I let the two-year anniversary of this blog pass with nary a comment, so I shall rectify that now: I've been blogging for two years. There you go.

I started blogging because Eugene and Adam did and if they could do it, so could I. In the beginning, I was so self-conscious about what I wrote. Now, it's just a free for all. Adam does have veto rights; if I write something I think he might find offensive or embarrassing to him, then he gets to look at it before it's published. To his credit, he's never used that veto power.

It seems in the grand scheme of things, my blog is old. Daniella points to a blog survey that reports "66.0% of surveyed blogs had not been updated in two months" (which makes my once a week not so bad). Most blogs, it seems, are abandoned after a bit (although, if you're like Mike, you may declare you're abandoning only to cave to the pressure of friends to reactivate). My blog is definitely more of an online diary (created for one of the "nanoaudiences" the survey describes) than the traditional news-gathering blog, but I resist their definition that "the typical blog is written by a teenage girl who uses it twice a month to update her friends and classmates on happenings in her life. It will be written very informally (often in "unicase": long stretches of lowercase with ALL CAPS used for emphasis) with slang spellings, yet will not be as informal as instant messaging conversations (which are riddled with typos and abbreviations). Underneath the iceberg, blogging is a social phenomenon: persistent messaging for young adults."

The bottom line is I enjoy blogging. I enjoy reading other people's blogs when I can and it's always a thrill to discover a new blog. When blogging stops being fun, I'll stop blogging.

One thing, though, is that to blog is to open yourself to criticism. I'm not the best with the criticism, so I often tune it out. However, that's not going to stop me from bashing Eugene for what he wrote in his blog in his critique of bad cell phone manners: "People who make time to see you and then spend half that time on the phone talking to other people. Yes, I'm having a lot of fun sitting here listening to one half of your conversation. Why don't you get out of here and join them and then call me on the cell phone so I can multi-task while you waste someone else's time?" This makes me think fondly of the days when Weegie and I would go see movies on a regular basis. We had tickets together to a French Film Noir series at the Seattle Art Museum. Before going to see Purple Noon (and man is that a great film!) we went for dinner at a Japanese restaurant near Pike Place Market. Just seconds after the waiter had taken our order, with nary an "excuse me" or "this will just be a moment," Weegie whips out his cell phone to call... his entertainment-system salesman. Yes, that's right, I ate my negisaba roll listening to Weegie discuss--for a solid twenty minutes--woofers (or was it subwoofers--I can't remember) with a friggin' salesman while I'm just sitting there. It was the rudest thing I had ever seen, and I feel validated that Weegie is finally acknowledging it as rude behavior. Yes, Weegie does have the most impressive entertainment system I've ever seen, but I couldn't give a hoot about the woofers. Are people who don't know Eugene going to care about this post? Not a whit. Is it wrong to be using my blog for a revenge post now? Probably. But damn do I feel better now.

Back to my usual blogging.

This is day two of the Pod Baby. I'm not sure what planet he came from or what they've done with the real Doodlebug, but I'm loving every second of this alien child. Yesterday, friends (one grown-up and one baby) came over to hang out. We decided to bake cookies (yes, it's true! I've embraced suburban haus-frauism in its entirety) and watch a movie. I put the Doodlebug in his bouncy chair, which is always a risky endeavor because it's a love/hate thing between the baby and the chair, and he sat quietly and alert for over two hours! He smiled, he cooed, he just stared into space. Today, I wanted to get some writing done, so I crossed my fingers and put the Doodlebug in the bouncy chair in my office. Once again, he just sat and looked around. When he looked like he might fuss, I rocked his chair with my foot, and he'd immediately calm down. I not only got to make a cup of tea... I got to drink it! I finished revising a story I'd been working on. I read a few e-mails (but didn't respond--that will happen one of these days). I picked up a few things around the house. He did get a little fussy, but calmed when I picked him up. After his feeding, more fussiness ensued. So I put him in his Pack N Play. And amazingly, he got smiley and quite, batting a bit at the mobile, staring some at his crib toy, and when he'd had enough of that, he turned his head and stared at the gray wall of the crib. And now? Now he is happily asleep. It's a Pod Baby! I hope he stays.

It's a gym night for me. And I have an overwhelming urge to put a sign on my back that reads, "This is not my real body. It's just a loaner till my son returns the body he stole from me."

Many thanks to Shannon for forwarding me this link that just reinforces all those negative HBS-sterotypes.

When a baby cries, the parents try to quiet him. It's what parents do. That is, unless the baby is the Doodlebug and the parent is me. I know all parents think their baby is the cutest, but when the Doodlebug gets himself into a pout, it just breaks my heart how adorable he is. Right before he's about to erupt into a fit, his lower lip protrudes and quivers, like a bad cliche of a crying baby. The pouty face just kills me. But what kills me even more is that I haven't been able to capture the pouty face on film (oh, okay, on digital chip, but that just doesn't sound the same). So every time I think the pouty face is about to come, I grab my camera and wait a moment. Which means the Doodlebug generally breaks out into wails of misery. And of course, I miss the pouty face because when the tears start, the pouty face quickly dissolves into openmouthed screams. So I have a crying baby on my hands. And I wait a few moments, because sometimes the pouty face returns, but generally only fleetingly enough to whet my appetite. I do pick him up quickly after that (and I never try this when he's hungry or wet), but I'm determined to get that pouty face. As they tell me in my mom's group, no baby has ever died from crying. I, on the other hand, may go deaf.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a meeting for some freelance work I'm doing. In all fairness, this company sought me out, and I told them that I was unable to work until January when I would have childcare (the Doodlebug is on a waiting list for part-time day care; we've been on the list since last April, and we're currently number 10. I was told, though, that because most parents want full-time, we have a good shot at a part-time slot in January. I'm not positive we'll use it, but if I can kick my writing into gear, then the Doodlebug will enter daycare two days a week. I figure everyone wins if we can manage to swing it. He develops better socialization skills and gets a happier, more focused mother and I might actually get my novel finished. But I'm digressing here). But, somehow, I unthinkingly uttered the words, "Although, if you don't mind me bringing my son to meetings, I could start working in October." They agreed.

So, the Doodlebug and I arrive in Cambridge and I park. All is well because he was silent for the journey, and I know that the Doodlebug has only two modes when driving: screaming or asleep (it's a big fat myth that all babies love car rides. He hates the car). Imagine my surprise when I open the back door, and there's the Doodlebug, wide-eyed and not the least bit sleepy. Right then, I knew I was sunk. Sure enough, we're not in the meeting for five minutes (five minutes of me frantically pushing the stroller back and forth in an attempt to get him to fall asleep) when the screams erupt. I pick him up, and--professional person that I am--held him in my arms while attempting to have a grown-up business meeting. He's still fussy, so I try the pacifier. No luck (he's since completely rejected the pacifier, which is quite distressing as it was a wonderful way of silencing him). Now, not wanting to whip out my breast in the middle of a meeting, I had cleverly thought to pack a bottle of pumped milk. However, I have never given him a bottle before. So, the bottle goes into his mouth and I look up to continue the conversation. I look back down a few minutes later, and there's a huge puddle of milk on his front (um, did I remember a bib? That's a negative). I'm trying to adjust the bottle without interrupting my train of thought and making a bungle of the whole thing. Finally, after what feels an impossibly long time and after having made a gigantic mess, the Doodlebug falls asleep in my arms in his usual, comfortable head-thrown-back body sprawled position (and of course I don't dare to put him down because that only leads to waking up). I finish the meeting fairly upset because I feel like I've done a half-assed job at being a professional and I've done a half-assed job at being a mother. I swear it will never happen again.

Okay, so while in my mind the meeting was a disaster, I know that in reality it went okay. However, for our next meeting, I make sure to arrange it for a time when Adam won't be in class and can take the baby. So, at 1 p.m. last Thursday, I dropped the Doodlebug off at HBS so Adam could take him to his entrepreneurship club meeting and I could go baby-free to my meeting. My meeting went just fine, and I returned home gleefully, excited to hear of the disruption the Doodlebug caused in Adam's meeting.

You know where this is going, right? He was perfectly well behaved. He was quiet and cute and slept almost the entire time. Everyone raved at how adorable he is. There was no spit-up, no screaming, and he didn't even get hungry enough for Adam to give him the bottle. When I expressed my dismay at this, Adam asked, "What, did you want him to completely misbehave and cry during my meeting?" Finally! My husband understands me! Of course I wanted him to disrupt the meeting. It was essential so that Adam could see what it's like for me.

I am a bitter, bitter woman. Plain and simple.

Today was the Doodlebug's two-month doctor visit. He's now 21 1/4 inches long and 11 pounds, 11 ounces. Happily, while he's still short and fat (5th percentile for length, 50th percentile for weight), he's gaining brain power. He's up from the 5th percentile on his head circumference to the 25th percentile. On his way to being brainy!

Somehow, our very fussy baby turned quite smiley after his shots (four of them, in fact). Adam came with me to the appointment because there was no way I was going to stay in the room as the nurse gave the Doodlebug his shots. Sure enough, he screamed at the top of his lungs, but only for a moment. He got back into his car seat with nary a fuss, slept for three hours, and then woke up with plenty of big smiles. I'm not sure if it's because we dosed him first (ah, a budding druggie; nothing like infant Tylenol) or if he's just a masochist in training, but I'd be quite happy if he were this quiet and content every night.

At first I was concerned by the premise of The Nurture Assumption: Why Children Turn Out the Way They Do, a book I'm in the middle of that Eugene sent me, which is that a child is more affected by his peers than his parents (to ridiculously simplify it). Of course, I had thought, I want Adam and I to have the greatest influence on our Doodlebug. But then, something happened that made me change my mind. Adam used--in a non-ironic, totally unintentional way--the word wicked as an adjective. The Doodlebug will learn better English on the streets.

So, the Doodlebug is no longer having such spit up problems (and thanks for the reflux suggestions--the doc said as long as he didn't appear in pain when he spit up, it was okay). He has a new thing. It's the "must... stay... awake... no... matter... how... tired... I... am..." Those eyelids get heavy, closing to tiny slits. The head begins to nod. The yawns come fast and furious. But, then, suddenly, he realizes, "I could miss something! Must stay awake at all costs!" And, smart little monkey that he is, he understands that the easiest way to stay awake is to scream at the top of his lungs. And the more he screams, the more tired he gets, and the more tired he gets, the more he wants to stay awake, so the more he screams. It's a joy and an honor to be a part of. I can't wait to get even when he's sixteen.

On Saturday, Adam and I took the Doodlebug to the Head of the Charles, that oh-so-genteel competition in which men and women sit in skinny little boats and race down the Charles River. Much to my disappointment, they don't race head-to-head--those are sprints. I know, silly me, thinking a race called "Head" would involve people competing head-to-head, but no, it's all time trials, so you just watch boats shooting by. The Doodlebug was so fascinated, he fell asleep within seconds of leaving the warmth of the car, and stayed happily asleep until we returned to the car. One interesting thing to note is that Adam does not restrict his sports rage to baseball. One of the coxswain steered his boat into the oncoming lane, and the rowers were banging oars with those headed up the river. Adam unleashed a vile string of insults on the coxswain that was worthy of Roger Clemens. Who knew that he had such strong feelings? Actually, Adam's deep dark secret is that he was a coxswain in college. Although, if you think about it, it's quite fitting. What else is a skinny kid with a loud mouth going to do? Let's hope that the Doodlebug doesn't inherit his fathers sporting skills.

Adam is still reeling from the Red Sox's loss. A friend sent me an amusing forward about Red Sox fans and the Yankees, and I asked Adam if he wanted to see it. "No," he said, "it still hurts." It wouldn't have been so bad, he insists, had they been down in the second inning, 10 to 2 or something. But they had it, he says. They had it. So now I know three things about baseball. In addition to Pedro Martinez is the greatest pitcher who has ever lived and Roger Clemens is a big fat hick, I now know that Grady Little has to go.

On a related note, I asked Adam what he would do if the Doodlebug grew up to become a Major League Baseball player and ended up on the Yankees. To his credit, Adam didn't hesitate when he said he would root for the Doodlebug no matter what, even if he played for the Yankees. And who knows, he could become a ball player. He already has one skill down pat--he can spit with the best of them.

He's still the cutest baby ever. But besides that he's changing by leaps and bounds. We got our first social smile at the end of last week, and it made all the sleeplessness worthwhile. He still loves to sleep in our arms during the day, however, he's sleeping the whole night in his cosleeper (although truth be told I have to wonder if he was sleeping with us part of the night because he needed to or because I needed him to). He's looking us directly in the face for long periods and he's spending quiet time in his Pack N' Play looking at the black-and-white cloth book we put in there for him. For the first time, he's been fussy in our arms and calmed down once we set him down. He's definitely taking more in, studying things. He's just as fussy as ever, but he's crying much, much less. Of course, some things haven't changed. He's still feeding every two to three hours, round the clock. He's still contorting his body into the most uncomfortable looking positions and then falling happily asleep. He still snorts. And he still can't find my breast even when it's right in front of him. There are few things funnier than having him first try to latch onto mine or Adam's shoulder, and then when we bring him to my breast, to have him turn his head in the opposite direction. There's also his puppy dog move where he pants, moves in, moves out, frantically shakes his head a few times, and then comes back in to eat with passion. When he's done, he's downright drunk, smacking his lips, leaning back, and often taking a little snooze. What worries me, though, is his constant spitting up. During the day, he overeats and then loses much of it within minutes (at night he eats a small amount rather quickly and efficiently and falls back asleep, with nary a drop of drool). I'm afraid we have a budding bulemic on our hands.

I'm afraid I can no longer speak to my father. At least, that's what this Web site tells me: "If you find an Atheist in your neighborhood,TELL A PARENT OR PASTOR RIGHT AWAY! You may be moved to try and witness to these poor lost souls yourself, however AVOID TALKING TO THEM! Atheists are often very grumpy and bitter and will lash out at children or they may even try to trick you into neglecting God's Word. Very advanced witnessing techniques are needed for these grouches. Let the adults handle them." Well, at least he's not like poor Habu. (Ohmygod, they said asswaged! Hee hee.) Bet you can learn all new things from the Creation Scientist! (Where do fossils come from? "Fossils are the remains of the wicked men and animals that perished 4,000 years ago in the Flood!")

Note, I do respect all religions and would never mock anyone's beliefs. But this site... well, come on! Could you resist?

Despite my anti-Greek tendencies, I ended up married to a diehard fraternity boy. And, it seems, my son is preparing to pledge. At least, I hope that's what it is. Because if those room-clearing farts and the sound-barrier-breaking burps are involuntary and a sign of what's to come, then he's going to have a very lonely life.

I was in the middle of an Ofoto order (lots of pictures of the Doodlebug!), when its site went down. Up popped a screen that read, "We are currently experiencing a high volume of Ofoto members uploading and sharing their photos." That's right up there with "currently conducting standard site maintenance" or "updating our server," which is on par with "I'll call." Sure, no company wants to admit its site went down, but really, how dumb do they think we are? Does anyone believe them? Baby Center gets high marks for having the most creative site-down page: it's a picture of a bare-butted baby and it reads, "You caught us with our pants down."

Adam and I attended a wedding last Sunday in Springfield, which is just over an hour and a half away. A friend of mine from the kibbutz got married. It was such a surprising coincidence that my Israeli friend got married so close to me that I wanted to make every effort to go the wedding. On the kibbutz, he was a good friend, teaching me how to drive a tractor, taking me to festivals in Akko, and lending me his apartment when I needed a quiet place to call my boyfriend back home to break up with him (okay, not very nice, but there's a whole story there that I'm not going to get into). Besides, I couldn't imagine this sandal-wearing kibbutznik having a formal American wedding. I felt badly for his parents, who don't really speak English--they're survivors and kibbutz founders--in the middle of all the pomp. Kibbutz weddings (one of which I attended) are decidedly more low-key and casual. Anyway, the wedding necessitated leaving the Doodlebug for about eight hours. The Tweedle Twirp came to the rescue and came back to Boston to spend the day with him. Now, I had every faith in TT and I knew she'd do a terrific job taking care of DB. And she did. He was fussy, she calmed him. He was hungry, she fed him. He spit up on two outfits, she changed him and did his laundry. I couldn't ask for a better babysitter. That said, I am never, ever, ever again leaving the DB again. I missed him like I've never missed anyone before. All night I kept thinking about him, wishing I were with him. I'm going to stick by him the rest of my life. He'll go to college in Boston (plenty of good schools to choose from). If he pledges a fraternity in college, I'll become the house mother. When he gets his own place, it'll have to have an in-law apartment for me.


I will say, though, that the wedding was lovely. The reception was at this place in Holyoke that was a regular revolving wedding reception hall with at least three wedding parties going on (note to the gorgeous bride in the beautiful strapless dress taking videos outside: there's nothing trashier looking than a bride who smokes). I promised TT that we'd leave the reception early, right at nine, figuring that would give us a good amount of time there (it started at 6) and we wouldn't be home too late. Of course, this was a largish wedding in a packed room, and by 8:55, the main course had yet to be served. I had only had a bowl of cereal in the morning and was famished, so we got a fifteen-minute extension from the TT so we could eat. We missed out, though, on the Oreo-cookie-ice-cream balls, which sounded delightfully intriguing to me, and the cake, which I didn't mind missing out on. I have yet to eat a really good wedding cake. The worst part of the evening was having to awkwardly ask a sixteen-year-old employee if there was a private place I could go to, uh, you know, pump. Happily they were quite accommodating and opened an office for me to use.

Eugene writes in his blog, "Christina and Eric took me to the Seahawks-49ers game today. It reminded me of how obnoxious football fans can be." Eugene, it needs to be noted, is a die-hard Cubs fan. I can't be sure if his fanaticism is up there with Adam's, but considering that he, at the last minute, bought a ticket from Seattle to Chicago to attend a playoff game, I'd say it's close (Adam would do things like that too if he didn't have a female life partner who managed the house finances [how in the heck do you avoid the word "wife" gracefully?]). Now I know that generally this can be counted on to be a baseball-free blog, but given that Adam has abandoned his blog and Eugene made this barb, I can't help but point out, yes, football fans are obnoxious. But they have nothing on--forget baseball fans--the baseball players. After watching Saturday night's Yankee-Red Sox showdown at Fenway, I've decided baseball is too violent a sport for the Doodlebug to watch. Between the fight between Pedro and Don Zimmer (and here Adam and I disagree--Adam thinks Zimmer deserved it; I say no matter how much he deserves it, you don't throw down an 72-year-old man) and the Fenway groundskeeper getting mauled by two Yankees, baseball is not a family sport. And let's face it, the fans aren't any better. I've heard Red Sox/Yankee fans going at each other. It's not suitable for prime time. And if the Cubs lose tonight, that ball-snatching fan's life is in danger.

David Brooks wrote a wonderful Op-Ed piece entitled "Our Way: Root and Hoot" (which I won't link directly to because it disappears from the site in a short time) for the New York Times in which he writes:

It's interesting, for example, to turn and watch Yankee and Red Sox fans as they watch a game. As the game goes on, they almost never display pleasure, contentment or joy. Instead, during the game they experience long periods of contempt interrupted by short bursts of vindication.

If one of their players has just grounded out, they regard him with a gaze that suggests he has just betrayed his country. If he has hit a home run, they treat it as evidence that the pathetic bum on the field has finally lived up to the standard set by their superlative fandom. Then comes the taunting.

Some people claim that American men have trouble expressing their emotions. Not at Yankee Stadium or Fenway Park. Toward the end of the game I attended in the Bronx, when it was clear the Yankees were going to win, the Yankee partisans turned to their brethren from the Bay State to let them know which part of the anatomy they resemble.

They started chanting a two-syllable word to summarize this conclusion. First they chanted it in reference to the Red Sox fans. Then they chanted it in reference to the Red Sox players. Then they chanted it in reference to nothing, just for the aesthetic satisfaction of it. Art for art's sake.

Side note: I frighten even myself. Speaking with a girlfriend, another new mom in Boston (her son is eleven days older than the Doodlebug), we actually spent a good five minutes discussing the Saturday game. Hey, did you see that? Out your window? I think that pig was actually flying!

Some commercials are so absolutely annoying that you can't help but remember them. This pisses me off, because it means that the crappy ads are actually doing their job. The commercials that are really good, I can never remember what they're for. But the ones that get under my skin, they stick. It's just not fair. Right now my pet peeve commercial is "Are you gellin'? Like a felon." I guess people who watch baseball uniformly have bad feet because this ad has been on way too many times. The stupid tag line gets stuck in my head. I need better things to think about (and reading the news doesn't help--somehow Governor Schwartzenegger is even less comforting than "Are you gellin'?" ). At least I finally got the cow song out of my head

And when did the Cure sell out? Their music is now shilling for HP? Is nothing sacred?

The Dialing Impaired: An alarming number of people out there don't seem to realize that when someone has a baby, you can no longer call them late at night. Hey, people: Duh!

The E-mailing Impaired: The September 29 issue of the New Yorker had a Talk of the Town piece about an e-mail exchange between an HBS student and Jim Rogers, a supposed financial big wig who gave a talk on campus. You can read the details of what happened in the article, but what I'm amazed at is the proof that e-mail travels farther and faster than the Doodlebug's projectile vomit (I know, not the best analogy, but I've got spit-up on the brain. And let me tell you, that vomit travels fast, furious, and far!). Adam forwarded me the e-mail a little while ago because he thought it would be good fodder for my HBS-disparaging ways. I read it but discounted it because it actually made me feel bad for the HBS guy. While he is clearly way too big for his britches, Rogers reply was so repugnant that the HBS guy comes off as the wronged party. But how bizarre that this e-mail ended up all over Wall Street, on the other side of the globe, and in the New Yorker in a matter of what seems to be days. What really amazes me is that supposedly intelligent people would write such ridiculousness to each other in an e-mail. Do these people not understand how the medium works? Why prove to the world your stupidity?

The Gift-Giving Impaired: We received a baby gift that wasn't particularly our style. It was given with good intentions, but it was given by someone we think should have known better. I asked Adam, "What are we going to do with this?" Adam said, "Sell it on eBay." I asked, "And what if the person asks where it is?" Adam replied, "We'll just say, we didn't like your gift, so we sold it on eBay." Needless to say, we still have the gift. And I still haven't figured out what to do with it.

I'm embarrassed to admit this, but when Doodlebug and I went to Spangler to visit with Jason, who was at HBS to recruit for Amazon, I put Doodlebug in his Harvard Business School shirt. The worst part of it is he looked darn good in it! (Of course, Doodlebug looks darn good in frog jammies, too, so I wouldn't read too much into this.)

Seeing Jason was great, and it's always fun catching up with Seattlites (and it was a virtual reunion as we ran into two other former Amazonians, plus of course, Adam). On one hand it makes me miss Seattle, but on the other it also makes me happy to have moved on. I really miss my friends--I often wish I could walk with Doodlebug around Green Lake with one of my many friends back there who are either pregnant or newly mothered or fathered. And I miss the outdoorsy nature of Seattle, walking along Golden Gardens, listening to the swush of the water in Puget Sound. But I enjoy what I'm doing here. While I loved working at Amazon, my time there was definitely up and hearing what's going on back there makes me realize that I left at the perfect time in terms of my own interests. Had we stayed in Seattle, I don't know what kind of satisfying work I would have found. My job at BU reminded me of how much I love writing, and I produced some articles with which I'm quite pleased (my two last pieces: an article about indie book stores and a profile of author Leslie Epstein). Now I just need to segue that into a full-time writing career, and slowly give up the editing. I guess I'm saying my maternity leave is over and it's time for me to get back into the swing of things.

I've posted pictures of the Doodlebug on the site, yet I have to say the idea of people I don't know looking at my son's nekkid butt gives me the willies. Therefore, the page is password protected. If I know you (or know of you) and you'd like to see the pictures, drop me an e-mail.

Eugene sent me a this link a while ago, but I'm that far behind on my e-mail. Basically, the world has somehow learned of the Krispy Kreme donut groom's cake we had at our wedding and they are copying the idea. Ours, though, was much better--none of that silly frilly stuff. And of course, ours had Pedro on top. (And if you don't know who Pedro is--boy, do I envy you!)

It's starting to get to me. The sleepless late nights. The whimpering. The constant pacing to control the tension. The cries, the shouts, the occasional grins and cheers. I'm not sure how much longer I can take it. I keep reminding myself that before I know it that this will be over, and I'll forget the pain, because you always forget the pain. But, right now, the end of baseball season seems so far away. All the Doodlebug and I can do is hope that the Red Sox beat the Yankees in four games so we can have Adam back--at least until the World Series starts.

The majority of my purchases are made online. I hate shopping. It's tedious, it's boring, and to be avoided at all costs. I've purchased everything online from the usual--clothes, books, music, movies--to the rather oddball--house numbers, a mailbox, pacifiers. What that means, though, is that I get on some pretty funky mailing lists. Now that I spend many hours on the couch with a baby on my lap, I find myself looking through whatever is close by, which is often the curious catalog. This week, it's been Posh Tots and Terry's Village. I'm now a catalog addict. I had no idea the things that I could buy! Shall we go seasonal this year? Buy a snowman rug and toilet seat cover? (Would that clash with the outhouse tissue box?) Or maybe I want a set of crib linens for $1,528? (Note to buyers: babies spit up. And pee. And poop. On everything.) Maybe for those days when I'm bored, I should play a little snowman tic tac toe. Of course, I should be a grateful that Doodlebug is a boy, so I won't feel the pressure to buy him the fantasy coach bed. Only three in existence and the price--a bargain $39,500, yes that's $39,500--includes having the craftsmen flown in from England to build it in your house. Boy, these guys really know how to target their mailings, don't they!

On Monday, Doodlebug saw his first movie, Swimming Pool. Not exactly Rugrats, I know, but the local second-run theater has baby matinees on Mondays: stroller parking in the lobby, the lights not completely dim, and the sound just a tad softer. Of course crying babies and nursing are absolutely allowed. The Loews downtown does an even bigger affair, with entertainment ahead of time and first-run films, but it's a pain in the butt to get to with no parking, so second run it is for me! Also, the other moms in my mom's group go for a walk and lunch first and then a bunch go to the movies, so it's more fun.

Swimming Pool is an incredible film, and I'm still thinking about what the ending means (if you've seen it and have ideas, let me know!). It would never occur to me to list Francois Ozon on my list of favorite directors, yet his films stay with me longer than others. Sitcom was remarkable, but See the Sea was absolutely the most disturbing film I have ever seen. I don't think I could watch it again, although the image of the final scene is burned into my mind. His films are slow paced, and if you're not prepared for that, I think they could seem boring. Yet, if you know his style, you're constantly seeking out clues, and the leisurely pace becomes a means of suspense. The cinematography is beautiful. I'm still turning the ending over and over, but I definitely recommend this--and the other Ozon films for that matter.

Everyone knows I love my son. How could I not? The Doodlebug is the absolute cutest, most amazing thing ever. However, today, he came this close (picture thumb and finger practically touching) to being dropped off at the orphanage. Today began day two of the "No, Mom, that's not what I want, but I'm not going to tell you what it is I do want" screaming. (My best friend is pregnant and I'm afraid to talk to her these days because all I have are stories of exhaustion, yells, and sore eardrums; I don't want to scare her off. But as she says, it's too late anyway so she might as well be well prepared.) We just solved that though, because I put him in his bouncy chair and told him, "Okay, go ahead, scream here for five minutes; I need food" (yesterday, I didn't get breakfast until 3:30 in the afternoon, and we're all a lot happier when I eat a bit more regularly). And remarkably, he screamed for four minutes and fell asleep. So now I've not only gotten to enjoy food and scan the headlines, I'm also making a pot of my favorite almond tea (I stocked up at Whittard's when I was in London last February) and catching up on the blog. If today's entries stop abruptly, it will be because the Doodlebug woke up. This afternoon, our exciting plans include a trip to Babies R Us for bigger onesies (he may be short, my the Doodlebug is rapidly gaining weight and any day now, he'll be busting out of his 0-3 month clothes, even though he is just under 6 weeks) and to Old Navy for smaller jeans (my sister had bought me a huge pair, and happily in the couple of weeks since she's left, I'm down from enormous to gigantic and need to exchange the jeans for a size down). Oh, did you hear that? Yes, that's right, just as my tea is ready, the Doodlebug begins to warm up his lungs....