7,000 Sick Hamsters

2008-12-01T09:19:00.000-08:00

So, here I am with my first weight-loss check-in, as promised. The news is pretty good. I lost about 3 1/2 lbs. my first week dieting, and that's during a week that included Thanksgiving. So, I'm proud of myself. I'd gone into the holiday really worried about it - I concocted various strategies that included eating nothing at all, or taking a Slimfast shake in my purse, or maybe faking illness so I could stay home and avoid the whole issue. In the end, I took a more moderate approach. I ate healthy, low-calorie foods all day until Thanksgiving dinner. When dinnertime came, I ate only one small portion of each thing, and I only chose foods that I really wanted. I did have pecan pie - one slice, I learned, is a whopping 700 calories - but I only had a small sliver. And everything turned out OK.

Here, I have to give my plug for The Daily Plate, the weight loss section of livestrong.com, Lance Armstrong's website. I'm finding it so helpful. It's got a calorie calculator, which tells you how much to eat in order to lose a certain amount of weight per week. You can log your exercise, chart your weight loss, and post to a personal diary. It's also got forums, where helpful people will answer your fitness questions. The people on the site stress healthy weight loss, which means no fad diets, and no ultra-low-calorie diets. I've learned that I can eat 1,800 calories per day to lose 2 lbs. per week. Every other diet I've tried has put me at a hunger-inducing, and impossible to sustain, 1,200 calories. No wonder I've failed in the past - I was starving! Now, I'm able to eat plenty of food, including some of my favorite treats, and weight is still coming off. It's been eye-opening.

2008-11-26T17:51:00.000-08:00

Evan never fails to surprise me. She's 4 1/2 now. Today we went to the library because she wanted to find a book about kangaroos. I found four or five books on kangaroos -- in the children's section, mind you -- and put them on a table for her to look through. One of the books had some very graphic photos of a dissected kangaroo, complete with heart, lungs and intestines. I was pretty shocked to find that in a kid's book. I didn't know how Evan would react, but she just looked through the pictures very seriously. After a moment she said, "I want to get this one." I asked, "Are you sure, babe? There are some pretty yucky pictures in there." And she said, "If I can see what's inside the kangaroo, it'll help me learn." I couldn't argue with that logic, so we checked out the book. Her dad can't read it to her, though. Too squeamish.

2008-11-24T15:32:00.000-08:00

I'm going to lose weight. Last night we watched some videos of the kids' birthdays, and I saw myself with horror. I honestly didn't realize I'd gotten this fat. The person on the screen was a stranger to me. A very large stranger. Also, at about the same time, I stepped onto a scale for the first time in months. I'm 206 lbs. I've been overweight all my life but I've never weighed more than 200 lbs., except during my pregnancies, which don't count.

Add to this the fact that I'm getting old. I'm 40 now, and I'm starting to feel all this extra weight for the first time. My back hurts. My knee hurts. I get winded going up stairs. In the past, when I've tried to lose weight, it's been about vanity, not health. I felt fine. I could do all the things I wanted to do, without much effort. But now, I feel as though my body is falling apart. My weight may or may not be causing these problems, but either way, it's certainly making things worse. I need to lose weight for myself, and for my family. They deserve to have me healthy, a full participant in their lives.

My mother died partly due to obesity. She had many health problems, and those that weren't caused by her weight were made much worse by it. I don't want to end up that way. I don't want my loved ones to be sad about my lost potential.

The good news is, I've already made some changes. I'm exercising regularly for the first time in my life. I've learned that my back pain can be controlled quite well by daily exercise, and by pretty much nothing else. So, I might not like going to the gym, but I like constant pain even less. In a way, my back problems are a gift to me, because they're motivating me to work out the way nothing else has, or will. If it weren't for the threat of pain, I'd be sedentary as ever. Funny how things work out.

I plan to report here on my progress. I'm not going to be one of those ladies at the Weight Watchers meetings I used to attend, obsessing about every morsel that entered their mouths. Nobody's going to care if I break down and eat a cupcake, nor will you want to know the details of the cupcake -- its flavor, calorie count, fat content, etc. It's just not interesting, and it's not going to help me to tell it to you. Instead, I'm going to let you know how I feel, and whether I'm generally meeting my goals of healthy eating and regular exercise. I figure, I might do better if somebody, somewhere, knows about my successes and failures. And please, feel free to share yours.

2008-04-15T12:53:00.000-07:00

Chloe is 9 now, and she is absurdly hard on socks. A couple of weekends ago we went to a birthday party for one of the neighbor kids. A big jumper was set up in the back yard. When Chloe took her shoes off to go in the jumper, I was horrified to see she had a hole in her sock the size of a Granny Smith apple. And yet she'd somehow overlooked this fact when she'd selected socks that morning. Today I was folding some clean laundry, and I saw that a pair of Chloe's socks that are less than a week old already have four holes in them. It could have something to do with the fact that she doesn't like to wear shoes. Last week she was leaving to go to a friend's house. She had socks on, but no shoes. Her friend's house is about a quarter-mile away. She'd been planning to walk there, just like that. With socks, but no shoes.

We have a new hamster. Her name is Butterscotch. She is golden brown and white, and she's very cute, even though she looks a lot like an extra-fuzzy mouse. She doesn't say much, and that's probably why I like her. She's the only member of the family who's not constantly asking me to get her something. She just eats and sleeps, and runs on her wheel. She doesn't even argue over which channel we should watch, or what we should eat for dinner.

2008-04-14T14:16:00.000-07:00

I started a play group on Meetup.com a couple of years ago, when my oldest daughter was 2. It started out well, with a good group of members who participated regularly. The drama so common to groups of women was notably absent. We went to parks. We met for coffee. The kids had a good time.

The problem is, while the kids got to know each other, I got to know ... other people's kids. The conversations I had with the other mothers ranged from pregnancy to labor to childbirth to potty training to the best type of sippy cups. I know how dilated these ladies were at their 39 week OB exams. I know who had the epidural and who did not. I know who got stretch marks and who escaped unscathed. I know which kids have tantrums, which are picky eaters, which refuse to sleep in their own beds. But I know virtually nothing about the women themselves.

Two years of seeing these ladies two and three times a week, and I don't know what kinds of movies they like. What kinds of music they enjoy. What their husbands do for a living. What they themselves did for a living before they left to become stay-at-home moms. I know what kind of mothers they are, but I don't know what kind of women they are. And that's a shame.

It's not that I haven't tried to change things. I tried scheduling moms' nights out, in the hope that we could focus more on ourselves. But even though the children weren't present, they remained the center of attention. It was like navigating a maze in which all paths ended at the same point. All conversations led back to the kids.

I've come to the conclusion that these women -- from all appearances sweet, loving people -- don't really want to get to know each other. They want to get out of the house and be in groups and have other adults to talk to, but they don't really want to open themselves up or reveal anything. The children are a shield we all use to protect ourselves from real human connections outside our families. Play groups are like the social equivalent of fast food -- easy, pleasant, but not very nourishing.

2007-02-28T12:16:00.000-08:00

My day, in a nutshell:

"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom."
"What, Evan?"
"That's a tree."
"Oh."
"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom."
"What Evan?"
"It has leaves."
"Uh-huh."
"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom."
"What, Evan?"
"A car doesn't have leaves."
"That's true."
"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom."
"WHAT, EVAN?!!"
"I wasn't talking to you."
"Then what were you doing?"
"I just really like saying 'Mom'."

Repeat, over and over again.

2007-02-16T09:26:00.000-08:00

This may be Southern California, but the forecast is always the same: whiny, with a 90 percent chance of tantrums.

The kids in this house will whine about anything. Especially Evan. "I want some orange juuuuuuuice!" "But IIIIIIIIIIII want that booooooooooooook!!!" "I don't waaaaaant to take a naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap!!!!!" I put on her Nikes instead of her Care Bear shoes? Whine. I offer her a cheese sandwich instead of chicken nuggets? Whine. I tell her it's time to go to bed? Full-on, screaming, head-banging tantrum.

OK, so she just turned 3, and you've got to expect a certain amount of this. But it seems excessive when you're the one who has to listen to it 12 hours a day.

Before I had children, I naively thought that all those tantruming kids at the mall, or at the movie theater, or sitting next to me at a restaurant, were the product of permissive and clueless parents. If I ever had kids, surely mine would be delightful little angels, coloring creatively on the back of the children's menu while waiting for their food to come. They'd smile fetchingly at me, while making cute and surprisingly precocious observations about the world. They'd be this way because I, my friends, would know how to parent.

Yes, I was one of those people who glared or rolled their eyes at the parents of unruly kids. Holy cow. I wish I could track down all of those parents and send them personal letters of apology, because it turns out this is just the way kids are, and there's nothing you can do about it.

I've tried all the methods the experts recommend: You give time-outs. You ignore the tantrums. You tell the child that mommy can't hear her until she speaks calmly. You never, never, give in to the tantrum. I do all that. And you know what? It doesn't work.

I read a book on parenting that said the biggest lie parents tell themselves is, "It's just a phase. They'll get over it." But I'm praying that this is just a phase. And if it's a lie, it's one I need to believe.

2007-01-27T16:14:00.000-08:00

Chloe will watch anything on TV. I mean, anything. You know those old movies where the people have been turned into aliens or zombies or something, and they just stare and stare with these slack-jawed, frozen expressions? That's Chloe in front of the TV. And it doesn't have to be a show she likes. If someone else is watching, say, a show about managing your finances, and Chloe is coming through the room at a full run on her way outside to play with friends, she will skid to a dead stop in front of the TV, mesmerized by the information on CDs and low-interest mortgages. This morning, she was flipping channels and became, apparently, fascinated by an episode of Veggie Tales. In Spanish.

"Chloe?"

She didn't answer.

Me, louder: "Chloe?"

"Huh?"

"You are aware, aren't you, that you don't speak Spanish?"

"Uh-huh."

And she kept right on watching. She never even looked up from the screen.

Evan's not like that. Not yet, at least. Sure, she enjoys "Mickey Mouse Club House," and an occasional Care Bears DVD. But she's much more casual about it. For her, the TV is just background noise while she does something else, like making snakes out of Play-Doh.

I'm a little worried about the baby. If the TV's on while she's in the room, her eyes will be on it, even though she's only 11 weeks old. That can't be good. It's probably killing her little attention span, before it's even had a chance to develop. At least she's learning a foreign language.

2007-01-25T08:19:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, we went to the zoo. I took Evan, who just turned 3, and Condee Lee, who's 10 weeks old. My husband was working, so it was just me and the kids. We were scheduled to meet some other moms and their kids at the park, so we could all spend the day observing animals and socializing. I lugged our new double-stroller into the car and packed enough PB&J sandwiches and Nilla Wafers for an entire kindergarten class, and off we went.

I knew it could be a rough day. Evan has a tendency these days to run away from me in public places, then have an enormous, ear-splitting, kicking, flailing tantrum when I catch up to her. My plan was to bribe her with snacks and juice boxes to keep her compliant. I'm not proud of it, but it's a time-honored technique. I also gave her a lot of pep talks about good behavior, telling her that we'd leave the zoo if she started acting up.

I didn't expect Condee Lee to be the one who gave me problems. She's usually such a calm, happy baby, especially if we're out in the world seeing new things. She generally cries only when she's hungry, and that's easy enough to fix. But yesterday, outside the petting zoo, she started to scream. The bottle didn't help. The pacifier didn't help. Holding her didn't help. Bouncing, swaying and making soothing sounds into her ear didn't help. Evan was at my feet, jumping around and saying, "I want to see the gorillas! I want to see the gorillas!" while the other moms in my group stood around with their strollers, looking uncomfortable.

Like a doomed soldier in a John Wayne war movie, I told them to go on without me, save themselves. And they did. "We might have to go home, Evan," I told her. And then she started to wail, too. I had two inconsolable kids on my hands, and the two old ladies who were monitoring the gate of the petting zoo seemed to find it amusing. I'm sure they've seen any number of tantrums while sitting there, making sure no goats escape. I don't know what I expected them to do, but it really irritated me, watching them chuckle and shake their heads while I was swaying, bouncing, patting Evan's head and muttering, "Oh God. Oh God. Oh God."

It took about 20 minutes to get Condee Lee calmed down. She screamed and screamed, then finally let out a big baby fart, and all was well again. It was over as quickly as it had started. I took a deep breath, and began to regroup.

What surprised me was Evan. Yes, she'd cried too, but she hadn't taken advantage of my situation. She hadn't run off. She listened to me. She even helped, throwing a wet diaper away and trying to calm her little sister. She'd been desperate to go enjoy the zoo, but she'd been as patient as a 3-year-old could be. I was proud of her.

The moms called me on my cell phone, and asked if I wanted to meet up with them. I did, and we started out walking toward the elephants. On the way, Evan wanted to stop to look at plants, at a fire hydrant, at bugs crawling on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, the other moms, whose kids were all strapped into strollers, got farther and farther ahead of us. "Don't you want to see the elephants?" I asked Evan, as my friends' rear ends got more and more distant. "No," she said. "I want to play."

So, when one of my friends called again, asking what had happened to me, I told her to just go on with her day and not worry about us. We were on Evan time, I explained, and I couldn't expect anyone else to endure that. She'd been so good during Condee Lee's meltdown, I just couldn't say no to her. We were going to do what Evan wanted to do.

Nearby, there was a fountain, one of those things with a big, stone orb spinning atop a bed of water. I'm sure you've seen them. Evan was fascinated. I don't know how long we stood there, running our hands over the smooth surface, getting wet, spinning the sphere first in one direction, then the other. After a while, Evan looked up at me, her face adoring and delighted. "Thanks for letting me play the water game, Mommy," she said. It was one of those it-was-all-worth-it moments.

We never did see the elephants. Sometimes you can have a terrific time at the zoo without ever seeing any animals.

2007-01-21T09:03:00.000-08:00

My friend Jay just reminded me that it's the anniversary of my last post. My goodness, it's been one year since the infamous Souplantation barfing incident. It seems like only yesterday. I'm sure the Souplantation employees feel the same way.

So much has happened in a year. Most notably, my youngest daughter, Condee Lee, happened. She was unexpected, but is nonetheless cherished. What a cutie. And, what an object lesson against trusting the Today Sponge.

It's not that I haven't thought about my blog, or that I don't care about keeping my few readers apprised of what's happening in my life. It's just that pregnancy, childbirth, and the care of a new person have all rendered my brain oddly sponge-like. Similarly, they've rendered my body oddly sponge-like as well.

I'm going to make an effort to come on here and post something at least once or twice a week. It's good to have at least the illusion of contact with the outside world. And it's also good to remind myself that I was once a writer. I may never be again, though, when you consider how much undivided attention it takes to write something of any consequence, and how long it has been since my attention to anything has been undivided. I don't know how working moms do it.

So, thanks, Jay, for the note. Now that I know someone's still paying attention, I'll try to be here for you.

2006-01-20T19:55:00.000-08:00

We can never go back to Souplantation.

No, we weren't caught smuggling muffins off the premises, or reaching into the carrot bins with our fingers. We didn't eat excessive amounts, forcing the restaurant to ban us. But we can't return, at least until the horror and humiliation of our last visit fades from the memories of those who witnessed it. The way I figure it, that'll be about 2017.

It had gotten to be a regular routine with us - Souplantation on Tuesday nights, after Chloe's 5 p.m. gymnastics lesson. It's a great place for a 2-year-old and a 7-year-old; for one thing, Evan eats free. And there's always something to satisfy hard-to-please Chloe. Plus, there's the dessert bar. So, we'd come to look forward to it.

One recent Tuesday night, Chloe left gymnastics saying that she didn't feel well - her tummy hurt. Well, Chloe complains of an upset tummy about four or five times a week, and it can mean anything from "I'm hungry" to "I'm tired" to "I'm mad because you didn't get me the Barbie I wanted last Christmas." She'd performed well at gymnastics and seemed full of energy, so we didn't think anything of it.

All through dinner she complained about her stomach. Just relax, we told her. Eat something and you'll feel better, we told her. You can rest when we get home, we told her. Then, just as we were finishing our frozen yogurt sundaes and our tiny chocolate chip cookies, it happened. An event I've come to think of as the Great Chunk-Blowing Incident of Late 2005. She didn't just throw up. She erupted. Things seemed to be emerging from every orifice on her face. Chloe slapped her hands over her mouth, a well-intentioned, though ultimately ineffective, gesture. John held out napkin-filled fists, as if trying to ward off the evil spirits that had posessed Chloe like she was Linda Blair in "The Exorcist." Evan cried. I froze in horror.

And the other diners. My God, the other diners. I can only imagine their reactions as they watched this poor little green-faced kid hurling all over the table, and the dirty dishes, and the green trays. I can only imagine them trying to prevent their own pizza bread and low-fat chili from making a return appearance. All I know is, the tables around us cleared out fast.

I don't know who was quicker in getting away from the scene of the Incident - the other patrons, or the Souplantation employees. Suddenly, there wasn't a single one to be found. John's leather jacket was dripping, and Chloe had chunky bits clinging to her hair and clothes, and you could hear crickets coming from where the wait staff used to be. I figure they were all in the back room playing Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide who had to come out and help us. Finally, the poor loser who'd chosen "paper" had to come out to us with some wet towels.

By the time we got home, my stomach felt a little uneasy, but Chloe was fine. We might even return to Souplantation one day. If you see four people in the back corner wearing dark glasses and hats, they're not celebrities hoping to avoid detection. It's just us, trying to go under the radar until the shame wears off.

2005-11-13T20:35:00.000-08:00

I am a queen, and a mom, and a trash can.

Let me explain.

When Chloe was little, she made a habit of handing all of her garbage to her dad, who was then expected to throw it away. Apple cores, spent juice boxes, candy wrappers, used Kleenex, broken crayons, unpartnered Barbie shoes, broken hair bands, empty soda containers, half-eaten peanut butter sandwiches -- all of it would be deposited into John's hand with a chirpy, "Here, Daddy."

A few months ago, John decided to take a stand. He asked Chloe, "Is that all I am to you, a trash can?" She replied, "No. You're a king, and a dad, AND a trash can." He's always been an overachiever.

When John told Chloe he would no longer accept trash from her, it was an emotional moment for her. She cried, clearly knowing this was a milestone in her life. Eventually, she adjusted.

Coincidentally, it was about that time that Evan started handing me all of her trash. (Before, she'd simply dropped things on the ground when she was through with them, so I suppose it's a step forward.) Now, whatever she doesn't want, she hands it to me and says, "Here you go, Mama." In Evanspeak, it's one word -- "Hereyagomama" -- as though I've asked her for the item, and she's cheerfully cooperating. I don't believe I've ever asked her to take a chewed-up wad of food from her mouth and place it in my hand, but there it is -- "Hereyagomama."

It took Chloe until she was 6 to break the habit, so I don't know how long it will be for Evan. But I can console myself knowing that I'm so much more than a garbage bin.

I'm royalty.

2005-10-25T07:32:00.000-07:00

Have you noticed the new ad on my blog? The way it works, Google searches my blog to decide what kind of ad is most appropriate to the content. Apparently I've got more problems than I thought, because the ad's for depression screening. Does Google think I'm depressed? Does Google think that if you're reading my blog, then YOU must be depressed? Or, maybe, my blog CAUSES depression? Like, "Jeez, if you're reading what this chick has to say, you must have some real problems. It's time to get help!" Honestly, I think it's because my last couple of posts used the word "anxiety" a few times. I think it'd be fun to try to manipulate the system, and use my content to try to get some crazy ad up there above my posts. Like, what would happen if I wrote BIGGER BREASTS BIGGER BREASTS BIGGER BREASTS BIGGER BREASTS? Or, SMALL PENIS SMALL PENIS SMALL PENIS SMALL PENIS? Juvenile of me, I know, but I get so little fun these days.

While we're on the subject, would you mind clicking on the ad? I'm supposed to get money for every click. If you want, you could click on it a few times. Thanks. We're going to have to put kids through college someday.

2005-10-25T07:21:00.000-07:00

Here's the report on our new babysitter: She's terrific. She's the mother of six, and runs a daycare out of her home, so she's got tons of experience. She showed up at our house with two books full of sparkly stickers, which she only pulled out once the kids got squirrely. So, she knows the tricks. And here's the thing: I think Evan had more fun with her than she does with me. Lisa, our babysitter, said Evan didn't even notice I was gone for maybe a half-hour. When she did notice, she cried for maybe five minutes -- until the sticker books came out. Then it was, "Mama who?" This compared with over an hour of constant screaming the last time we went somewhere without her. When we got home, Evan was thrilled to see us -- she ran to us and gave us big hugs -- but there was none of the panic, none of the "Oh-thank-God-you're-finally-here" desperation of our previous attempts to go over the wall. And John and I had a great time on our date. I was positively giddy with freedom. I was smiling and bouncing and, well, I may even have giggled. John said he felt like he'd tunneled out of prison with a spoon, and the warden hadn't discovered the hole yet. Our babysitter isn't cheap, but she's worth every penny we're paying her. I just hope she doesn't change careers, or move to Des Moines. If she does move, we may just have to go with her.

2005-10-19T13:24:00.000-07:00

Anna writes: I'm sitting up, as I often do late at night, seeing as it's the only glorious time in my day that I don't have to deal with school, work, or single motherhood. I decided to play the "Google game" and wondered, "What am I truly looking for in life?" (A FLIPPING BABYSITTER!!!!!) That brought me to your site, and I enjoyed reading that the same problems I have furiously bounced around in my head are shared by another parent in such a lovely manner. I comtemplated the referral service, but I don't trust the validity of the information that they would give out. (Thanks for reinforcing that notion, by the way.) I don't trust people with my son either. That is probably why I haven't really gotten out in the 3 1/2 years of his life. I have had friends watch him in the past, but my stipulation is always that he's asleep for the night, and that I only go out for an hour or two. Is it possible to overcome this???

My answer to Anna: Geez, I hope so. We've finally found a babysitter, and she's going to watch the kids for the first time on Sunday. She seems mature, intelligent and qualified, but I'm still pessimistic that it's going to work out - not because of any shortcomings of hers, but because my raging Mommy anxiety won't let me enjoy a night out with my husband. And even if I could get past my own anxiety, there's Evan's to consider. She was having a play date the other day, and I left the room to go to the bathroom. The kids were with my friend Jen, someone Evan knows well. Even so, during the 60 seconds or so that I was gone, Evan went into a full, screaming panic. I could hear her shrieking while I was trying to pee. When I came out, I couldn't peel her off my legs for the next 15 minutes. So, will this babysitter have something in her Mary Poppins carpetbag that will ease Evan's fears and mine? I'll let you know on Monday.

2005-10-09T19:25:00.000-07:00

We're trying to find a babysitter.

If you've never done it, this is harder than you might think. A neighborhood teenager used to sit with the kids from time to time. We liked her, but eventually she grew up, got a real job, and stopped returning our calls. A family friend helped us out a couple of times, but she's got a 22-month-old of her own to worry about. Another babysitter we tried just didn't work out for a number of reasons, starting with the fact that she showed up on the night of our date with her whole family in tow. We tried an internet babysitting referral service. That seemed promising at first; we entered our information, paid a $35 membership fee, and received a list of babysitters in our area. The only problem was, most of the phone numbers and e-mail addresses we were given were out of date and didn't work anymore. Not a single sitter returned our phone calls or e-mails. We had to appeal the fee to our credit card company to get our $35 back.

Now we're trying a babysitting agency in our area. We've met with the agency's owner, in person, and she assured us that actual, live babysitters work for her and are available to watch our kids. So, we're hopeful. But finding a qualified sitter who is compatible with our family's needs is only the beginning of the problem. You might wonder, what else could be holding us back? In a word: Me.

I know it's important for couples to get out once in a while to have a date, sip some wine in a nice restaurant, and remind each other that we are more than our parenting and housekeeping skills. I know that we have to make each other a priority, and treat our marriage like a delicate orchid that needs care and watering, and we need to give each other back rubs and discuss our inner feelings, blah blah blah. I know all that, and I'm on board with it. Really. But that doesn't change the crippling fear I have that if I leave the baby with someone else, they're inadvertently going to kill her.

There it is. Until this moment, I hadn't really articulated the anxiety, hadn't named it, hadn't identified its true nature. Oh, sure, I'd told people I was "nervous" about using a babysitter. I'd said I had "anxiety." I'd said I was "worried." But my real fear is that a well-meaning babysitter might accidentally kill my baby the way one might break a glass vase and then say, "Whoops! I'm going to hear about THAT when they get home!"

She might fall down the stairs. She might choke on a grape. She might somehow open a locked cabinet and ingest some ant poison. Whatever it is, afterward I'll be absolutely certain that if only I had been there, I'd have caught her, or dislodged the grape, or snatched the ant poison out of her tiny hands before she could open it. These theoretical babysitters might be mature, they might be experienced and attentive, they might be pediatricians looking for a little extra income -- hell, they might be Mary Freaking Poppins, the fact remains that THEY'RE NOT ME, they're not Evan's mommy, and so they're not good enough.

It's a neurosis, I know that. And I know that I have to overcome it sooner or later. So I'll interview the babysitter the agency sends me, and I'll find out everything I can about her, and if she's experienced and competent and seems like a nice person, I'll leave my little sweetie with her. I will try not to call home more than once. I will try not to talk incessantly about my fears during dinner. I will try to pay attention to my husband, and I will try to have a good time.

Waiter? I'll start with a Valium, please. And keep 'em coming.

2005-09-28T09:01:00.000-07:00

In today's Los Angeles Times Food section, I was reading about the author of the new book "Julie & Julia." This woman wrote a blog about cooking Julia Child recipes, and she got a book deal out of it. After years of trying fruitlessly to get a book published the traditional way -- by actually writing a book and sending it to agents and publishers -- I'm wondering if maybe I should just blog my way to literary stardom. Of course, that would be quite a trick, considering that I'm writing this modest submission with a 30-pound child hanging on my back. If you want to know why I don't blog more often, just imagine how hard it is to be creative and grammatically correct with a little hand trying to yank out my eyebrows.

2005-09-08T12:40:00.000-07:00

Generally, I enjoy a good bath or shower. The warm water, the bubbles, the clean, soapy smells. That fresh, relaxed feeling you get when you're done. It's such a pleasant experience, it baffles me how far Chloe, our 6-year-old, will go to avoid it.

Used to be, she'd whine, complain and sometimes cry about having to take a bath. The water's too cold. The water's too hot. The water's too wet. The soap is too soapy. The washcloth is too rough. The air outside the tub is too cold. Presumably, she thought she could wear us down with her list of everything that was wrong. But now, with her increasing maturity, she's moving on to more sophisticated methods.

This morning, she woke up before anyone else in the house, and quickly got dressed. That way, when I woke up and told her it was bath time, she protested, "But I'm already dressed!" Nice try. I complimented her on her well-coordinated outfit, then told her to take it off. For her second at-bat, she got out of the tub after a couple of minutes, saying she was done. Did you wash? we asked. Yes, she said. Are you sure? we asked. Yes, she said. Problem was, the washcloth and soap were desert-dry. Back she went, into the water.

Since her methods are getting better, I figure it's only a matter of time before she figures out she's supposed to dunk the soap before trying to lie about it. Thank goodness she's still so relatively innocent, that level of deception doesn't occur to her. I hope she stays that way for a long time.

2005-08-23T18:31:00.000-07:00

Liz asked whether my daughter does the same thing as hers, and I forgot to answer that part of her question. I'd have to say yes, and no. That is, Evan has the same tantrums, but over different things.

For instance, Evan would never ask to be carried around -- she'd much rather walk everywhere herself, which would be fine except that she won't hold my hand, because that would be admitting that she needs my help with something, which, at 19 months, she most certainly does not, and how dare anyone suggest otherwise. Really, I think she's ready to go out and rent her own apartment, because she seems to want to be grown up, right now, today. She wants to dress herself, undress herself (in restaurants), brush her own teeth, sit in a big chair and not a high chair, go on the big play equipment at the park, and, probably, get her own driver's license. And she wants these things now.

I think I gave Liz some fairly sound advice, but I certainly don't want to make it seem as though it's so much easier for me, because I've got all the answers and therefore live in a household of nothing but quiet harmony. Truthfully, the day I've had with Evie has made me think it would be much easier, and more fun, to live with a pack of underfed hyenas. She's got a pretty good vocabulary, but it seems to me that all she said today was "WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" She did say it a lot, though.

I did follow my own advice: I did my best to stick to my guns and ignore the tantrums. But it's hard to ignore something that continues, off and on, for hours. She's not usually like this, but I think there's more of it to come as she gets older. The more independent she is, the more independent she wants to be, and the more pissed off she is that she can't quite have that yet. So, what's the answer? Just keep in mind that it's a normal phase, I guess. Be loving but firm. Try to relax. And stay away from packs of hyenas.

2005-08-23T12:06:00.000-07:00

This question comes from Liz:

Does your daughter cry when you put her down and they don't want to be put down? Any advice on how to reverse this behavior? My daughter (19 mos) will whine and cry to "go side, go side" so I take her outside, as soon as her feet hit the ground, she's crying arms outstretched to be picked up. This also happens when we get home from work and I try to sit her down to get supper ready. I try to spend some time outside with her, or on the couch looking at books - but when it's getting close to quarter after 6 pm, I HAVE to get dinner ready, or else she will really be an unhappy camper! Giving her a snack sometimes works, other times, she just plays with it for a few minutes, and then wants down or rather - UP in my arms. I know it's a phase/stage, and soon she will be independent and not want me around - but that is NOT helping me get dinner ready in a timely manner. Not to mention the countless hours I've spent trying to "reason with her" - "Kenzie, the sooner Mommy puts you down, the sooner you have something yummy for your tummy". Which always ends with me nuking some chicken tenders, Gerber green beans, and taters (real healthy)......and spending the rest of the evening "walking on egg shells" to make sure no melt downs take place before bedtime. Am I the only one "enjoying" my toddler this much?? Will I ever find some balance, and actually have FUN with her on MY terms. I'm really not selfish if that's how this is coming off - more like desperate.

My response:

Liz, thank you for your question. First of all, let me suggest that you change your perspective a little. There's no need to "walk on eggshells" over your toddler's tantrums. These types of outbursts are just a part of life for a child this age, and there's really nothing you can do to stop them from happening. You can, however, minimize them. You can also control your own reaction to them. That means that when it's time for you to cook dinner -- or do anything else that needs to be done -- you should just give your daughter a hug, tell her, "Mommy can't hold you right now, because I'm cooking dinner," then put her down. Yes, she'll have tantrums, but you just have to remember that she'll get over it and won't suffer any permanent damage because of it. Eventually, your little girl will come to understand that sometimes she gets Mommy's attention, and other times she has to wait a little while. (Reasoning with a 19-month-old won't do any good, because she's not capable of understanding your arguments yet.) Be sure to give your little girl plenty of attention later, when dinner's over. One other note: If your daughter senses that you'll do anything to avoid one of her tantrums, then she's pretty much a nuclear superpower in a world where everyone else just has bows and arrows. And believe me, she won't hesitate to abuse her power -- she'll have a meltdown at the first hint you aren't going to do what she wants. If you stop reacting to her tantrums, she's suddenly disarmed.

Hang in there, Liz. I know it's hard, and it's likely to be noisy for a while. But if you establish your boundaries now, you're going to find that it's worth tolerating the rough transition period.

2005-08-11T14:02:00.000-07:00

Well, we're back from Vancouver. All in all, the vacation was pretty good, except for all the time my husband and I spent hiding in the bathroom. When you think "vacation," most people think about the sights, the restaurants, the hotel health spa, or basking in the sun at the swimming pool reading a book and sipping a mai tai. We did some of that, sure, but we also spent a few hours, all told, hiding in our tiny Westin bathroom. So, from whom were we hiding? Burglars? Under-the-bed monsters? Bill collectors? The guy who walks up and down the hallways cleaning the carpets? No, we were hiding from someone much scarier. We were hiding from our toddler.

It's important to understand that we're not bad parents. We don't neglect our child, and we don't leave her crying in her crib for hours on end. But Evan didn't want to go to sleep in the hotel crib, and every night after we put her to bed she spent hours looking for someone, anyone, to rescue her from the thing so she could play outside -- or just jump on the bed -- for a little while longer. If she couldn't see us, she'd quiet down and eventually drift off to sleep. But the minute one of us crept into the room, she'd erupt into wails of "Mama! Dada! Mama! Daaaadaaaaa!!!!!" We're not rich, and we couldn't afford a suite, so the only place to go to stay out of Evan's sight was the tiny bathroom, with one of us perched atop the toilet lid and another one in the bathtub.

"Is it safe?" one of us would whisper to the other, like Laurence Olivier in "Marathon Man." In our optimism, we'd sneak out into the room again, only to have Evan go off like the hotel fire alarm after an indoor barbeque.

Then there was our restaurant experience. Evan used to be great in restaurants -- she'd sit quietly, maybe color a few pictures, then eat her grilled cheese or chicken fingers, smiling and charming the other patrons. This time, word about Evan spread so fast through the dining establishments of Vancouver that no sooner did we walk through the door than people were whispering nervously to each other and waving the wait staff over to request different tables. Tables in a different restaurant, probably.

But despite it all, we had a good time. Watching Evan romp through the rose gardens of Stanley Park, or splash around in the harbor-front water park, made it worth the effort. Still, if I had it to do over again, I'd suggest that Westin offer a larger bathroom, maybe with some comfy chairs and a TV. And maybe some snacks.

2005-08-03T18:10:00.000-07:00

We're taking a vacation to Vancouver this week. I've never been there, but people tell me it's lovely, and I'm really looking forward to our trip. I'm a little tense, though, I have to admit. I don't like traveling. I love to be in new places, I just don't like getting to them, or from them. And traveling with an 18-month-old is going to be particuarly challenging. One thing that will help, we bought a portable DVD player to keep Evan zoned out on the plane. We tried it out in the pediatrician's office today -- Evan has an infected pinkie finger that needed attention -- and it worked great. She was so involved in a "Little People" episode that she didn't even notice the wait, unlike my husband, who was left with nothing to read except several back issues of "Fit Pregnancy" magazine.

Traveling with a baby reminds me of the time we stayed in an Oxnard hotel room with Evan when she was about 3 months old. She woke me up in the middle of the night (no surprise there) needing a diaper change. I didn't want to wake John, so I did the job in near darkness, with only a sliver of light from the bathroom. I took off the old diaper, and while I was preparing a new one, Evan's cute little rear shot its contents across the changing table, onto the carpet, and, if memory serves, onto the far wall. Shocked, I yelled, "Oh GOD! Oh NO! Oh NO!!!" Of course it woke John up. You'd think he would jump out of bed, ready to call 911 or perform the Heimlich maneuver or administer CPR. Instead, from out of the darkness, he calmly asked, "Projectile poop?" At least it happened in a hotel room, and not in our house. We'd have had to move.

2005-08-01T11:53:00.000-07:00

A couple of nights ago, we rented "Million Dollar Baby." (Of course, we never see anything in the theaters anymore, unless it features dancing animals.) A superb movie.
The acting was fantastic -- it's no wonder Hillary Swank won the Academy Award. And Morgan Freeman? What a pro. He just makes acting look so easy. Clint Eastwood may have played the "grizzled" act a bit to heavily for my taste, but that was OK too. Still, those who know me can tell you I always have a few quibbles with any movie I see. (Spoiler alert: Stop reading if you're one of the few people who don't know what this movie's really about.) Here are my complaints: 1) Seems to me a person can refuse to accept life support, such as a ventilator. Why couldn't Maggie just ask the doctors to turn off the machine? I thought the reason the Terry Schiavo case was such a legal quagmire was because she could breathe on her own. Otherwise, her husband could have made the decision to let her die without legal obstacles. I don't know much about medical law, though, and I could be wrong. Please e-mail me if you've got the answer. 2) Why did Maggie's family have to be such a collection of redneck stereotypes? In a movie this well-written, it seems to me they could have spared a little depth for this group of characters. Nobody's all good or all bad. This isn't "The Simpsons." Overall, though, I found the film to be gripping and very worthwhile. Clint Eastwood has matured into one of our finest directors. Who'd have predicted it?

2005-07-30T19:07:00.000-07:00

The playground at our local mall has become more hazardous than an English football game. Used to be, a kid could swish down the plastic slide, or sit astride the plastic duck, in relative peace. But it seems to me that the mall kids are getting more aggressive, and ruder, every day. Oh, sure, there have always been the ones who are three years too old for the playground, who chase each other around at Olympic speeds and wrestle each other to the ground, never noticing the toddler they've accidentally maimed during their carefree antics. I don't really mind them, surprisingly enough. They don't mean any harm -- they're just not paying attention. I'm sure that, had they seen the toddler, they would have swerved. The ones who get to me are the kids with the premature pissed-off-teenager attitudes. The kind who'll fold their little 6-year-old arms over their chests and shoot you a "you're-not-the-boss-of-me" glare.

My attitudes have changed a little, too. At one time, I used to just step aside and shake my head sadly when some ill-mannered child would roughly brush past Evan, cheating her out of her fair turn on the slide. I'd just pick her up and take her to another, less populated, part of the playground. But my friend Jennifer inspired me to be more assertive. When her daughter, 20-month-old Skylar, gets pushed out of the way by someone bigger, Jen's right there to calmly explain the error to the older child. "HEY!" she'll explain. "Can't you SEE it's my kid's TURN?!" I should be more like that, I thought. So today, when some kid ran up out of nowhere and jumped onto the plastic duck at the mall just as Evan was about to climb onto its oddly featherless back, I wasn't about to take it lying down.

"It was the baby's turn," I said.

The girl, maybe 4 years old, stared at me.

"Please get off," I said. "The baby was here before you."

Again, the cold stare.

"Did you hear me? Please get off the duck."

Stare.

"GET... OFF... THE DUCK!!!!!"

The child, who had a very tiny voice in contrast to her very big attitude, said something tiny like, "My mom said I could sit here," or something like that. I was about to physically remove her from the duck, when I had a vision of mall police hauling me away for assaulting a child. So instead, I backed off. Over the next 10 minutes or so, maybe six other kids came over to see if they could get a turn on the duck, including a toddler represented by her mother. The whole time, that little girl's rear was glued to that duck, as though it were the only thing keeping her from drowning in the playground's tiny plastic pond.

I don't know what Jennifer would have done, but I'll just bet Skylar would have gotten a turn on that freakish mall duck. It might have involved the mall cops, though.

2005-07-27T12:24:00.000-07:00

John, Evan and I went to the big Basquiat show at the Museum of Contemporary Art in L.A. this weekend. I thought for sure Evan would like the art, since it looks a lot like her own crayon drawings. I was wrong. She was OK while we were in the lobby, but as soon as we took a step toward the art, she started screaming. Apparently, Evan's tastes tend more toward the traditional.

We were there not just to enrich ourselves culturally, but because John is an art professor and his students had been assigned to see the exhibit. A few students were planning to meet him there to hear a short talk on some of the paintings, so I was left to take Evan outside and amuse her for the afternoon while John did his job.

It would have been OK, I guess, except it was about 1,000 degrees outside, and for some bizarre reason they roll up the sidewalks in downtown L.A. on weekends. I was walking Evan around in her stroller, passing scary people here and there, trying to find someplace cool where she could run around and I could get something refreshing. If people want to know why nobody lives in downtown L.A., it's because you can't even get a Starbucks vanilla creme on a Saturday. I mean, here I am living in Murrieta, not exactly a thriving metropolis, and I can get a Starbucks beverage at six locations within a five-minute drive. Down near the museum, there was a Starbucks open, but they were all out of cremes. I don't need the vanilla, I said. I can have a different flavor. No, they explained. They were out of all of them.

I must have passed 14 restaurants, 12 gift shops, a florist and a manicurist, and all of them were closed. Finally, just as Evan and I were getting delusional from the heat, I spotted the Golden Arches. McDonald's! Thank God, we're saved! I understand now why people love McDonald's so much. I really do. Just at the sight of the place, I felt this wave of relief wash over me, like I was stranded on a remote island and had just spotted a rescue plane. Evie and I enjoyed a $1 sundae and soaked up the air conditioning until it was time to meet John and go home.

As for the art itself, I didn't see much of it. What I did see impressed me, not so much for the aesthetic value but because John told me it goes for $3 million to $5 million per painting. John knew, and worked for, Jean-Michel Basquiat in the '70s, and even owned one of his paintings until Basquiat, apparently unimpressed by John's credentials, insisted he give it back. The dealer offered John another one in exchange, but John refused, and sold back the original painting for what he'd paid for it. Now it's worth millions. So is the one John turned down, which is now featured on a T-shirt at the museum bookstore. If he'd made some different decisions back then, I'd be blogging to you from our villa in Tuscany, and not from my suburban tract house. Even so, I still wouldn't let John hang that thing in our living room.

2005-07-23T07:14:00.000-07:00

It's an interesting thing: You start a blog, thinking it's for your own entertainment, because certainly no one out there is paying attention. Then you stop for a while, and people actually notice. To SUIBLE: Thanks for your question. The answer is, sometimes all it takes is a little loving encouragement to change another person's behavior. I'm sure the person will try to do better from now on.

So, my 6-year-old stepdaughter, Chloe, is having her big dance recital today. Some months ago, we enrolled her in a combination tap-ballet class near our home. She's really athletic and musical, and she was very interested in being a ballerina (personally, I think it was about the outfits. I mean, what little girl can resist those puffy pink confections?). I didn't really have a chance to observe the class, because they tell you it's too distracting to the students. Sounds serious, I thought. They must really be working hard. When recital time rolled around, I thought, now we'll really see what this class is all about. Turns out, it's about sex and money, just like everything else in our culture.

It started when they told us there would be a $60 charge for the costume. Costume? When Chloe was in gymnastics, only the very advanced kids had to wear costumes for the recital. The beginners wore whatever leotard they happened to have handy. But here we were being asked to pay a hefty sum for a little scrap of spandex. But we paid up. It's important to her, we thought. And what's money when compared to the precious memories we'll have forever? Then they told us that, in addition to the money we'd already paid, we would have to buy special shoes and tights for the show. We had to buy two pairs of shoes for the dance class in the first place -- one for tap, one for ballet. But were either of those pairs acceptable for the show? No. We had to pay $30 for something called "tan jazz shoes" from an expensive dance supply store. Plus the tights. So now we'd invested about $100 for a costume our kid would wear once. The only outfit I've ever had that cost more than $100 was my wedding gown. True, I only wore it once, but still. Then there were the tickets for the recital, which cost $9 per person.

You may be wondering, where does the sex come in? It came in when we actually received the costume. It looks like we're outfitting Chloe to be a Vegas showgirl. Low cut in front, nonexistent in back, with gold sequins. The only thing it's missing is pasties. Then we found out our 6-year-old is supposed to wear makeup with this getup. Makeup! So, sex refers to the outfit. It also refers to my choice of four-letter-words when I saw what our child would be wearing in public. It also refers to the song our sweet child will be dancing to. "Proud Mary." You may remember that song, and think, "What's the problem? It's all about rolling on the river, right? So?" Well, think back to Tina Turner's intro to the song. The part where she talks about not liking things nice and easy. She likes things nice and hard. Nice (here, Chloe bumps), and Hard (here, she grinds). I just about fell off my chair when she showed me.

After a great deal of drama from me (in private, of course), my husband asked whether I wanted to pull Chloe from the recital. But she's excited about it, and we've already sunk a fortune into it, so I said no. Instead, we're going to grit our teeth through this experience, and pull her from the class immediately afterward. Incidentally, I don't think Chloe's learned a thing about tap or ballet. But she did learn something about what a lot of adults these days think is cute for little girls. If you ask me, it's not pretty.

2005-07-19T09:09:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I've had anything to say here, and regular readers (shockingly, there are a few) may have given up on me. I hate to blame the kids, but I'm going to anyway -- those darned kids never leave me with any time for myself!

Evan, in particular, is becoming a real handful. At 18 months, she's decided she knows exactly how she wants things, and any deviation from her perfect vision results in much screaming, crying and tantrum-throwing. Fortunately, even her tantrums are cute. She flaps her arms, jumps up and down, and spins in circles and then, in a final fit of anguish, flops onto her back on the floor, crying pitifully. I usually end up gazing at her with a goofy grin on my love-struck face. Of course, that's not always the case. Yesterday, for instance, one of her cute tantrums lasted about two and a half hours. At that point, it wasn't so cute anymore, and I started wondering if it's actually possible to sell one's child to a band of gypsies.

Still, there has been some time to do non-child-related things around here. We're redecorating our guest room in a style I call "blue-and-white girlie." I needed this, because when I married John, he systematically removed all feminine touches from our decor. I can understand that, because what man wants to sleep in a bedroom with little flower appliques on the walls? So it was OK with me, but on the other hand, I really needed an outlet for my girlie side. The guest bedroom, with its pale blue walls, ornate white metal bed and flowery bed linens, has become Linda's Space of Serenity. It's all rosebuds and scented candles and china plates. It's beautiful. The only problem is, it's probably not smart to have a guest bedroom that's TOO comfortable. Maybe I can ugly the place up a bit before someone comes to visit.

2005-02-27T16:27:00.000-08:00

At last! After all these months, I've received my first request for advice. Kerry writes:

hello. my hamster is having trouble opening his eyes it started off with just one eye
but now hes not seeming to open both of them,should i take him to the vets please help

Well, Kerry, I wish I could help, but I have no actual experience in veterinary medicine.

Somehow, this "advice columnist" business is turning out to be less satisfying than I had imagined ...

2004-10-06T19:13:00.000-07:00

I'm the Miss Manners of our household. If it weren't for me, people would be eating with their bare hands and wiping their mouths on their sleeves. Everyone who lives with me knows this. If I'm around, even the dog holds her little pinkie up while she slurps from her water bowl.

A common exchange I have with my 5-year-old stepdaughter goes something like this:

Me: "And WHY don't I want you to hold your juice glass with your feet?"
Chloe, with a sigh and an I've-heard-this-before eye roll: "Because it's bad manners."

So, in all her 5-year-old boistrous enthusiasm, she must have forgotten with whom she was talking today at lunch when she said, "Hey, Linda! Look at this!" I looked up to see that she was wearing the turkey from her sandwich like an eye patch. Almost as soon as she said it, the smile died on her lips as something in her little brain told her she'd made a terrible and tragic mistake. Slowly, carefully, she removed the processed lunchmeat from her face as I gave her my best glare.

It's not like I don't appreciate a good poultry-pirate bit when I see one, though. I enjoyed a good giggle fit after she left the room. Not that I'd ever tell her that, though. It's bad manners to laugh at someone.

2004-10-06T19:08:00.000-07:00

So, my husband was holding our 9-month-old, who has a nasty cold and has been spewing mucous all over the place for days.

Me: "The baby's nose is all snotty."
Him: "Ha, ha. Yeah."
Me: "Do you plan to wipe it?"
Him: "Oh. Should I?"
Silence.
Him: "Oh, wait. Is this another thing like the dust bunnies?"
I decided to let him answer that one for himself.

2004-05-26T20:21:00.000-07:00

Tonight, my excellent and handsome husband had to go to graduation at the college where he teaches. That meant I was on my own with both kids - something that, incredibly, had not happened since Evan's birth. Could I handle it? I was worried but optimistic as I packed the baby into the car and got ready to pick up Chloe at gymnastics. All I had to do was get them both home, give them dinner and put them to bed. Easy, right? (That low HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I'm hearing is the sound of other mothers mocking me.)

The first glitch in my plan came when I put Evan in the car. She immediately started crying. This was no surprise to me - she's the only baby I know who hates car rides - but it did make things difficult. I talked to her. I sang to her. I played talk radio, hoping it would put her to sleep. Finally, when none of that worked, I pulled out the big guns - the Dustbuster, with car adapter! Evan, who evidently hates carpet grime as much as I do, usually is instantly put to sleep by the sound of any floor-cleaning device, be it full-sized, portable, or whatever. (I've never tried it, but she'd probably doze off at the mere sight of a broom.) This time, it didn't work as well as usual. It didn't put her to sleep, but it did limit the scope of her tantrum - she just gave me a steady mmmwaaaah-mmmwaaah-mmmwaaah, instead of her full-strength meltdown in which she turns hot and red and screams until she loses her voice and goes into a glassy-eyed, hoarse-screaming trance.

So, we battled traffic and finally got to the gymnastics place. I got Evan inside, and she didn't calm down much. I decided to nurse her, thinking I'd do it discreetly so no one would notice. Right. My sweet daughter waited until my breast was at its most exposed before filling her little lungs and screaming at the top of them. I stuffed myself into her mouth - for cover more than anything else - but she kept crying while I begged her to calm down. Chloe looked over from where she was having her lesson, and plugged her ears. The kid on the balance beam looked over, and plugged her ears. Children on the uneven parallel bars grimaced, toddlers all around me began wailing, and scores of mothers looked at me with in tilt-headed sympathy.

I eventually calmed Evan down, the lesson ended, and I got her and Chloe out to the car. As soon as I strapped the baby in, she started crying again. I turned on the Dustbuster, and we drove out into the kind of dense traffic I hadn't thought we'd see in Temecula, California, until around the year 2035.

"Can we go out to dinner?" Chloe asked.
"Um, I don't know," I said.
"Daddy said we could go out to dinner," she said.
"Well, he didn't tell ME that."
"Maybe he forgot."

Traffic was creeping, vehicles were pressing toward me from all sides, I was trying to change lanes and couldn't because nobody would let me in.

"Look at my horsey tattoo!" Chloe said.
"WAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!" Evan said.
"Chloe," I said, "I need to concentrate on driving right now, because there's so much traffic."
"You could just take a shortcut," she offered helpfully. "Just turn that way."
"I couldn't turn that way if I wanted to, because nobody will let me in," I said.
"Just go between that car and that car and that other car. There's room! Go, there's room!" (This from a 5-year-old who assures me she already knows how to drive - "you just let go of the steering wheel when you're about to hit someone.")

Usually I'd fight the blatant manipulation of Chloe's "Daddy-said-we-could-go-out-to-dinner" tactic, but I hadn't planned anything for dinner, so I pulled in to a Carl's Jr. drive-through on the way home. Evan cried the whole time. The drive-through speaker already makes everyone sound like Charlie Brown's parents, and the baby's crying wasn't helping matters.

Finally, we got through the line with a kid's meal for Chloe and a burger for me. When we got home, I balanced the baby, a diaper bag, a small soda and a bag of food in my arms as I came in from the garage. Right behind me, Chloe dumped her entire meal, including burger, toy, about two dozen fries and several ketchup packets, onto the carpet. The dog lunged for the fries, and I lunged for the dog. So now I was balancing a baby, a diaper bag, a small soda and a bag of food in my arms and holding a cocker spaniel back with my foot.

"Chloe, pick up the fries!" I said.
"WAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!" Evan said.
Chloe knelt down and started eating the fries delicately, one by one.
"CHLOE! PICK UP THE FRIES!" I said. The dog whimpered and tried to get around me.
"WAAAAAHHHHH!" Evan said.
Chloe picked up a fry between her thumb and index finger and inspected it, as though contemplating the nature of fried foods and their meaning to society.
"CHLOE!!!" I said. "PICK UP THE FRIES! PICK THEM UP! PICK UP THE FRIES!!!"

And that was BEFORE she spilled her milk.

2004-04-27T07:23:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been more than three weeks since my last blog, and the hamsters are sicker than ever. Those of you with actual kids at home probably aren't wondering what took me so long -- just getting the time to go to the bathroom these days sometimes takes two or more tries, with the ultimate result being a less than relaxing experience.

Mornings around here are really something. We've got a new word in our household: eleventy-billion. As in, "It takes Chloe eleventy-billion years to get ready for school." It usually goes like this:

5:30 a.m.: John gets up, makes coffee, messes around on the computer (which I've come to think of as "his second wife")
6 a.m.: Evan wakes up and says good morning, or, as she likes to put it, "WAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!"
6:05 a.m.: I start nursing. My excellent and loving husband brings me coffee.
6:30 a.m.: I finish nursing, and Evan wants to play. She flails her arms and legs around and smiles at me.
6:45 a.m.: John pokes his head into Chloe's room and tells her it's time to get up.
6:50 a.m.: John pokes his head into Chloe's room and tells her it's time to get up.
6:55 a.m.: John pokes his head into Chloe's room and tells her it's time to get up.
7 a.m.: I carry Evan into Chloe's room, because I know NOBODY can sleep with her around. The baby flails around and makes baby noises. Chloe's still buried under the covers.
7:05 a.m.: John or I (we alternate) says, "CHLOE! GET OUT OF BED RIGHT NOW!" She finally does.
7:06 a.m.: Somebody starts Chloe's bath. Chloe says, "But I don't WANT to take a bath!" followed by "But it's too HOT / COLD!!!"
7:07 a.m.: Chloe gets in the tub, accompanied by an array of pink-haired ponies and headless Barbies. She starts shampooing the bodiless Barbie heads. I go in there to tell her that her own hair needs shampooing. "But I'm not done yet!" she protests, holding up Barbie's head by the hair as though warning other Barbies of the grisly fate that will befall them if they incur her wrath.
7:08: a.m.: "Chloe. Get your hair wet so I can shampoo it."
7:08:10 : "Chloe. Get your hair wet so I can shampoo it."
7:08:21: "CHLOE. Get your hair wet NOW so I can shampoo it, please!"
7:09 a.m.: "CHLOE! GET YOUR HAIR WET NOW NOW NOW! PLEASE!!!! NOW RIGHT NOW!!!"
7:20 a.m.: Chloe gets out of the bathtub with clean hair, but protesting that the air is too cold / the towel's too wet / the floor's too hard / she's too tired / but Barbie's hair hasn't been conditioned yet. (Considering Barbie's current state, I figure unmanageable hair is the least of her problems.)

And this doesn't even include getting dressed, having breakfast, the ever-trying shoe ceremony, or the ritualistic "kissing goodbye," which can take Chloe longer than it took Evan to gestate. Then, once she and John are out the door, I can REALLY start my day.

2004-04-03T08:31:00.000-08:00

Actual rules we've made for our 5-year-old (I'm not making any of these up):

1) No cartwheels in parking lots when there are cars coming.
2) No cartwheels in parking lots, even when there are no cars coming.
3) No cartwheels in the street.
4) No cartwheels in the house.
5) No licking the car.
6) No licking your plate.
7) No licking the dog.
8) No licking your sister.
9) No hitting the wall with your socks.
10) No hitting the dog with your socks.
11) No eating candy you find on the floor at the mall.
12) No eating popcorn you find on the floor at the movie theater.
13) No chewing gum you find stuck to a bench.
14) No chewing or eating anything you find under or stuck to anything.
15) No sticking your fingers into your sister's eyes.
16) No making loud, squeaky noises in the house.
17) No holding toast out to the dog, then yelling at the dog when she tries to get your toast.
18) No sticking your fork in your ear.
19) No sticking your pencil in your ear.
20) No sticking anything in your ear.
21) No sticking anything in your father's ear.
22) No running around the house naked.
23) No dancing around the house naked.
24) No sitting around the house naked.
25) No wetting yourself because you don't want to miss the end of the movie/TV show/cartoon.
26) No drawing on your face.
27) No writing on your face.
28) No drawing/writing on your legs.
29) No asking for a food item, then throwing away the food item and saying you ate it.
30) No eating your books.

2004-04-03T08:28:00.000-08:00

I've just been informed by e-mail that I've won a lottery prize of 1.5 million euros! All I have to do, in advance, is send a processing fee of 700 euros. Gosh. I guess I was just born lucky.

2004-03-30T11:50:00.000-08:00

The Homebuying Experience, Part II:

Just today I called the Company X Home Studio, hoping to get a list of window dimensions so I can start thinking about window coverings.

Company X Rep: "We don't have that information."

Me: "How can that be, when you offer window coverings as a design option?"

CXR: "I don't know. We just don't have the information."

Me: "Wait a minute. You sell window coverings, right? How do you do that, if you don't know the dimensions of the windows?"

CXR: "I don't know how to get out of this question."

Maybe they just sell one, humongous size of curtain, and you have to cut them down to fit.

2004-03-30T09:57:00.000-08:00

My husband and I are buying a new house. When I say new, I mean it'll be brand new - they're planning to pour the foundation this week. It's our first time doing business with this particular builder - I'll call it "Company X." Company X has an excellent reputation, and we chose it because it seemed to do a better job of designing a livable house than its competitors. Good for us, because we'll be getting a bigger, nicer house. Good for Company X, which will be getting our money. Everybody's happy. Except for one thing: Company X's representatives don't seem to be satisfied unless they pop into our lives every couple of weeks to piss us off for no apparent reason.

First there was the debate over the discount. The sales guy - I'll call him "Mark," - told us we'd get 1.5 percent off the cost of the house because my husband is a teacher. All city employees get the discount, he said.

I'm not a city employee, my husband said, explaining that he teaches at a community college in another town.

Doesn't matter, Mark said. All teachers get the discount.

Are you sure? we asked.

Yes, he said. Oh, yes. You get the discount.

Please check, we said.

Oh yes, he said. I checked. It's true. No problem.

So we actually SIGNED A CONTRACT that included the discount. About a week later, Mark called to say - you guessed it - there's no discount.

Why not? we asked.

Because it's only for police and firefighters, he said. No teachers.

But we signed the contract, we said.

Gee, I'm sorry, Mark said, but we won't give you the discount.

Fine, we said. Then we won't buy the house.

Shockingly, Mark decided to take the matter up with his superiors rather than let the deal fall apart. A couple of days later he called us back to say that - whoops! - he'd made a mistake, and teachers did get the discount after all. Sorry! No hard feelings!

Then there was the matter of financing. We were told that we would need loan approval from a mortgage company within about a week of signing the contract. Because it would be months before the close of escrow, we would not be obligated to actually use the same company that gave us the approval - all Company X wanted was to be sure we could qualify when the time came. From Day 1, we were urged to talk to the Company X finance department about our mortgage - we'd be offered a terrific deal, the paperwork would be easy, and we would be under NO OBLIGATION to get our loan there if rates were not competitive when it actually came time to close escrow.

No obligation? we asked.

No, of course not, they said.

We can take our business elsewhere later?

Of course, they said.

So, fine. We got our approval from Company X. Then along came Mark again, to tell us that we were, indeed, obligated to use Company X now that we'd gotten our loan approval there.

What do you mean? we said. What about all of that stuff about no obligation?

Well, he said, it's easier for Company X if we know you're going to get your mortgage from us.

Easier, sure, we said, but are we really required to do this?

Yes, Mark said. Oh, yes.

Can you show us the part of the contract that says this? we asked.

Oh, I don't know exactly which part it is, but it's in the contract, he said.

Show us, we said.

Hmm, I'll have to find it, he said.

So find it, we said.

What happens if we don't use Company X for our financing?

Oh, he said, it's just easier if you do.

But what happens if we refuse? we asked.

Oh, you don't want to do that, he said, because Company X prefers it if you don't.

But what if we do? Show us the contract, we said.

He never did, because as far as we know, there was no such provision in the contract. He dropped the issue, and we're still shopping around for mortgages.

Then there was the homebuyers' "meeting." Company X sent us an invitation to a meeting of homebuyers, to be held on a Saturday morning. Representatives from the construction and finance branches of the company would be there. Then a representative called to ask whether we'd be coming - it was important that we R.S.V.P. So we said, sure, we'd be there. Some time ago when we'd been shopping for the house, we'd seen a gathering of Company X homebuyers - there'd been tables, chairs, fresh cookies, a vegetable platter, beverages, chips, dip, party decorations. So it seemed worth our while.

We got up early. I got the baby up, nursed her, dressed her, got myself looking presentable, and everybody basically put forth a respectable effort to get out the door on time for our so-called "meeting." We got there, and - no tables, no chairs, no construction rep, no cookies, no veggies, no decorations and, in fact, no meeting. There was just the mortgage rep - to whom we'd already spoken over the phone - and a pot of mediocre coffee. We got in the door, and Mark told us the mortgage guy was in the kitchen if we wanted to talk to him.

When does the meeting start? we asked.

Oh, it doesn't "start," he said. The guy's just in the kitchen if you want to talk to him.

That's it?

That's it. Oh, and help yourself to some coffee.

Somehow, the thing that torked us the most about all of this was the lack of snacks. We were expecting cookies, dammit. My husband speculated that in this seller's market, Company X felt it was doing us a favor by selling us a house. We were supposed to bring snacks for Mark, maybe. A nice fruit basket, I guess, along with an envelope full of $20 bills.

My husband envisioned us taping a commercial message: "Hi. We're Company X homebuyers, and our time isn't worth anything!"

I figure in another week or two, Mark will call, saying, you did know, didn't you, that the roof is an option? I see you didn't sign up for it, but you'll probably want one. It's right here in the contract ...

2004-03-26T13:40:00.000-08:00

You might have noticed the link that says, "Ask Linda's Advice About Anything." You might be wondering, "What makes Linda an expert?" My answer: Nothing. I've just always thought it would be fun to be an advice columnist. So if you've got any questions, send them in and I'll post them with my answers, Dear Abby-style. My advice may or may not be worth much, but at least I'll get to live out one of my career fantasies. Just don't ask any questions about legal or medical matters. Or gardening.

2004-03-26T09:34:00.000-08:00

Since I became pregnant with my daughter, I have come across a slew of books and other materials warning me that motherhood is an unrelenting misery. Three books -- "Misconceptions" by Naomi Wolf; "Mother Shock" by Andrea J. Buchanan; and "The Mommy Myth" by Susan Douglas and Meredith Michaels -- and an episode of "Oprah" told me that pregnancy, childbirth, and then motherhood would be a mind-numbing, soul-deadening siege that would turn me into a zombie-like, sweat-pants-wearing frump who would get no respect, have no interests outside the family, and who would relinquish any claim to intellect or sensuality in favor of a diaper bag full of crushed Cherrios and a membership at Gymboree.

I would not know how to bond with my baby, they told me, I would not find breastfeeding either easy or fulfilling, I would not know what to do when my child cried, I would not feel like a mother, and I would never be myself -- the one who enjoyed books and movies and travel and sex and nice clothes and good conversation -- ever again.

And all of this would come as a horrible surprise, they warned me, because no one talks about the dark side of motherhood. It's a conspiracy of silence, they say, because to admit that you don't like motherhood -- and maybe sometimes you don't even like your child -- would cause you to be ostracized in a society that believes in the myth of perfect mother-love. (Seems it has become quite fashionable to talk about something that, supposedly, no one talks about.)

The authors write of feeling betrayed to learn that they had to sacrifice things like career, money and personal pursuits to meet the needs of another human being they don't really feel connected to. (But then, just to prove that they are good mothers despite their protestations, they go on to write about their all-consuming love for their children.)

By the time I hit my ninth month of pregnancy, all of this commentary had me terrified of what lay ahead. My God, what was I getting into? These women's descriptions of their experiences were so bleak, I had to wonder why the world wasn't filled with only children whose mothers had decided to pack their bags and flee in the dead of night. Surely it can't be that bad, I reassured myself. After all, my own mother had four of us and still seemed, to me at least, to be sane.

Now that my daughter is 10 weeks old, I have to say that, so far at least, motherhood is great. I did bond immediately with my child. I do feel like a mother. Breastfeeding hasn't always been easy, but it is fulfilling. And I am still me -- I am still smart, still interested in many things, still free, still fun, still sexual, still an independent adult despite the demands of parenthood. I did not trade womanhood for motherhood. I am not awash in despair. In fact, I'm happy. And it's not just the hormones.

The authors I've listed would say that 1) I only claim to be happy because I'm afraid of what people would think if I admitted otherwise, and 2) I'm part of the conspiracy in which unhappy mothers are shamed into silence.

I guess this is more backlash from the feminist movement that told women it was possible -- and indeed their responsibility -- to have everything without making any sacrifices. As it becomes more and more evident that some choices do have a cost, women seem to react with feelings of shock and betrayal. Maybe I'm different because I never expected motherhood to be easy. I never expected my life to go on as it had before. I never expected some arrangement by which I could add substantial responsibilities to my life without having to take anything away to make room.

I'm the one who chose to have a baby -- as these women made that same choice. If I were unhappy with the demands involved, I would have only myself to blame -- not society, not my husband, not my employer, and not other women. And if I am, indeed, happy, I prefer to think that other women like me outnumber those who feel the need to wallow in the misery of their discovery that life isn't perfect. I think I'll sit out this pity party of self-absorption. I'm a new mother -- who has time for parties, anyway?

2004-03-22T08:47:00.001-08:00

This weekend, my husband and I took a mini-vacation with the kids -- Chloe, 5, and Evan, 2 months. We stayed at the Embassy Suites in Oxnard, CA, which is great for children because it's beach-front and has a terrific pool. We had a really good time, but it was our first time traveling with the baby, and the enterprise certainly presented some challenges.

First off, just packing for everybody, getting the car loaded up, and getting everybody into their respective car seats was like traveling with a circus. Evan alone required more equipment than the rest of us combined -- Pack 'n' Play, bouncy seat, clothes, diapers, wipes, bottles, formula, pacifier, stroller, Baby Bjorn-type carrier, hats, etc. etc. There was so much stuff crammed into the back of the SUV that if we'd come to a sudden stop, a half-ton of equipment would have come raining down on us, making those ultra-safe car seats pretty much moot. Luckily, we got there and got unpacked more or less without incident.

Once we got there, everybody had a great time. Chloe spent hours and hours playing in the pool with a bunch of other kids, and Evan got some stroller-walks along the shore and seemed to enjoy soaking up her new surroundings. Both kids seemed to be on their best behavior, for which I was thankful.

Good behavior or not, kids are of course kids, and doing even the simplest things with two of them turned out to be more complicated than we'd expected. For instance, there was the trip to the corner pizza place on Day 2 of our excursion. Go out, order a pizza and eat it, right? What could be easier? And it started out OK. Everybody got into the car calm and happy. But before we even got to the restaurant, Evan started to cry. She'd already eaten, but she hadn't had her nap, so I figured she must have been overtired. So she cried and cried while we ordered our pizza, waited what seemed like a lifetime to get it, and ate it. My husband was holding her, walking her, swaying with her, and trying to get her to take a pacifier, but she just wouldn't calm down. By the time we got to the car, all of us were kind of frazzled. So, then as we were packing a screaming Evan into the SUV, getting the stroller folded up and into the back, etc., Chloe came tumbling out the driver-side door and onto the asphalt of the parking lot. I don't know what she was doing in there, or how it happened, but she executed the fall with the precision and comic timing of Buster Keaton. Once I figured out that there was no blood or broken bones, I started laughing at her. I couldn't help it. But she hates to be laughed at, so she cried, and kept crying, and cried some more as Evan's tantrum escalated into a red-faced, sweaty, going-to-barf-up-a-lung tyrade. All in all, our simple outing for pizza caused more kiddie tears than "Old Yeller."

Ah, there's nothing like a vacation to help you relax.

2004-03-17T11:35:00.000-08:00

My daughter just turned two months old. I'm a stay-at-home mom now, because my former career as a newspaper editor involved nights, weekends and very long days that did not allow the kind of family life I wanted. So here I am doing laundry and housework and grocery shopping and baby care, much in the manner of June Cleaver, except that I do not do all of this in high heels and dresses with swishy skirts.

Now that I'm here, living this life, I don't know how women manage to balance careers and motherhood. Don't mistake me for one of those holier-than-thou, Dr. Laura-listening, "I am my kid's mom" types who look down on their career-track sisters. I don't judge working mothers, I just don't know how they do it. They must be stronger, more driven, more organized women than me.

They must also worry less. I am an Olympic-class worrier when it comes to my baby's health and safety. She can only roll over in one direction and with great difficulty, yet I can't place her in the center of a queen-sized bed without being certain that she will suddenly begin to roll, barrel-style, with great speed toward the edge of the bed and certain doom.

Plus, things with Evan always take longer, and become more complicated, than reason would suggest. This morning, after scrambling around to get my husband off to work and my 5-year-old stepdaughter off to school, I sat down to what I'd imagined would be a nice, relaxed nursing session with Evan. The right breast went fine. She ate contentedly while I gazed down at her sweet face, as though we were in an ad for Boppy pillows. The left breast? Not so good. Something about it struck her wrong, I guess, and she gummed me, yanked at me, kicked me and kept slapping me in the face as I just kept trying to get her breakfast into her. The breakfast in question came out of her a lot easier than it went in; soon as I lifted her upright, she threw up all over my T-shirt and sweatpants. She seemed to feel better, though -- her mood was actually pretty cheery. That made one of us.

I don't always get a shower when I want one these days, but the vomiting incident made it somewhat higher a priority than it otherwise would have been. But Evan wanted to be entertained, so I put her in her crib with the mobile on, then ran into the bathroom to start the shower. I ran back into the nursery to wind up the mobile again, then back into the bathroom to shower. In my childless days, I used to take 20 minutes to shower, minimum. Now I was just struggling to get all of my body parts wet between sprints, in various states of undress, into the nursery to send those damned safari animals spinning in circles again.

While all of this was going on, I reminded myself that I used to be a Very Important Newspaper Editor who used to travel to Greece and read books and see movies while they were still in the theater. But then Evan flashed me her goofy, lopsided grin. Yikes. That's a better reward than my Union-Tribune paycheck ever was.

2004-03-13T09:05:00.000-08:00

My first wedding anniversary is on Monday, and in that year I have learned a lot of valuable things about my handsome and talented husband. I knew when I married him that he wasn't as neat as I was, but it took me a while to figure out why. Turns out, it's that whole Mars/Venus thing; he just doesn't think the way I do.

The other day we were just kicking around in the living room, when my eye caught something peeking out from under the sofa.

Me: "Oh my GOD!"
Him: "What?"
Me: "You should see the size of those dust bunnies!"
Him: "Oh, yeah. I saw that."
Me: "If you saw it, why didn't you sweep it up?"
Him: "I didn't think of it."
Me (incredulous): "Well, what DID you think?"
Him: "I thought, 'Hey. Dust bunnies!'"

To be fair, I have to admit I'm kind of the same way about our car's gas gauge. When it gets close to empty, my husband will pull into the nearest gas station and fill the tank. But I generally just take note of the fact, then move on with my life.

The other thing about him is the way he abuses our dish rags. I'll put a nice clean one out, and the next time I see it -- sometimes just minutes later -- it's wadded up in a puddle of water at the bottom of the sink, with pieces of egg and raw chicken stuck to it. You know those news reports that say the average kitchen has more germs than a swamp with a bloated corpse in it? Those experts obviously have seen our dish rags.

2004-03-12T21:30:00.000-08:00

"Back Story," one of Robert B. Parker's Spenser novels, just came out in paperback. I didn't buy it in hardcover -- a wise decision, it turns out, because this installment of the Spenser saga continues Parker's trend of rehashing books we've read many times before.

Again, Spenser rhapsodizes endlessly about his girlfriend, Susan, who he says is lovely, graceful and brilliant beyond all other women, but who is mostly just annoying. Again, Spenser and Susan have exchanges such as:

"You do this work because it's who you are."

"Yes."

"And if you didn't do it, you would be someone else."

"Yes."

"And who you are is the man I love."

"Yes."

"And if that means you're putting your life in danger, then you must."

"Yes, I must."

"I know."

"I know you know."

(The above is my personal interpretation of the Spenser/Susan tedium, and not an actual passage from the book, FYI. But who can tell the difference?)

Again, Spenser is working a case as a favor to a friend, and as a result gets no payment. Makes me wonder how the guy can afford to eat at Boston's top restaurants, and stay in only the best hotels when he's out of town on a stakeout. Must be getting payoff money from all those mobsters he's constantly letting off the hook despite his deep inner sense of honor.

A lot of frustrated Spenser fans have, for some time, been rooting for the timely death of Pearl the Wonder Dog, who has taken up a great deal of ink snuffling around for table scraps over the past several years. In "Back Story," we finally learn of Pearl's demise. But Spenser immediately gets another dog who looks just like Pearl, and he names her -- Pearl. Susan speculates on whether this new Pearl is, in fact, a reincarnation of the old one. Could be, since all of Parker's recent books seem to be reincarnations of earlier, and better, efforts.

2004-03-12T21:22:00.000-08:00

So, I had this dream: I was at Souplantation having a peaceful lunch with my handsome and intelligent husband, when his ex-wife walked in. She thanked my husband for inviting her, and added, "It was either this, or take 7,000 sick hamsters to the hospital." She didn't explain why she had 7,000 hamsters, let alone why they were sick. But it seemed to me like an excellent name for a blog.