL. MY FAMILY DOES NOT HAVE MENUS. MY FAMILY IS LUCKY IF THERE ARE CLEAN SOCKS.

I very sweetly told Ben that (1) the menu is WE DON'T KNOW YET, (2) she will NOT take over my house, plant her wrinkly ass in my kitchen, and start cooking from some insidious menu she has prepared (the woman has no concept of CHILDREN and will attempt to serve some elaborate seven-course meal which is always on the table two hours late while the kids are expected to SIT STILL), and (3) she will eat what is put in front of her.

Don't you just love someone who expects you to change around your entire life and transform it into hers for 24 hours? Christ, and I can't even have any wine, which is usually essential for holidays with MIL. Merry Fucking Christmas. Holy shit.

Senseo.
Mood:  caffeinated
After a few weeks of rumination and lust, today I bought myself a Senseo coffeemaker. It pales in comparison to AB's Francis Francis, the purchase of which sent me into a spiral of greed, envy and lust (that's three, count 'em three, deadly sins) for days. But I set my cap for the Senseo, and today I have one. In the cool blue color, of course.

Now, you may ask, what does a pregnant woman, and one who stopped drinking coffee a couple of years ago anyway, want with the Senseo? Good question. Ben theorized that it was the television spots with that chick from Dude, Where's My Car? You know, We are not dudes. We are hot chicks. But it's not that. I posited that it might have been that cool shade of blue, but . . .?

And suddenly Ben had it: "Because it looks like a unit." (You know, a package. Meat and two veg.)



You be the judge. At least the Senseo can't get me pregnant.

The Nose Doesn't Want To Know.
Mood:  smelly
Topic: Pregnancy
Is this blog suddenly going to be all about pregnancy, like Dooce was for a time, like AB's blog is about to be? Yes, very likely. Deal with it. Even the fourth time around, pregnancy is endlessly fascinating.

This morning I experienced the sudden onset of Preggo Nose. It's like waking up bionic: Suddenly you can smell bacon frying two counties away. I emerged from the shower, all redolent of white tea and ginger sugar scrub, to discover that suddenly I could smell the bedroom. Not that it smelled bad, mind you, despite being inhabited by three creatures of the male persuasion. But all at once I could smell every individual smell in that bedroom.

Getting dressed, I sprayed on a bit of one of my favorite perfumes, Gardenia Passion by Annick Goutal. (That is a shameless plug, because even though the shit is from France and costs insane amounts of money, it's the only gardenia scent that smells like actual gardenias and not like the proverbial French whorehouse.) Ordinarily Gardenia Passion is a delicious, subtle scent. Today it was not. Today it was:

OMG DEATH BY GARDENIA CHOKING CHOKING CAN'T BREATHE GASP SMOTHERING IN GARDENIA HELL CHOKE GASP DYING *argh*

I was okay once it cleared out a bit. Then I went downstairs and, in passing, threw a bit of paper into our kitchen trash can. Ben had taken out the trash since dinner last night, but we'd had honeydew melon white tea during the evening. Again, ordinarily a delicious, subtle smell. But when I leaned over that trash can, I was abruptly knocked flat on my back by a white tea battering ram. Same thing on getting to the office: I walked past the Christmas tree and nearly smothered.

Now I know how a bloodhound feels. There are many nice smells in the world: Christmas tree, dry leaves, wood fire, and babies (okay, not the nether end) are among them. But most smells in the world are not nice. The public, for example. I'm going to have to stay out of public places for the rest of the first trimester, because most people just don't smell very good, either because they have not washed enough or because they have chosen to douse themselves in cheap fragrance and/or *gag* hairspray. And smokers! California is better than most places, but even here, people smoke outdoors! And I can smell it from five miles away!

The up side: I get out of poopy diaper duty for the next eight weeks. Because Ben knows that if he doesn't change that diaper for me, he is going to have TWO messes to clean up.

Shit, I just realized I mentioned white tea not once, but twice in that post. My Midwestern, Eastern and Southern friends are probably saying There she goes with more of that wacky California shit. Time to go outside and kick my own ass again.

Believe.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
If you want to see true magic, take a look at Christmas through a little child's eyes. (Shit, that sounded trite; but damn it, it's true. Sometimes you have to be trite to be true. Excuse the hell out of me.)

Last evening I darted outside to the mailbox, and as I closed the box I noticed a group of people walking into the courtyard, one of whom was decked out in full Santa regalia. One of our lesser-known neighbors, no doubt, having some party or get-together. But baby, there was Santa! Right there at our house! I ran inside.

"Sam, come here, honey. Come quick. Hurry, baby."

Sam raced to the front door in time to see Santa walking past our very own front doorstep. He didn't notice Sam at first, but one of his companions nudged him. So he turned and waved: "Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas! Merrrrrrrry Christmas!" The guy was no professional, but it was a great performance. Dead on.

"Thank you," I said. "Thank you," Sam whispered.

We went inside and went back to watching T.V. It was a cinematic montage of Christmas movies dating from the very early days of filmmaking through the present. Sam didn't say too much, but I heard him whispering to himself, "He is coming. He is coming." My little skeptic. He believes!

And then a clip from Miracle on 34th Street came on. "Look, Sam," I said. "It's Santa!"

Sam looked up. "That's not Santa," he said flatly. "That's a fake Santa."

What can I say? Sam has very exacting standards for his magic.

Coming To Grips.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Pregnancy
Forty-eight hours after learning I was pregnant, we've mostly calmed down, and now that I've been to the ob/gyn and had the pregnancy confirmed, I think even Ben believes it. We're somewhat less terrified and somewhat more happy, although we have no idea what we're going to do with three kids under the age of five. (Probable answer: Run around chasing them a lot, and say "no" a lot.)

I had to take the boys with me to the ob/gyn's, and after I had chased Matt out from behind the receptionist's counter, saying "Matthew Crumpacker, I am talking to you!" I said to the receptionist, "And I want another one exactly WHY?" At moments like that, the reality of another one really hits home.

Of course, we have the heartbeat thing to get through; my ultrasound is January 6 (the day before Matt's second birthday, delicious irony), and we won't even know until then whether this pregnancy is viable. Up until this morning, I thought it wouldn't matter if it wasn't. But the idea is starting to grow on me.

Damn, getting attached again. The potential heartbreak of a precarious pregnancy. The worry doesn't stop until your newborn is in your arms, and even then? It's really only just beginning.

The Pregnancy Test.
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Pregnancy
Was. POSITIVE. This. Time.

We don't even know what to think. We were completely not planning this, and we have no idea what to do, or what to think, or how to react. We are still in shock.

I guess that explains the Asian food. And the Polish food. And the lack of a period.

God help us.

Res Judicata.
Mood:  sharp
Topic: The Tao of Ben
More insights from my husband:

There is a legal concept called res judicata. That's Latin, of course, as we pretentious legal types tend to use. What it means is that once a matter has been litigated and determined on the merits, it can't be litigated again. So the legal determination of a matter, we say, has res judicata effect.

In the Scott Peterson trial, evidence was introduced showing that after Laci's death, Scott had purchased the Playboy channel, but shortly thereafter cancelled it and bought a harder-core porn channel instead. All alone in that house with a porn channel. We all know what he was up to. This evidence was not contradicted or rebutted in any manner.

Therefore, it's res judicata that Scott Peterson is a jerkoff. Ewwwwwww. Most men are wankers -- I mean, scratch that. All men are wankers. But the fact that Scott Peterson is a wanker is a matter of public record and therefore subject to judicial notice. Hee!

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.