The Secret Lives of Sisters

I've already admitted I'm a snoop. But my snooping doesn't extend only to my husband. Oh no, I snoop on the baby (well, that's justified I guess- I'm a little worried that she's going to stuff the "I" from her new foam alphabet somewhere it doesn't belong), I snoop on the neighbors across the street (a new car, eh? Looks like she won't be staying at home with her kids any time soon!), I even snoop on the damn dog when I get bored enough (what is he SNIFFING at over there?! These binoculars are a piece of shit!).

But my favorite people to snoop on are my 12 and 14-year-old stepdaughters. Mostly because it's just so easy. They spend the bulk of their time in our playroom, which is up a short flight of stairs next to my office (a room everyone else insists on calling the kitchen), and the way the room is laid out, I can stand at the bottom of the stairs and peer into the room through the bars of the landing. Hidden by a large wicker chair that sits in front of said bars, I can see- and not be seen. And oh, I've seen volumes.

The fact is, it's making me a better stepmother. Because when 14 comes tumbling down the stairs (giving me mere seconds to run back to my "position" in front of a pot of simmering spaghetti sauce), this is what she tells me...

14: I was up there, trying to be helpful, and I asked 12 to let me do her hair for the soccer game. Because it would look so good. And she won't! She won't let me! And she slapped my arm when I tried to just touch her hair!

But this is what I overheard minutes before...

14: You know, 12, your hair could look really good if it didn't have all those lumps in it when you try to fix it. And if you didn't have all those split ends. You should let me fix it for the soccer game.
12: Shut up.
14: Gosh. I was just trying to help! You're so mean to me. It's not my fault your hair is so stringy. Most people would be glad if their sister offered to do their hair, especially if it looked as bad as yours does today.
12: I said shut UP!
14: Gosh. (reaches over to fix, i.e., yank on,12's hair)
12: (slaps 14's arm away) LEAVE ME ALONE!!!
14: (realizes 12's shrieks must be audible in the kitchen, rushes down for damage control with the stepmom).

So instead of telling 12 to stop being rude and let her sister do her hair, I tell 14 to leave 12 alone and let her do her homework. And that's that.

Now, you can tell from the above "secret" conversation that 14 is merely honing her verbal skills so that she can one day hold her own as a Woman, whether in the corporate world ("Annette! How brave of you to wear those enormous shoulder pads on the day the CEO is in town! Gosh! You'll really stand out!") or on the home front ("You're a great husband! Gosh! I don't care what my friends say about your breath!") .

But as we know, there's a desert of separation between the ages of 12 and 14-- so my 12-year-old often can't tell whether 14 is applying intermediate-level conversational torture techniques... or if she's just trying to hang. Therefore many of the playroom exchanges I overhear go like this...

14: Hey, 12, do you wanna see if "That's So Raven" is on?
12: (Pause) (Sound of 12's mental gears turning, trying to decide whether this is a trick. Hmmm. Must be a trick) Shut up! Brat!
14: (assumes the hurt face) Gosh, 12! I thought you liked that show! I was trying to be nice. And you called me a brat!
12: Yeah. I did. Because you are a brat. Brat! You're a total brat and you know it!
14: Gosh!
12: Shut up! Stupid brat!
14: (rushes down stairs to tell on 12. Gives me a strange look as she finds me rushing down the stairs directly below her). Gosh! Did you hear that?!
Me: (Panting) No! Absolutely not! Hear what?
14: She called me a brat!
Me: She probably thought you were making fun of her.
14: ....Yeah. She probably did. (Runs back upstairs).

Voila! Problem solved.

You see, dear readers, great moms (and stepmoms) don't really have eyes in the back of their heads. They simply have good hiding places.

Katrina and Me

Like all of you, I've been watching Katrina coverage with interest-- the wind, the rain, the flooding, the reporters-risking-their-lives-and-for-what?!-for-WHAT?! I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that Katrina was headed our way, but we're comfortably inland- as in, several states from any ocean. So I wasn't exactly worried about it.

But by yesterday afternoon, all schools in our general vicinity had announced they would be closed today. Forecasters were predicting 3-6 inches of rain and wind gusts up to 60mph. People, that's A MAJOR NEWS EVENT, and our local TV stations acted accordingly. Reporters began showing up on-air in rain gear and strapping themselves to nearby trees in preparation- anchors even put on rain gear inside their studios (I mean that hair took hours, right? No sense in ruining it when the roof is ripped from the studio). I also heard a rumor that our local weather forecasters started a riot at the local Walgreen's for the last bottle of No-Doz. And this was long before the storm actually arrived.

Admittedly, after a few hours of watching fear and panic in New Orleans, I myself was packing my evacuation bag and wondering what the hell we were going to do with the beagle. "Snap out of it!" I told myself, but I couldn't resist the urge to race to the nearest supermarket and stock up on water, candles and two weeks of food. I was joined there by at least a hundred other cable news watchers doing the very same thing. Brainwashed by Shepard Smith's last rites on Bourbon Street and Geraldo's dire prophecies that this was The Big One, we were preparing for our own Armageddon, a thousand miles away.

Lucky me. This morning, I sit snugly and smugly at home as the local news watchers, who weren't brainwashed until yesterday, fight over the last bag of Bunny Bread and search for a gas station that isn't out of gas. We're currently in the eye of the storm, according to the weather demi-gods on TV, which means that I awoke this morning to total calm outside. But the wind is supposed to pick up again later on this morning.

My only moment of excitement so far came about six hours ago. Hubs and I had opened the window last night so that we could fall asleep listening to the rain. At about 3 am, I woke to the sound of a train that apparently jumped its tracks and was headed straight for our house. Well, that's what I heard. What I saw when I jumped out of bed was every tree in our front yard bent sideways, trying to withstand an incredible wind.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" I shouted, slamming the window shut. As Hubs sat up, I felt a little sheepish. It wasn't like I hadn't seen strong wind before.

"It's okay," I said. "The wind's just started blowing really hard." I cracked the window back open a bit and sat down so that I could feel for myself what a tropical storm was like. It was pretty amazing. No thunder or lightning, just a light rain and a forceful, roaring wind. Suddenly, a small branch came flying into the screen with a light thwap, inches from my face. I reacted accordingly.

"BwaHHHHH!" I screamed. Hubs was briefly alarmed, but the embarrassed look on my face when I faced him turned his "Huh?" into a "Hmmph." Still, he decided to go downstairs and see if there were any tornado warnings posted on TV.

Nothing. Nope. We were all clear. As the wind began to die down, we went back to sleep. There were plenty of accidents on the roads this morning because of all the standing water, but all seems to be okay for the most part. I'm a little worried about effects of the high winds on the forest of trees directly behind our house, but since we get a fair amount of tornado-spawning storms in our area, I'm used to this worry, so I think we're all going to be okay.

I have thought about what it would have been like to experience this 200 years ago, when there were no warnings, no watches, just a quick "TAKE COVER!!" from whomever happened to be outside when the storm hit. We're so lucky that we can evacuate, or at least stock our pantries, buy our candles and jigsaw puzzles and snuggle up inside a (hopefully brick) home. Imagine how much worse Katrina would have been if no one had known she was arriving.

So there it is.... My tropical storm story. I make light of the situation here because we love to panic over nothing, but my thoughts and prayers are with all those who live along the coast, many of whom are wondering right now if they still have a house to go home to. Hope all of you reading this now are safe and sound,too.

Who Nose?

Perhaps some child psychoanalyst out there can explain this to me. Because I am at a loss.

Me: Breakfast?

16-month-old Baby: Best?

Me: Lunch?

Baby: Lohnsh?

Me: Dinner!

Baby: Din!

Me: Breakfast?

Baby: (pause). Best?

Me: Lunch?

Baby: Nose?

Me: Dinner!

Baby: Nose!

Me: No, Dinner!

Baby: Nose!

Me: (sigh). Breakfast?

Baby: Nnnnnnoooosssseee?

Me: No. No noses. Lunch?

Baby: (points at nose) Nnnnnose?

Me: No. Nose has nothing to do with it! Dinner! Dinner!

Baby: Nose nose!


This has been going on for days. Why nose? Why why whyyyy? What could it possibly mean????

Making Babies

You’ve got to wonder what makes a couple decide to have a baby. Do they grow tired of those endless, restive Saturday and Sunday afternoons? Sick of sleeping eight straight hours without interruption? Bored with weekend getaways and romantic dinners at expensive restaurants? Whatever the cause, most married men and women decide at some point to replace their champagne flutes with sippy cups, their passion with pacifiers, all in search of that feeling parents get mooney-eyed over, as they hold a baby in their arms and radiate incredible, unconditional love and selflessness for the very first time in their lives.

My husband and I had an easier time than most making the baby decision. He’d been married before and had two daughters, 10 and 12, who lived a few minutes away and visited every weekend and then some. A year earlier, I had slipped out of my wedding dress and into the role of cook, housekeeper, soccer team mom, Disney Channel watcher and Uno player. Add to that a new house fully baby-proofed by its previous owners and a new job that let me work at home and it seemed there was no time like the present for tossing the birth control and making a baby.

I could already picture myself cuddling my gurgling, giggling bundle of joy. I’d take the baby for long walks in the warm sunshine, letting it nap in its carriage while I enjoyed a book and a latte at the local coffee shop. Everywhere we’d go, wrapped in our golden aura, people would stop us and marvel at my baby’s beautiful eyes, curly hair and sunny disposition. Some would even hand me business cards, begging to use Baby in their next commercial/photo shoot/film. Oh, there would be hard times too, of course. A few times a day, the baby would be hungry and I’d have to nurse it for five or ten minutes, but it would suck the extra pregnancy calories I’d accumulated right out of my body, leaving me even slimmer than I was before getting pregnant. I’d done my reading and I had this baby thing all figured out.

For his part, Hubs attacked our latest project with the all the determination of an Olympic sprinter. Picturing a cuddly, cooing baby waiting at the finish line, he single-mindedly pursued amorous encounters at any time, place and hour. Within days, the man had become a sexaholic and I, his co-dependent accomplice. We were going to be the best damn baby makers out there, and do it in record time. Yet even a gold medallist can only give so much. Within a few days, we were sore, exhausted and unusually crabby. For the first time in our history, an extended period of rest was required. Egos were nursed along with minor cuts and scratches. A pregnancy test at the end of the month confirmed the pathetic news: USA’s best damn baby makers hadn’t even bronzed.

Feeling betrayed by my own body, I, like thousands of other baby-making rejects, sought solace on the Internet. Here were the tormented accounts of women who’d tried for months and even years to make babies, all to no avail. They poured out their angst on pregnancy message boards, denouncing their smug, baby-toting friends and their grandchild-obsessed mothers-in-law. I quickly realized my own plaintive tale, tentatively titled “5 Straight Days of Action, No Baby Satisfaction”, would look like child’s play sandwiched in between stories of $3,000 fertility treatments and a sorry husband’s low sperm count. Wordless and alone, I skulked out of their online clubhouse, searching instead for a little baby making advice. I had no idea of what a tangled web I was about to discover.

Apparently baby making, even for the young and fertile, now required an advanced command of a language I was unprepared to learn. It seemed that conception could only occur during my luteal phase, after a luteinizing hormone had triggered ovulation. At that point, the added progesterone would help an egg attach itself to my endometrium. All I had to do was learn to recognize my cervical fluid pattern and a baby would be on the way. Huh?

In simpler terms, I had one of three options. I could write down the condition of my cervical mucus, noting each day whether it was pasty, sticky, stretchy or creamy. Not only did this option absolutely gross me out, but the resulting document potentially would be more embarrassing than the discovery of my secret diary. I could already see the writing on the public bathroom wall: “For slippery cervical mucus, call 555-3897!” Next.

Option two was even more horrifying. With two clean fingers, I was to feel the condition of my cervix once a day. A high and soft cervix equaled prime baby making time. Not only did I have doubts that I could even find my cervix with two fingers, but the warnings about possible infection using this method made me envision a humiliating discussion with my gynecologist. “Well, you see doctor, I was searching for my cervix and apparently, I had a hangnail.... maybe a slightly... dirty... hangnail.” Next.

Option three was a picnic compared to the first two. All I had to do was take my temperature each morning using a basal body thermometer, then chart it on a special graph that began on the first day of my period. My temperature would remain constant for the first 13 or so days, then dip lower on the day that ovulation, or “O” Day as I called it, was to occur. Eagerly, I printed out a chart, bought my thermometer and began tracking my temperature. I kept a companion graph online, so that other mommy wannabes could track my progress, and I could keep an eye on theirs. Soon, I was locked in an obsessive charting competition with countless other baby making hopefuls around the globe. Who would win the golden positive pregnancy test? Would it be Giselle from Dijon? Suki from Japan? Jo Nell from Mississippi? Surely not! I hadn’t come this far for nothing. My husband, noting the maniacal gleam in my eye as I scribbled down my temperature each morning, cowered beneath the sheets, praying that “O” Day would not be too painful.

And suddenly, it was upon us. Detecting a definite temperature plunge on Day 14, I turned to Hubs, who knew by the strange combination of my gritted teeth and come-hither smile that it was time. Resolutely, he stepped up to the plate and hit no less than four home runs that day. I’m embarrassed to admit that when he left the room for a few minutes, I even attempted a flailing bicycle leg exercise on the bed that ended prematurely when I lost my balance and strained my neck. No matter. We had done all we could do. We had given our best and surely our efforts would be rewarded.

Now, all I could do was wait and ask Hubs for frequent neck rubs. A pregnancy test wouldn’t detect the presence of a baby for at least another 9 to 12 days. I became obsessed with identifying the early signs of pregnancy. A late night headache? It means I’m pregnant! Lost keys? A baby’s on the way! Bickering with Hubs? I’ve gotta be preggo! Mornings found me fixedly staring at my breakfast, willing myself to feel nauseated before finally wolfing it down. After a week and a half of this torture, I finally got a break. Hubs, the girls and I headed for California to visit his parents and the pregnancy fixation was trumped by a succession of amusement park visits and gluttonous nights out. It wasn’t until the return flight home that I realized I couldn’t shake a feeling of vague nausea, fatigue and unheard-of constipation.

Late that afternoon as I unpacked, Hubs headed to the grocery for a pregnancy test. By this time, we’d talked and schemed about our baby-to-be so much that I nearly forgot about the test after I took it. As we emptied our suitcases and idly chatted about the trip, I happened to look down at the little wand on the bathroom counter. Two lines had appeared in its tiny plastic window. Two very definite lines. “Oh my god,” I said. “I can’t believe I’m preg.....ners.” We laughed like two dazed hyenas, then hugged and laughed some more.

That evening, we told the girls. They had known a baby was in the cards and already granted their approval, so we weren’t expecting fainting spells or hysterics, but I still felt a little nervous as their father announced the news. “Girls, Lucinda’s going to have a....” In a surprise move, Hubs turned to me. “Ba....by.” I croaked. Our 12-and 10-year-olds stood staring in perfect cinematic-style shock, their mouths forming little Os. “How?!” 12 finally said, quickly following up with “....Don’t answer that!!!”

Late that night, I held my own private winner’s ceremony, posting a positive pregnancy test symbol at the end of my online chart as the Giselles, Sukis and Jo Nells stamped their feet in frustration. With the benevolent smile of a gold medallist, I ignored the churning of my stomach and laid my head on my arm, watching the computer screen blur before my eyes closed and a pool of drool formed on my desk. In just nine months, there would be poopy diapers, I thought sleepily. There would be spit up. And there would be a demanding little creature I’d waited my whole life to meet and fall in love with.

Big Baby

As Baby choked on a meat stick today and regurgitated a pungent mixture of chicken and creamed spinach all down the front of my shirt, I began to meditate on why she's got it so good and I... don't. Not only does she have someone to follow her around all day and clean up her messes, she also has roomfuls of stuff designed merely to make her easy living even easier. Well, I'm sick of it. Hey, baby gear designers- What about making my life easier? Here are a few ideas to get you started...

Big Bjorn Bouncer: Baby spent much of her first year comfortably snuggled in a Baby Bjorn bouncer, much like the one you see here. Ergonomically designed for her big Baby butt, the Baby Bjorn Bouncer worked its mojo on her- She rarely cried and spent hours smiling up at us from her little Swedish comfort zone. But why should Baby have all the fun? Ladies and Gents, I propose a Big Bjorn Bouncer... a gigantic bouncer for the kid in all of us. Cheaper than a Barcolounger but twice as comfy, the Big Bjorn Bouncer will have you snoozing in front of the Disney Channel in no time!

Onesies for the Rest of Us: Onesie, I bow to you. You work well as a foundation piece underneath cute little jeans and a jacket- yet you also look great on your own. You epitomize the concept of "day-to-nightwear." That's why I'm formally requesting that Carter's make onesies in adult sizes. I could definitely use a few t-shirts that stay tucked in. In fact, if I could find a three-pack of long-sleeved black turtleneck onesies, I'd be in really good shape. Mr. Carter? Are you listening?

And Speaking of Fashion, Hey Calvin! Ralph! Tommy! Baby Fat is In! Awwww, look at that adorable double chin! I just want to pinch those little fat legs! Look at those dimples in his arms! That round little belly is so cute!
No, I'm not talking about your baby. I'm talking about your husband! Baby fat is in! And so are bald spots! Whoopee! Short? Fat? Bald? Georges Marciano wants you for his next ad campaign!

Big Boppy. Admit it. You used the Boppy for things that had nothing to do with your baby. And so did your family. Big Boppy will make everyone happy. Baby will have her Boppy. And so will y'all.

Sippy Cup for Men. It works like a sippy cup, but it has man things on it, like golf clubs or footballs or a "Pabst Blue Ribbon" logo. Put an end to your husband's messy malt liquor spills with the Sippy Cup for Men!


The Wiggles Uncensored- Director's Cut. Ever wondered what Anthony's Hot Potato really looks like? Put the kids to bed early and let Captain Feathersword show you what really happens when you push the second button.


These are just a few of my ideas. If you have more, I'd love to hear them- I'll add them to the list. We could change America here, people! Get on board!

Go Eat

Hi everyone. Just letting you all know I've created a new blog that's just for recipes. Cooking is a big hobby of mine, but I don't have a lot of time or money and I do have a family of finicky eaters-- so all of my recipes are kid-friendly and realistic for most budgets and time frames. Hopefully, you'll be able to find something you can use. The web address is http://chefmom.blogspot.com. I'll try to add a new recipe every day or so. Enjoy!

Bully Beware

I stumbled across a blog today detailing the daily physical and emotional abuse of a young wife by her husband and couldn't tear my eyes away. I wanted to go over there with a pack of women and beat the shit out of the dude with vacuum cleaner parts. You might think I'm joking, but I've totally done it before...

The year was 1983. I was eight. I lived in a small town on a street that about two dozen kids called home and we were a tight-knit bunch. In the summers, I remember getting up before dawn to meet everyone at the park across the street from my house. We'd spend the day playing all manner of elaborate games and often didn't return to our homes until dusk. We even had a gang called the Timberwood Tigers. Our youngest member was five and our two oldest were twelve.

Everything would have been perfect if it weren't for Ricky Billings. Ricky was born to be a bully. Rail thin and red headed with braces and beady eyes, this 14-year-old terrorized us on a daily basis. Toys were broken in half and toddlers pushed to the ground. Bicycles and sleds left outside were stolen and resold for quick cash. Curse words we didn't even recognize spilled out of his mouth every couple of seconds. And we couldn't escape him.

"Let me play," he'd say, emerging from the trees to interrupt our game of four-square. Grabbing the ball, he'd turn and throw it as hard as he could at the smallest kid, who'd immediately burst into tears. Then Ricky would disappear, before any adults had time to show up.

And the adults hated Ricky as much as we did, particularly when the bike they had just bought for Junior was stolen from their front yard. Ricky's dad was the P.E. teacher at the local high school and he often fielded calls from a Timberwood Tiger's mom or pop.

"Ricky slapped Skipper across the face this morning. He hasn't stopped crying since."

"I know, I know... I can't find Ricky anywhere... I just don't know what to do about him. He's adopted, you know..."

It was clear Mr. Billings had no more control over Ricky than the rest of us. His perpetually worried expression and beaten-down bearing let us know that as bad as it was to have Ricky as a neighbor, having him as a kid was far worse.

But one day, everything changed.

I don't exactly remember what Ricky had done that day, but you can bet it was bad. Real bad. So bad that the Timberwood Tigers salvaged all potential weaponry from an old metal vacuum cleaner that had been left on the side of the road and went looking for him. It was payback time.

Metal tubing and nozzles and heavy black cord in hand, our gang combed the area until someone spotted Ricky skulking up the street. It was a moment of high drama.

"There he is!" someone cried.

"Get him!"

"Rip him apart!"

"Beat him to a pulp!"

Ricky was no dummy. He took off running. But we had years of frustration and humiliation on our side. It wasn't long before we cornered him as he attempted to hide behind a neighbor's garden wall. Charging him from all sides, we screamed and hollered and began beating him with our vacuum cleaner parts. We were only 5 and 6 and 8 and 10 and 12 years old, but Ricky was outnumbered. Within seconds, he'd been knocked off his feet. Curled into a ball, he tried to fend off the blows. Soon, he was crying. Then he was bawling. Then he was begging us to stop.

We finally left him there, snivelling on the ground. Out of breath and exhausted, I knew the feeling of pure retribution that day for the first time in my life. I think we all felt a little guilty about beating him up, because I don't remember ever really talking about it afterward, except when my brother, who had been gone that day, found out about it and told my mom. He was expecting me to get in trouble, but instead, mom looked at me with a hard gleam in her eye.

"A vacuum cleaner?" she said. "That must have really hurt." I thought I detected the slightest smirk before she turned away.

Ricky Billings never turned up on our street again. I've wondered sometimes what ever happened to him. He's probably in jail somewhere.

But back to my original point, this bastard of a blogger's husband had better watch his back, because if I ever find out who he is and where he lives, I might have to call up some old friends... and it won't be long before he finds out what it feels like to have a Dirt Devil extension wand shoved up his ass.

The King of Beasts

When we chose our new house three years ago, we were charmed by its welcoming, tree-filled neighborhood, its cozy cul-de-sacs and its (for the most part) friendly neighbors. What we didn't realize (besides the fact that all, yes ALL of our grass would die during our two-week honeymoon) was that each of our outgoing neighbors had an equally outgoing dog. And so every morning at, say 6:30am, neighbor #1 would let his dog out into the backyard, who would noisily greet the dog in neighbor #2's yard, thereby waking up dogs #3 and #4 until they formed a rousing canine symphony of deafening proportions.

Thus Hubs and I spent our mornings as newlyweds tossing and turning and groaning and burying our heads under pillows and basically lying awake at dawn until it became clear that there would be no going back to sleep. "Shut UP!" Hubs would bellow as he groggily retrieved his newspaper at the end of the driveway while I giggled nervously from the bedroom window. It worked, too, for a few minutes anyway, but there's no telling what impact it had on our new neighbors.

We discussed leaving anonymous notes, calling the Homeowner's Association president, the animal control center, the police, the army... We discussed bb guns and buckshot, muzzles and bark collars. Most of our plans were pure fantasy, but I seriously considered opening each of our neighbors' backyard gates during a top-secret midnight run. Only the fear of being caught wearing a black turtleneck, black leggings and a black beret and carrying an incriminating black bag full of doggy treats stopped me.

As it turned out, our elaborate schemes were unnecessary. The solution came to us, unbidden and uninvited, in the form of a frenetic yellow beagle named Dipper.

Two Christmases before we married, Hubs had bought Dipper as a special surprise for his daughters. Then, Dipper was a cuddly puppy whose only crime was peeing on the carpet. Since that time, however, Dipper had morphed into a clumsy, overexcited, understimulated classic dumb dog. When the girls moved in with us, Dipper was part of the deal.

And Dipper's barking problem was legendary. It actually had prompted angry unsigned letters and threats of homeowner's association action in the girls' neighborhood. Not only was it constant and unrelenting, but it also was the most awfulest bark you've ever heard. Imagine a rabid weasel being dredged in flour by an angry two-year-old. Or an enormous fat man loudly puking his guts out. That, my friends, is the sound made by a yellow beagle.

When Dipper took up residence in our backyard, he quickly and definitively established himself as Herr Barker. The noise emitted from our backyard was so torturous that even the dogs covered their ears. Best of all, Hubs insisted on an invisible fence that extended to our front yard, which meant that neighbors out for their evening strolls were treated to the fright that results when a shrieking yellow fur-covered thing comes hurtling toward you at top speed, braying like it's Armageddon. Now that's entertainment-- at least it is if you're the one standing in the upstairs window giggling nervously.

I knew revenge was truly mine when Dipper woke at dawn the other day and shot out to greet a passing jogger with a boisterous "AaaaaROOOO!". In the distance, I heard a window jerk open. "SHADDDDUUUUUPPPP!" a woman howled. From under the covers, Hubs and I opened our eyes, smiled at each other and fell back into a deeply satisfying sleep.

Beece

We have a new addition to our family of five: Beece.

"Beece!" Baby shouts each morning when she wakes up. "Beece!" she cries, looking around her before settling down with her bottle. "Beece," she says mournfully during play time, searching under tables and around corners. She's not satisfied until I've located Beece and brought her to her tiny mama.

Beece is a replica of my first doll, Madame Alexander's "Baby Huggums", which I bought for Baby at Christmas time. Baby's always liked the doll, but during the last month, that like turned to love and now borders on obsession. Once she'd settled on the name "Beece," she decided that Beece would accompany her everywhere, and she'd do for Beece all the things that I do for her.

So when Baby drinks her bottle, she stops every so often and gives some to Beece. When Baby eats, she also feeds Beece, even making chewing sounds on Beece's behalf. Of course, Beece gets lots of hugs and kisses and even a few full-on smooches every day. And Beece takes naps-- Baby puts Beece on her back, puts her finger to her lips and says "Ssssss." This morning, Beece even had a small tantrum. Baby sympathetically patted Beece's back while making crying noises.

Beece is also my own private gauge of a person's goodness. Almost since she was born, Baby has had an instinctive feel for good people. We brought her to a child's funeral when she was 6 months old. When the child's grandmother came over to my husband and me, about to burst into tears, Baby held out her arms and went straight to the grandmother. It was as if she knew that woman needed to hold her. And Baby has always done that. There are plenty of attractive, kind-looking people she's shunned when they've tried to pick her up- instead, she'll hold out her arms to the soccer mom who's very nice but not part of the "in crowd", the quiet, gruff grandfather with a heart of gold, the awkward teenager who's one of the sweetest girls we know. Now that Baby's getting older, she holds out Beece to those she trusts, offering them a chance to hug her most prized possession. These people think it's cute; They have no idea what the Beece offering says about them.

I have to admit I get a little jealous of Beece sometimes. The hugs and kisses Beece gets used to be mine. And Baby's given up my lap during TV time. Instead, she sits in her baby-sized armchair and holds Beece. Oh I still get plenty of Baby love... but there's no denying I'd get a lot more if it weren't for Beece.

Yet I recognize that Beece is the first step in Baby's long journey toward independence. I feel lucky that I'm still in that wonderful place where Baby often points at herself when I ask "Where's Mommy?" and points at me when I ask, "Where's Baby?", even though she gets everyone else right, including friends and relatives. I read somewhere that it takes time for babies to realize they're not part of their mothers' bodies, but instead are independent human beings and I like the thought of Baby still thinking she's part of me. And it pleases me to think Beece could be an indication that Baby will be a good mommy some day.

So I guess as long as Baby loves Beece, we'll have to love her too.

Love, Ego and the Joggle

My husband is your basic Alpha Male. He insists on facing the door when we dine out in case trouble walks in. He's trained and licensed to carry a baton and always has it on hand to fend off would-be carjackers and thugs. He lifts weights and carries all the heavy stuff and he teaches his daughters how to wrassle and throw punches. Typically, his ego is as big as the Hindenburg. It's also as fragile.

Yesterday in the kitchen when he leaned over to kiss me, I gave him what I'll call a belly joggle. That's when you slap a belly back and forth quickly with your hand, before your victim knows what's hit him.

This belly joggle was not unprovoked- It actually was retaliation for his continual boob joggles. In Alpha Male fashion, he constantly slaps my boobs whenever he thinks no one's looking. He thinks it's funny. I think it's annoying. I thought the belly joggle would illustrate my point.

"Hey! What was that?!" he said incredulously.
"A belly joggle," I replied.
The Hindenburg began rising off the ground. "Well, there's no joggle in my belly," he said.
"Yes there is. I felt joggle."
"No there isn't. Do it again." Obligingly, he lifted his shirt and flexed his abs as hard as he could.
I slapped. And there it was. Only a slight joggle, but a joggle nonetheless. The Hindenburg burst into flames.
"Everyone has a little joggle," I said, feeling guilty. I knew about his Achilles ego, and didn't want to take advantage. "Only gym rats who work out, like, seven days a week don't have belly joggle."
He was silent. He laughed weakly, but the damage was done.

That afternoon as he was changing clothes, the joggle reared its ugly head.
"I think my stomach is bigger lately," he said. "I feel bloated today."
"You don't look bloated," I said.
"Oh, I think I do."
I winced. I knew his insecurity was all my fault. Me and my stupid joggle.

But last night was the kicker. At Baskin-Robbins, my King of Ice Cream.... went without. Yes, ladies and, well, ladies, a seemingly minor joggle can cause an Alpha Male to make the ultimate sacrifice, giving up two scoops of quarterback crunch nestled inside a slightly stale waffle cone. I briefly burned with shame. Then I quenched it with a scoop of peanut butter chocolate.

This morning, he got me back, joggling my own belly right when I woke up. It felt awful.
"Hey!" I shouted crankily. "You can't retaliate over a retaliatory joggle!"
"I felt your belly joggle!" he said gleefully, ignoring me and moving quickly away before experiencing retaliation for a retaliatory retaliatory joggle. "Yeah, well I'm not denying it," I bluffed. "I'm proud of my joggle!"

Now that he's confirmed my joggle, he seems to feel much better about his own. And I guess that's what a lasting relationship is all about. Loving each other despite our joggles. But seriously, that boob slapping's got to stop.

Bitchin'

I met a friend at the library today for Children's Story Time and spent an entire hour afterward standing and talking to her in the lobby. Actually, talking is the wrong word for it. What we were really doing was bitchin'.

We bitched about everything and I mean everything. We started out bitching about our mutal friend's jerk husband, then we bitched about the bitchy moms in our former play group, we bitched about how another friend's playgroup was disbanded because of too much bitchin' and we bitched about the potential for bitchin' in our new play group, which starts up next month.

Of course, bitchin' tends to increase exponentially, so it wasn't long before we'd moved on to Family. We bitched about our mothers and I bitched about my dad. I bitched about my brother and my friend bitched about being an only child. My family being more prone to dramatic and staggering acts of cruel symbolism than hers, I launched into a bitchin' soliloquoy detailing the wheres and whens and whys and hows of all the rotten things that they'd ever done to me... ... My excellent friend listened sympathetically and bitched back when she could get a bitch in edgewise, but after two weeks with the in-laws and a third week nursing a salmonella-stricken 12-year-old back to health, I was in rare form. I kid you not, I needed a milk crate to bitch atop, for my bitchin' attracted a small crowd of folks who pretended to be standing around, but were so obviously listening. And let's face it, artful and impassioned bitchin' is something we'll all make a fake cell phone call to hear.

Out of breath and a little sweaty, I realized I had done enough bitchin' for one day. I sheepishly bid my friend a fond farewell and hoped I hadn't scared her out of showing up to meet me the next week. I felt a little guilty about exposing her and her baby to prolonged bitchin', but what are friends for, right? I felt purged and clean and ready to find something new to bitch about.

I mean, that's what women do, when it comes right down to it. We bitch. Men bond by hunting and watching/playing/discussing sports together. Women bond by bitchin'. Friends and enemies are determined by the astoundingly simple Bitchin' Test. If you can agree on things to bitch about, you likely have found a great friend. If, on the other hand, you find yourself bitchin' about the very woman you're bitchin' to, well, danger Will Robinson.

Tonight, I wrote my friend an e-mail, thanking her for letting me go on a bitchin' spree. I was inspired by her kindness to call another friend of mine and listen to her bitch for a good 30 minutes about her upcoming Move to Another State. Because one good bitch deserves another.

Goodbye, Earl

Every subdivision in America has at least one Neighbor with a Park for a Front Yard. Ours was Earl.

Earl spent hours trimming and pruning and weeding and aerating and sweeping and clipping and mulching and, very occasionally, crouching and enjoying his Park/Yard. He mowed his grass in a certain length and direction so that it rippled in the wind like a lush, green ocean. His Bradford Pear trees were the envy of the neighborhood, blooming with gusto every spring. The only problem... Earl was an asshole.

When Earl was on vacation a few months ago, someone had the gall to mow a portion of his lawn without first asking his permission. Earl became the grand inquisitor upon his return, questioning each of his neighbors as to whether they saw "suspicious activity" in his Park/Yard while he was gone. Clearly, one of the many landscaping services that come through our neighborhood had made a mistake, a mistake most neighbors would be glad to have happen to them. Not Earl. He seemed to think his yard was maliciously trimmed by someone seeking revenge. And revenge in our neighborhood was entirely possible.

You see, Earl had made liberal use of the ear of the neighborhood Homeowners' Association President. So in our neighborhood, if a car was parked in front of a home too long (like, 45 minutes or longer), Earl complained and the neighbor received an official letter from the president, sternly threatening a beheading if said car wasn't parked in the garage where it belonged. Before long, letters were sent out about brush piles, fireworks displays, barking dogs and bratty children. The neighborhood was a small one, so it wasn't long before nearly every resident I talked to had received a written warning, all thanks, I'm fairly certain, to Earl.

My husband and I pulled together all the pitchforks and buckets of tar we could find, hoping to lead an "intervention" for our Eden-obsessed neighbor, but what with PTA meetings, soccer practices and "Desperate Housewives" viewings, our neighbors couldn't settle on a date- so we were forced to find a more subtle form of deprogramming.

Our yard happened to be right across the street from Earl's, which gave us views from our front windows that gave any Central Park apartment a run for its money. But the true beauty of this arrangement was that when Earl looked out of his windows, we made sure he saw chaos. Frenzy. Landscaping from hell.

Since our yard was cloaked in shade, our grass struggled to survive. A few of our hedges had already given up the battle and quietly held their leafless branches up in open admission of defeat. A new ping pong table won the bid for garage space, so our cars sulked and stalled in our driveway and out on the street. Year-round soccer practices led to homemade PVC goals taking up residence on our postage stamp-sized front lawn. The front step became an airing place for everything from cleats to diaper pails. And with three girls getting in and out of cars all day, our yard provided a convenient repository for hair bands, happy meal toys, colored pencils, ribbons and other feminine detritus. To top it all off, our invisible dog fence extended to all borders of our property, which meant that more often than not, our braying, bellowing beagle was calling out each and every person who dared to walk or drive down our street.

It took a year of carefully-choreographed zingers- a dropped gum wrapper here, a dead snake left out on a street grate there, and balls that too often made a trajectory straight for Earl's manicured lawn. But Earl finally cracked. A few weeks ago, he and his wife drove their luxury sedan off into the sunset, never to return.

Today, a pleasant couple has taken up ownership of the Park/Yard. Within a week of Earl's departure, the grass turned a pleasing shade of August brown. And just a few days ago, a landscaping company showed up and gave the lawn a buzz cut. Yes, I think our new neighbors will fit in just fine...

Ready for Action

While the girls are with their mother for three days, Hubs and I are partying like rock stars!! Or at least we did Saturday night. We left Baby with our second favorite Reliable Babysitter (the first one having ditched us for LA- the nerve!) and hit all our town's hotspots-- well, four of them anyway. It was a much needed Wild Night Out and it left me to wonder if this new full-time custody arrangement won't be better after all. The girls are scheduled to visit their mom again for long weekends in September and October, plus a week at Christmas. Since Hubs and I now have less time alone, we do it up big when they're away- which is just how I like it. Yes, I'm a party girl at heart.

Sunday was spent first at church (where I apologized to God for the previous night's four drinks and the fairly daring top I wore WITHOUT A BRA [it was backless- what could I do?!]-God told me to satisfy my craving for a Philly Cheesesteak sub and natural cut fries from my favorite local joint and all would be forgiven- of course I had to obey), then we engaged in some serious lolling around at home. Our plans to work out like demons were abandoned. Instead, I took a nap and Hubs played video games. Ahhhhhh....

The girls return on Tuesday and I will resume my mad dash to Get Ready for the School Year. We are pretty depressed that school starts next week- Not only will I be shuttling kids in and out of two different schools in two different parts of town, but our new wake-up time will be FIVE FRIGGIN' THIRTY A-M. You read me right. In order to get 14 to school on time, we will have to get up at FIVE FRIGGIN' THIRTY A-M. And with 12 coming along behind her, Hubs realized this morning that we'll be getting up at FIVE FRIGGIN' THIRTY A-M for the NEXT SIX YEARS. Now I understand why moms of teenagers look so much older and more tired than moms of prepubescents. Trust me, there is no bright side here. So I'm gathering my rosebuds this week while I may.

Baby is cracking me up. She just discovered two holes in the center of her face that are the perfect size for her fingers. For the last two days, she's been running up to me with a finger in her nostril, shouting "Nose!" and running away, laughing. Gonna have to put a stop to that...

And let me just take this opportunity to congratulate myself on another successful consignment sale raid. Our local elementary school had one this past weekend to raise money for the PTA. I made it there early and found the cutest little dresses and jumpers for Baby (sidebar note: after accidentally happening on one a few years ago, I am a diehard fan of children's consignment sales- Much of the clothing is new or nearly new and the toys are dirt cheap- It's the ultimate bargain high and I don't feel guilty about spending too much money on toys Baby might not even like- because I'm hardly spending money at all). But the best buy of the day was a $2 brand new Teletubbies video. It is titled "Big Hug," which happens to be Baby's favorite part of the show. Every time I've played it, she has parked herself in front of the TV, transfixed for one whole hour. It's pretty much on continuous play right now...

Today, on my last day of "vacation", I'm cleaning the house from top to bottom. Momster just wrote about cleaning and it sparked some interesting comments from women who admitted that housekeeping is a very real form of therapy for most of us. Some clean when they're sad or worried, but my cleaning is more of a control issue. When my house is a wreck (and it only takes about a day to become that way), I start to feel out of sorts and powerless. When my house is clean (minus the girls' rooms and the playroom, which I've pretty much abandoned), I feel like I have control over my life. I am who I want to be. I can walk around like a Stepford goddess and I'm all ready for unexpected guests and/or TV crews... But wouldn't you know it, the guests and TV crews only seem to show on wreck days. Anyway, it must be a girl thing, because Baby is already getting in on the cleaning action. If she can get her hands on a dishrag, she gets busy polishing the floors with it. She loves putting away her toys and any time she finds a napkin, she carefully wipes her mouth with it!

So that's the news from Lucindaland... After a few days alone with my husband, I feel rested, rejuvenated, and deeply content.

Cracking Up

I'm showing new cleavage these days- right above the seat of my fashionably low cut, hip-hugging jeans. It's a topic that heretofore has only been whispered about behind closed doors, but as one victim in a sea of millions suffering from plumber's butt, I've decided to come out of the clothes closet.

It astounds me that virtually no one talks openly about the embarrassment, the doubt and the catcalls they've endured in their hip huggers. Since lowriders came into style a few years ago, I've seen more than I wanted to of thousands of female bums, bending over at the supermarket, sitting on park benches, even perusing the bottom racks in the children's section at the library.

Just the other day, my husband casually said, "You know, you've been showing your butt crack a lot. I'm starting to get defensive."

"What are you talking about?" I sputtered, standing up from putting dishes in the dishwasher. "When? Where?"

"On the airplane last week," he replied, tearing his eyes from my exposed behind. "Every time you leaned over in your seat."

"Well, it got us an empty extra seat on a supposedly full flight, didn't it?" I retorted. (To be honest, it probably had more to do with the squealing Baby I seated fetchingly on that extra seat, but that's beside the point).

The problem with visible butt cleavage is that, unlike when your boob pops out of your bustier and you note the horrified looks on the faces of, say, the Super Bowl audience, when your ass is exposed, the witnesses inevitably are behind you (pardon the pun). So you might end up spending hours mooning friends, relatives and strangers before someone lets you know you've made Glamour's fashion victims page.

Although I'm not about to get waisted when it comes to jeans, I've become entirely too self conscious about my hip huggers. For one thing, you'll find me tugging them up about every five seconds. And sitting down in them now involves a time consuming five-step process.

1) Tug up jeans.
2) Sit down, squeezing butt cheeks to keep jeans from moving.
3) Reach around to feel for exposed butt crack.
4) Tug shirt down over exposed butt crack.
5) Place purse/shopping bags behind back to cover shirt riding up over exposed butt crack.

Heaven forbid I have to pick something up off the ground in my lowriders. After looking around to make sure no one is directly in the sightline of my ass, I do what could best be described as a freeform limbo to avoid bending over and risking an arrest for public indecency. More than once, good samaritans have actually grabbed my arm and asked if I was okay.

So who is responsible for this mess? I imagine secret meetings of the world's fashion designers (mostly men of course), snickering over their croissants and coffee as they come up with the latest ways to Embarrass Womankind. Over the years, they've zinged us with knickers, micro minis, corsets and gaucho pants. I can just picture their glee as the hip hugger-wearing mannequin was unveiled before them.

"I love how ze woman's pooch will hang out over ze front," beams one.

"And 'er love 'andles will squeeze out the sides!" shouts another.

"She'll have to use her husband's belts for those jeans!" chuckles a third. "He won't like that, no sir."

"Gentlemen," announces the puffed-up presenter. "The best is yet to come."

As he spins the dummy around for a rear view, the room erupts in applause.

I've come up with something of a solution, at least in the privacy of my own home. After my husband chastized me for my chronic crack attack, I went to fold clothes in the laundry room. As I heard him coming down the hall, I pulled my jeans way down and let it all hang out while I fished clothes out of the dryer. When Hubs walked by, I heard his footsteps stop short, a moment of stunned silence, and the sound of uproarious laughter.

The Seven Phases of Wiggles Watching

1. You can't believe your baby loves the Wiggles. You laugh hysterically at the idea of four middle-aged men in coordinating turtlenecks rolling in sand, splashing fully dressed in the ocean and singing "Quack, quack, cock-a-doodly-doo." You consider switching off the show, but can't because your baby loves The Wiggles.

2. Time passes. You become mildly irritated as phrases such as "Move like the emu do" and "Fruit salad, yummy yummy," get stuck in your mind at 8:30 am and stay there for the rest of the day. You consider switching off the show, but can't because your baby loves The Wiggles.

3. You begin to develop a certain affection for The Wiggles. You decide that Anthony is definitely the hottest Wiggle, but you would choose Jeff to be your best friend. You are a bit surprised that the editor of Jane Magazine (the mother of a one-year-old) has publically proclaimed that Greg is the hot one. You fume that just because Greg is the leader doesn't make him cuter than Anthony. You realize you need to get a life. You consider switching off the show, but can't because your baby loves The Wiggles.

4. You become obsessed with The Wiggles. You read their website and are shocked to learn they are all in their 40s and that Murray, Greg and Anthony (sigh) are married. You suspect Jeff is gay. Actually, you'd suspected all of them were gay. You read their extensive touring schedule and speculate that their pretty choreographer, who is also their lead dancer, must certainly be sleeping with at least one of them. You imagine a Wiggles orgy. You realize you need to get a life. You consider switching off the show, but can't because your baby loves The Wiggles.

5. You buy exhorbitantly expensive tickets to a Wiggles show in your town. Your baby falls asleep by the third song, but you don't really care. You're too busy dancing to "Captain's Magic Buttons". You and your husband laugh at the screaming mothers with cameras who chase The Wiggles as they run through the audience. But when Jeff passes you and smiles, you find you are breathless with excitement. You realize you need to get a life. You consider leaving the show early, but can't because your baby loves The Wiggles (and those tickets were fucking expensive).

6. You become angry with The Wiggles, who seem to be too busy touring to make any new TV shows. You become angry with the Disney Channel for running the same 6 damn shows over and over again. You become angry with Captain Feathersword, who would look so much better if he would just lose 15 pounds. You realize you need to get a life. You consider switching off the show, but can't because your baby loves The Wiggles.

7. You become resigned to The Wiggles' place in the lives of you and your baby. You hardly notice "Hot Potato" anymore and you know exactly what's going to happen if you push the third button. However, your husband seems to have entered phase four. He's been singing "Dancing with Wags the Dog" lately and worse, when you were out on a date a few nights ago, he noticed a table of white men and one asian man and expressed an urge to confront them with "Hey guys, where's Jeff?" You laugh tiredly and realize he needs to get a life. You wish you could move on and leave The Wiggles behind, but can't because your baby loves The Wiggles.

Ten Reasons Why You Should Never, Ever Let Birds Build a Nest in Your Garage

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING ACCOUNT IS NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED (OR THOSE IN THE MIDST OF A NICE, HEARTY MEAL).

1. You will spend about six weeks gasping and ducking every time you enter the garage and a bird whizzes by your ear to get out the back door.

2. After the eggs hatch, you will have to lock your sweet but stupid dog out of the garage indefinitely when the mama bird decides her chicks are ready to fly and dumps them out of the nest onto the ground to let them fend for themselves.

3. You will spend two days in anxious phone conference with your husband about whether to call Critter Control, as the still-flightless baby birds hop around your garage. You will suffer a morality crisis over whether to open the garage door and let nature take its course or to try and protect them yourself.

4. Once you open the garage door, your husband will suffer a morality crisis as he watches one of the still-flightless baby birds hop around the front yard while he weeds the front planter.

5. Several days later, you will start to notice a strange and horrible smell emanating from the garage into the kitchen. It will get worse. And worse. But the worst is actually yet to come.

6. Your husband will find a dead, three-foot-long snake wrapped around the garage door motor. Its body will have one large lump that you know must be a baby bird inside. The snake will appear to be alive because it is writhing, but your husband will quickly determine that the writhing is actually caused by hundreds of maggots. Once the snake is removed, the smell will remain in your garage for several more weeks.

7. You will notice a similar odor coming from a bush beside your front door. You will surmise that another of the baby birds must have kicked the bucket nearby.

8. After a few weeks pass, your husband will gather up the bird's nest from the garage shelf and dump the whole thing in the trash can. Several days later, he will notice the trash can smells even worse than the garage. He will look inside and see several hundred maggots in the bottom of the trash can. He will realize that another baby bird must have died before leaving the nest.

9. Your husband will clean out the trash can with a hose. It will take him 20 minutes to get the putrifying ooze out of the bottom of the trash can. He will discover that maggots + water = a stench that can't even be described in words. Hubs, an alpha male, will run to the shower when he's done with this disgusting job, shouting that it's definitely one of the ten grossest things he's ever seen in his life. And he's seen a lot.

10. Hours later, you'll walk past the trash can airing outside and nearly vomit (you, who have almost no gag reflex) when the smell hits you. The odor will stay in your nose and throat for half an hour. You will swear to never again allow birds to build a nest in your garage.

Retrending to be Someone I'm Not

You know you're getting old when you find yourself shopping for the same clothing trends you shopped for back in junior high.

My teenage stepdaughter won't leave home right now without her side ponytail and cropped bolero jacket. She just bought legwarmers last week at American Apparel in LA (you may not have heard of it yet, but you will) and she's appropriated her mom's oversized plastic hoop earrings circa two decades ago. I often fight the urge to throw my body in front of the door rather than allowing the poor girl to leave the house looking like Moon Unit Zappa. It's. So. Over.

But it's not. In fact, it's just begun. Again.

Does the fashion industry just think that we don't remember that prairie skirts are soooo 1987? That off-the-shoulder ripped t-shirts had about the same shelf life as Jennifer Beals? That Izod is for nurds (remember when there were two spellings? I do...) and Bermuda shorts are okay only if you're part of the shuffleboard set? Is fashion dead?

Or am I just getting.... old?

Now that I think about it, not that long ago I took huge glee in my first pair of hip hugging flares. Ditto the cool poncho and the way-oversized Gucci sunglasses. It was all new to me- And wearing it evoked a little bit of the feeling I used to get dressing up in my mother's clothes, except that this time, everything fit.

But maybe there's an angry horde of 40-something women out there I've never noticed, women who were pretty steamed to see the return of ironed hair and wrap dresses and moccasins and dashikis... Women who laugh to see my disgusted expression as I eye the ribbon belts on all the Macy's mannequins.

I'm learning that there's a huge gulf between 29 and 30. And I've crossed over to the other side.

But there is a bright side... I suppose this means that one day about ten years from now, I'll get to gleefully look on as the Lindsay Lohans and Paris Hiltons of the world realize that chunky, clunky shoes are in- again. Along with Burberry plaid, Ugg boots and Coach handbags.

Meanwhile, I've learned to carefully save all of my outdated gear in the back of my closet. You never know when you might need it again...

A Beginning

It's so difficult to begin writing anything, but a blog is one of the hardest. I guess I'm supposed to define myself. To list my limitations. Wife, Mother, Stepmother, Daugher, Stepdaughter, Writer, Reluctant Dogkeeper and worst of all, Homemaker... It sounds so boring.

And it is, sometimes.

Three years ago, I was single, successful, fashionable, cutting edge. Now, my world has folded again and again on itself until it resembles a note my 14-year-old stepdaughter would shove to a friend in Geometry. Now, I fold laundry, cook dinners, wash the baby, shop for groceries, and listen to a voice of dissension grow louder and louder inside my head.

There's happiness and contentment in being home, in caring for a family. There's also crushing boredom and unrest. There's a wild unwillingness to let go of a small inner spark that never knew the meaning of boundaries until now.

The funny thing is that when I was younger, I used to fantasize about being a housewife. Staying home seemed so much easier. Now I fantasize about working again. Or at least about the good parts of working. Socializing, gossiping, lunching out, commanding respect. No one sees anything glamorous about a housewife. No one. Not the handyman, not the people I meet at cocktail parties, not even my own parents.

"When are you going back to work?" everyone asks. "Are you back at work yet?"

As if all the work I'm doing at home is meaningless. As if I'm sitting at home on my sofa, watching The Price is Right all day, while everyone else makes meaningful contributions to society.

I was used to being the center of attention. I saw myself that way. But after a year of staying home, I'm starting to see myself the way others see those in my position. Boring. Marginal. Gray.

This blog is my chance to change all that.