Quote of the Day, actually from last week: "We are all calabazas (Spanish for "pumpkins") and our intestines are two candles."

2:59 pm: BOTH OF MY CHILDREN ARE ASLEEP, AND NEITHER ONE OF THEM IS ON OR IN MY BODY!

What am I going to do with this time? Laundry? Dishes? Dusting? NO. I am sipping cocoa. I am writing. I am experiencing life as it was BEFORE. I am waiting to hear the inevitable...ah, there it is. The cooing of the wee, wee one. Back to reality.

Toddlerita Mindworks

When asked why she cannot put on her shoes by herself, which she has done many times before: "I have run out of shoe power. When you put them on, I will have shoe power again."

A snapshot, 5:30 pm today: the big one is naked, the little one is naked. One is wrapped in a blanket on my chest, the other is lying on a sheepskin, pretending to be a lamb. Charles is not expected home for four more hours. ("Mama Ewe, where is the Ram?") I am placing bets with my other personalities (spawned by sleep deprivation) as to which of my offspring will pee first. Fortunately for my neighbors, I am fully clothed, though my shirt sports a healthy coating of spit-up and flour (We have been making bread. If you had two children alone all afternoon and evening, of course you would decide to MAKE BREAD FROM SCRATCH, wouldn't you? Especially when one of the children needs to nurse approximately every 20 to 45 minutes, and the other needs help changing "Bride" costumes every five.). Might I add that I am also making dinner at this time? A lovely meal of steamed broccoli, lentil soup, rolls, tofu-kan and chicken. From this expansive spread, the toddler eats the inside of one roll. ("I do not want lentil soup! The Tofu-Kan is too hot for me! I want orange juice!") I slurp lentils over the babe's head as I jiggle her. Only two hundred and twelve more minutes until Charles gets home!

P.S. I saw the unchivral librarian on the street today, and gave him a very hard glare.

All of a sudden, the Toddlerita can write her name and draw surprisingly proportional pictures of people. She also knows the days of the week, in order. Those school folks sure know what they're doing.

She comes in this morning, dressed in a tutu with matching headband and slippers. "I am a bride. Let's go on our honeymoon." "Where are you going on your honeymoon?" Charles asks. "The hospital." "OK, why don't you go downstairs and go to the hospital, then come back up when you're done there." (This technique is known as "hitting the toddler snooze button.") "OK." Thump, skip, thump down the stairs, and back a few minutes later. She has a doll stuffed in her shirt. "I have to tuck in my belly. It is very big." She pulls the doll out, and states, "This is a little sister for my little sister." I guess that works because she said first she was going to marry me, then Charles.

The Wee One smiled at me today. She currently smells overpoweringly of garlic, because I was holding her as we ate out today and dripped pizza runoff on her head. I'll be eagerly awaiting that Parent of the Year award! She has outgrown the first set of baby clothes and diaper wraps, and is working on holding up her head. She gives a small yodel of glee when she sees the Venetian blinds in my bedroom. I think she is going to be either a Nobel physicist, or an Olympic sprinter. But no pressure, kid.

Sleep deprivation, bah! I stare at you in the face and laugh at you!

Mom of Two, Part One

It starts at 2 am. The wee, wee one wakes. Nurse nurse nurse, burp burp burp. Change diaper. Sneakily, she pees during the split second that I'm taking the old diaper off and putting the new diaper on. In the middle-of-night grogginess, I have forgotten to put a waterproof pad down on the bed. Wet outfit, wet bed. I put the pad down, put the new diaper under her, and when I have the wet outfit halfway off, she starts to poop. She finishes (so I think), and I clean her off, go to put a new diaper on...and she poops on the waterproof pad while I'm getting the new diaper. Need new waterproof pad--trek downstairs holding snorfling baby (spits up on shoulder and new outfit halfway down stairs) and three dirty diapers. Shuffle to diaper pail, shuffle to baby bureau, shuffle back upstairs. New outfit on, baby wants to nurse again, it's now 3 am. She enters "quiet alert" state, which is the sweetest time--big shiny alien eyes open, cooing, tiny hands waving like she's swimming in air. We worship each other for a while, then it's 3:45. Nurse nurse nurse, burp burp burp, diaper change (no casualties this time), nurse, she falls asleep and I start to drift off. It's 4:30. "Mama," I hear from down the hall. "Mama, is it daytime?" Tuck baby into bed. Shuffle down hall and crawl into bed with less wee one. "Mama, read me a story!" "It's not daytime yet." "Why are the birds awake?" I listen--the birds are, indeed, awake. I read one, only ONE, story, and then we settle in for a cuddle and a nap. The door creaks open. The male member of the family is standing there, holding the wee wee one, who is noisily gnawing her fist. I smile blearily at them, as the nursing hormones are working their magic to put a positive spin on all this late-night family action. "I'm so, so tired," he says.

Chivalry Is, Indeed, Dead

Those of you who know me (and I think I can safely presume that no one else would be interested in this blog) know that I would classify myself as a feminist. If I were a famous feminist, Rush Limbaugh might even call me a Feminazi. So I am all for treating men and women equally, and I do not generally expect men to treat me "special" simply because I'm a woman. But you know, when you're nine months pregnant and carting a 30-pound toddler around, you generally expect people to be a little decent. It's a human issue, not a gender issue. After all, if I encountered a man who was nine months pregnant, I would certainly give him some respect.

So anyway, getting around to the point. Today has been one of those days. Those of you who have been this pregnant (I'm due in four days) will understand what I mean when I say I've hit the wall. I've been cheerful long enough (though Charles might disagree). It is high time for the wee one to exit her cozy nest in my midsection.

To stave off my random urges to shout at the belly, the Toddlerita and I went to the library. I had with me the only two potty books she will read--and which I firmly believe are absolutely the only reason she will even sit on the potty to "practice." These are very, very important books. I had already reached the renewal limit and wanted to check them in, then immediately check them out again. I asked the librarian if I could do this. "No, that would be called "renewing", and you have already REACHED the renewal limit," he said, snottily. "I understand that, but please look at these--they are very important books!" I replied, waving them in front of his face and pouring on the charm as much as someone with a squirming basketball in her shirt can. "Please," I said. "No, it is a library policy," he replied, as if the Word of the Lord had been laid down. "Obviously, you are not a parent," I murmured, and moved on. (And any of you who really DO know me are probably stunned I did not rip his head off. But I really didn't!)

Now, I have spent more than six years of my life working in libraries, and I know all about "library policy." "Library policy" is designed to keep people from abusing the system, and can be flexible with the breeze. For example, when I was working at the graduate library and a poor grad student came in who had lost and then found the periodical with $1.50 per day fine, erasing the $90 penalty and giving a stern warning not to let it happen again was not at all difficult, as my supervisor (who embodied "library policy") showed me. In my opinion, this guy should have renewed the books for me and counted it as his good deed for the day. It's not like "The Potty Book For Girls" is a New York Times bestseller with a waiting list of forty patrons.

But he wouldn't do it, and since I am grumpy but didn't have the wherewithal to take it out on him in person, I officially decree here that I hope his future children, should he have any, are dried apricot enthusiasts who are in diapers until grade school. And if he DOESN'T have children, may he blessed with an unpredictably incontinent dog.

There. I feel better now.

Out-of-the-Blue Question of the Day: "What kind of brains do horses have?"

She's a Quick Draw

This is the question I am greeted with when I go, bright and smiling, into my innocent child's bedroom yesterday morning. No "Good morning, Mama" no parental pre-caffeination in place, just a straight-up kaplowie: "Mama, you have an egg that is part of you like a chicken, right?" "Uhhh, yes." "And Papa has a spurn." "Mmmm, unh huh." "And they come together and make the new baby in your uterus." "Yep." "How?" "Uhhh, what was that?" "How? How do the egg and the spurn come together inside you?" She's not even three. I thought I had a few years before I had to answer this one. "They fly through the air!" cries Charles, helpfully. I of course have immediate visions of my child running through the mall, saying in her crowd-cutting voice: "Are there eggs and spurn in the air here, Mama? Are they going to make a baby?" "Love," I reply, and deftly change the subject.

There is still no name for the new Small Person, who has finally forced my body to assume the bearing of a small but sturdy whaling vessel. (The other day there was a man smiling goofily at me on the street. I smiled back at him, and he blurted out, "You're ready to pop! My dalmation is about to have puppies!") We are tossing about some old-fashioned family names but the toddler, long a proponent of "Jesse or Woody from Toy Story 2", has decided on "Snazzeola." So that's settled, I guess. Ladies and gentlemen, announcing the future President of the United States, Snazzeola Quistilton!

My little child has started preschool. I can tell that I have already been deemed "neurotic parent" by the lovely and accomodating teachers there. I stay the longest in the morning, and am the first to arrive in the afternoon. I spend the roughly four hours that she is there alone sweating bullets, trying not to call and ask if she has peed yet or if someone remembered to open the little plastic containers in her lunch.

I was a chaperone for the class field trip to a funky public art gallery downtown. "I need to pee," said a little girl who had wet her pants approximately twenty minutes beforehand. The bathroom request set off the herd instinct in the rest of the class, and we hustled to the back of the gallery with five or six others in tow. A teacher manned one bathroom while I stood in the other, trying to keep the kids from touching the mungy walls or picking up cigarette butts. A skinny Hip Young Thing came out of an adjoining room, smiling disdainfully with curled upper lip. "Do you mind? We're trying to have interviews in here." (Brief note: When you are in the ninth month of pregnancy and all of your clothes look like either tents or sausage casings, Hipness sends you into a panic. You want to shout, defensively, "I used to wear black! And spend time artfully placing product in my hair! I have unorthodox ear piercings! I am not just a breeder!") Do I MIND? What did she expect me to do, wrap their yabbering mouths and flailing limbs with duct tape? Let me add that we were INVITED to come to the gallery that day. What do you expect from a bunch of 3 to 6 year olds? I smiled and nodded, and she disappeared back into her lair, only to appear again while I had a forty-pound munchkin precariously balanced on my upraised leg so she could wash her hands at the sink. "We're having interviews in here," she stated in an exaggerated way, as if I did not speak English or was developmentally disabled. "We'll be done in a minute," I gasped with a smile, fighting the urge to smack her. (Not a good example for the kids! Must control rage!)

People like her remind me of the woman who recently wrote to the paper about a debate over whether to allow dogs on the Commons, a pedestrian shopping mall here in town. She pointed out that people were allowed to bring their children to the Commons, so it clearly followed that dogs should be welcome too. Because, you know, children also normally defecate and urinate on the ground, and run the risk of randomly attacking others. That is why you will see my new product, the "Kid Muzzle" for sale at a Babies R Us near you soon. Please note, I love dogs! This is not an attack on dogs, simply an acknowledgement that some people do not control their dogs, which, after all, are NOT PEOPLE! And children are, in fact, PEOPLE! *sigh.*

From the "Is this MY kid?" Department:

When asked if she wants some Cheez-Its for a snack, she replies, "No, I want something good for me instead."

Some of you who read the blog know that our lives have lately been consumed by the wonderful world of potty training. I refuse to detail the process here, out of respect for the future adolescent Toddlerita, but here are some tidbits:

Current urination avoidance record: fifteen hours. As a person in her third trimester who is known to indulge in caffeinated beverages, I am astounded.

In response to the desperate last-ditch promise of fabulous prizes for successful performance: "But I don't need a prize. You gave me a big treat yesterday." (Fyi, she now offers me and Charles prizes out of her box when we "perform.")

When asked what she plans to do since she refuses to wear diapers, and refuses to try the potty: "I will not poop or pee ever!"

As per doctor's orders (the second doctor we consulted--the first one helped us get into this mess), we have ceased and desisted all training operations. For all of you out there who have kids but haven't gone through this wonderful "learning process" yet, please do yourself a favor and read at least one good book dedicated to the subject BEFORE your child can (a) remove her own diaper (pinned on with "toddler-proof" diaper pins) and/or (b) has sufficient knowledge of human anatomy and physiological function to state, "I do not have a feeling right now. My bladder has no pee pee in it."

What We Did Today (Actually Sunday--this is a couple of days late!)

Today we went to the extremely cool National Women's History Museum, which is in nearby Seneca Falls (aka "Seneca Waterfalls"). The toddler wanted to dress up, so she picked out a neon green shirt covered with realistic pictures of bugs, which she topped with a green "dancing dress" decorated with a pink, purple and yellow batik pattern. On her feet she wore orange, yellow and white striped knee-highs and mid-calf black leather boots. Needless to say, she was the coolest-looking kid at the museum. This weekend is the anniversary of the first women's rights convention, and we got to see the former surgeon general, Antonia Novello, speak.

Charles got a child seat for his bike yesterday, and the kid absolutely adores it. While riding in it, she continuously sings "Bicycle Built for Two." (That is her favorite song after "Big River" by Johnny Cash.) Today they went to the P&C to pick up ice cream to go with the peach-raspberry crisp that was dessert. She has never had crisp before, and while she ate it, she stared at me with a dazed, glazed look on her face. Finally she slurped her spoon and proclaimed with a deep, satisfied sigh, "This is good." She spent the next fifteen minutes mixing up the vanilla ice cream with the leftover crisp. When I asked her what it was, she said "Magic." "No, what do you call it?" "Awesomes-Opums Pie." I had to ask her three times what she had said, and each time she pronounced clearly, "Awesomes-Opums Pie." Then when I asked her if she was done eating, she said, "Oh, I suppose not!" She only went to bed when her Papa promised he would eat the Awesomes-Opums Pie after she went to sleep.

Doesn't play well with others...but she can play them, all right.

So we're in the checkout line at the library yesterday, and the kiddo wanders over to two wire-and-bead toys which are thoughtfully placed right where bored kids need them most. She starts moving the beads around, organizing them in some esoteric way, when another toddler type zooms over and starts horning in on her board. She squeals and looks to me for assistance, but I only say, "Sorry, it's just like the park, we share all of the toys with other kids, here." She shoots me a withering, "Thanks a lot, Mom!" look, and turns back to the kid. I don't hear any more squeals, so I assume they've worked it out and I start reading my book jackets again. I can't help but be attuned to the murmurs of the Kid Channel, however, so when I hear another exchange I sneak a look back at the short people.

My dear sweet child is standing by the other toy, the one she didn't want to play with. She is fingering the beads eagerly, and talking to the kid. "Look Boy, it is very good! It is a very cool toy!" I watch, fascinated and slightly embarrassed at my daughter's grifting skills, as the boy is caught hook, line and sinker, and moves over to the "cool" toy. Satisfied, the bandit moves back to her original toy, and gets to work.

Yikes, time is flying by as we weave through the last trimester! The other non-womb-bound members of the family are currently out fixing the EGR valve on the car. I hate to seem so ignorant about car stuff (I'm normally not bad--ask me about my psychic transmission malfunction detection sense), but as far as I can tell, the express purpose of the EGR valve is to fail and therefore cause the check engine light to come on. We went with the "if we ignore it, it will go away," cure for a while, and were considering the Car Talk "electrical tape" cure, but finally decided to do the grown-up thing and actually fix our still-relatively-new car.

We all enjoyed visits from Auntie Jenn and Grandma and Grampa W. ("Dubbidu") last week. Unfortunately we did NOT capture photographic evidence of the grandparents lounging in the "red blood drop" ball pit at the Sciencenter, nor of Auntie Jenn's multiple athletic renditions of "Do, a Deer."

It is normal for older siblings to go through a period of adjustment to the new baby, and the toddler is already working on this. She has been pretending to be the new baby for a while, has a doll which she calls the new baby, etc. The newest trick, however, is to try on the new baby's clothes. Though she is over three feet tall and weighs 28 pounds, she can actually fit into some of them. The effect is that of a toddler-age Britney Spears, belly and all. She is still pushing for "Woody or Jesse" for a name, though Calliope (another one of the muses) may be deemed acceptable by Her Majesty. She is also "studying" for school, and learning to count: "eleven, twelve, sixteen, fourteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty!" Thirty is known as "twenty-ten."

The new small person is already a vivid presence in our lives. She spilled a cup of water which was resting on the belly. When her big sister talks to her, the baby stops moving, "listening" to her. Then she bursts into a flurry of Morse Code kicks once the talking stops. I am envisioning a future where they happily entertain one another for hours while I sip lattes and surf the internet. HA!

In line at Wegman's today, she started talking to the boy behind us. "Hey Boy, what's your name?" She told him when her birthday was, that she was going to be 3, we were buying medicine because she was sniffly, and her papa's name. "His name is Charles. It's spelled P-A-P-A."

It could only be so long after getting the TV set up before we exposed the toddler to that classic of great musical film--The Sound of Music. I vividly remember lying underneath the record player in the living room when I was about six years old, singing along with Julie Andrews at the top of my lungs. (The only other record I recall my parents owning is the soundtrack to "Goldfinger.") My sisters and I used to perform the songs for my parents in the kitchen, along with moving renditions of "Copacabana."

The obsession with cheesy musicals must be genetic, because the kid is clearly hooked. "Sing the picnic song!" she demanded in the car today, and then started in. "Do, a dee-ya, a female dee-ya--what's a dee-ya? Re, a drop of golden sun! Mi, one name I call myself! Fa, long long long way to run! Sol, a needle pulling thread, HA! Zuh (the) note to follow so...what does 'follow so' mean? Ti, a drink of jammon bread! What's next? What's next, Mama? SING IT! TOGETHER!" and so on. Her favorite song to watch was the goatherder puppet show for a while, but then she got scared of the part where the little girl blows fake beer foam in Julie Andrews's face, and now the entire scene is taboo.

Toddlerita Mindworks: (Toddlerita) "No no, don't kiss me!" (Mama) "Why not?" (T) "There is no love in it! There is no love in kisses--only in cuddling and hugs. Cuddle me!"

So, we hold off this long on setting up the TV (and yes, winter was FIVE MONTHS LONG). And what do we do today? Go to the library and check out eight movies. Most of them are "educational" though--including one about the skeleton, for the bone-obsessed in the family (that's the skeleton in our closet--OH!). We then actually ate dinner in front of "Toy Story." So our slide down the slippery slope of spoonfed entertainment is complete, in only 24 hours! Soon I'll be spending all my days in front of the tube with the shades drawn, sipping milkshakes while the toddler eats Cheez-puffs and our metabolisms slow to three-toed sloth speed. (I was once attacked by a three-toed sloth named Roscoe--maybe he was two-toed, I can't remember.)

OK, it's off to watch a National Geographic Coyote special! Ooh, the suspense!

The only problem with organic produce is that, very occasionally, you will look down at the yummy orange pepper you are eating and see a teeny, tiny slug crawling on it.

The blog site ate my last post (apparently, when it asks if you want to save, the saved item is hidden in some secret place, like that long hallway in the new Matrix movie where the door of light is), and so I have been fearing posting again. Yes, both Charles and Scott advised me to copy to a textfile. In a fit of technological hubris, I didn't. It was a funny post, but all my funny is lost right now, as the Toddlerita has entered a nap-free existence. She crawls around on my bed exclaiming "I am letting you rest, Mama! I am the good kid in the world!" (she doesn't quite understand "best" yet) while I try to sleep in the afternoons. Or she shoves her pointy little elbows into my chest and says "Keep me warm!" Since the wee person inside me is also at this time developing pointy little elbows while simultaneously causing me to gain approximately 9,000 pounds per month, my general mood at this time can be charitably described as grumpy.

The other kid news is that there is a great deal of potty talk going on. I don't mean she is developing the mouth of Lenny Bruce; she is just learning all about the wonderful world of elimination. And that is probably all I should say so as not to risk embarrassing her when she is 16. She is also teaching herself to read, which means I soon will not be able to ask her dad to go to W-E-G-M-A-N-S for I-C-E C-R-E-A-M. Speaking of which, I hear the call of the freezer now.