Purple swirly boots, no crack, it's almost March, and oh, poo, it's raining!

My name is Lisa, and I have a boot problem.

So there. I figure it's better than a gambling or sex addiction. And I don't even know that it's an addiction, since it's my second pair of boots in what, six months?

And this is a total tangent, but Saturday night we were doing a jigsaw puzzle, and it was midnight, and I was all, "Let's stay up all night! And do crack!"

And then of course I had to ask Nick what he would say if I actually did want to try crack.

He said we'd have a marital problem.

What about only once?

Still a problem.

Since it doesn't actually figure on my list of anything I want to do, we're fine. It's like swallowing the ring. I just have to ask.

So back to boots.

I bought this pair because magically out of the blue they appeared on Amazon and were totally on sale and just my size (sorry, if you're a six, I think I bought the last one) and plus I get free two-day shipping because I buy so many damn diapers from them.

And Corso Como is seriously the most comfortable brand ever. And while you'd think these boots would be more practical in brown or black, it turns out that you can match purple with pretty much anything. Or anything you feel like matching it with.

I've decided.

Also: holy crap! Tomorrow is March! And weather report in Washington, DC: It was beautiful and now it's raining.

Crappitty poo.

Up to your old tricks in Chapters Four, Five and Six

As a child, I was shy, and I read a lot.

I don't know if these are related - are shy kids more likely to retreat into a book? - but I preferred reading to just about anything. I don't read as much as I'd like now, but well written fiction is still one of my greatest pleasures.

Nick, on the other hand, was not a reader. He hated it. He reads a lot now - although not as much for pleasure as he'd like. But he was well through school before he liked reading.

So our Big J, who is not remotely shy, loves the books. Loves being read to. I don't know if this means he'll love reading when he's older. But he loves it when we do.

He's started crawling into Nick's chair with a book, acting all grown up. In this picture, he's holding a book I loathe - one about Eeyore losing his tail.

I never realized it when I was a kid, but Eeyore is clearly clinically depressed. He's such a fucking downer. It just makes me want to stab him and pull out all his stuffing.

Now, having been depressed myself, I know he can't help it, and really, some therapy and Zoloft would probably turn things right around for him. He might actually be fun. So I do try to be understanding.

But he irritates the crap out of me.

Anyway. It turns out that the Borders on 18th and L is closing and everything is on sale. It's near my doctor's office, so after my appointment I stopped in to look at their 20% off children's books.

I'd forgotten how much I'd adored the characters of my childhood. Babar, the charming elephant, who it turns out is a colonial oppressor. Who knew? Not us, living in, uh, India and Bangladesh...We still have all those Babar books. I'm excited for J to get a little older.

I looked for Bartholomew and the Oobleck and If I Ran the Circus - two of my childhood Seuss favorites - but didn't find them. Although truthfully, now that I've looked them up on Amazon, I see they're cheaper there. Which I suppose is part of the Amazonification of the world.

I did buy Madeline, because I loved those books, and I don't think they survived my childhood and all our moves. I hesitated, because she's a girl...but then I thought, am I really only going to read him books with boys as main characters? No.

I also got him Richard Scarry's Mother Goose, because J really enjoys those nursery rhymes, and Richard Scarry has such amazing illustrations.

There were so many books I wanted to get, but stopped myself, because I realized they were more for me than for him. Like, I want to sit down and read all the Ramona books. Sit here for the present! And A Wrinkle in Time. Oh, CharlesWallace!

What I realized while browsing was that I'm so excited to get into books with richer plots. Not that I don't love The Very Hungry Caterpillar, but there are only so many times you can read it and still maintain the enthusiasm for him becoming...wait for it...a beautiful butterfly!

I'm itching to see Eloise get up to no good at the Plaza, although truthfully, I fear she'll give Jordan ideas.

Do you have childhood favorites you'd be happy to curl up with now?

It's probably hereditary

I looked out from the kitchen, and saw that Betty was hovering at the front door, peering out every so often.

"What are you doing?"

"There's a man out there. He keeps walking back and forth in front of the house."

"Is he acting weird? Are you worried?"

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and headed towards the front windows to investigate. I totally pictured someone in a trench coat casing the joint.

"Oh, no. I just want him to go away so I can go out in my pajamas and have a cigarette."

The reason you should never listen to my advice

Image: Edward Gorey: The Gashleycrumb Tinies

I spoke with my friend Laura last night. She's the one I used to have all kinds of shenanigans with, and then she up and moved to California for love.

And I really like her husband, so I can't even be resentful.

So, one of the first things she said was, "In your opinion, does being an orphan mean you don't have siblings?"

She had me there.

In fact, it does not. Being an orphan means you don't have parents. So even if I'd married an orphan, there would be the sisters - my issue of the weekend.

Unless, of course, Nick's entire family minus him had died in a fiery car crash. Or one by one in a series of tragic accidents.

Which, of course, I would never hope for him. Or anyone. Never.

And I'd never suggest that you explicity look for a partner whose whole family had died in a fiery car crash. And definitely not someone whose family members had one by one met with an early end.

Not least of all because maybe that would mean your person was really unlucky, and they might be next. And then you.

What? I mean, you never know.

Also, it would narrow the dating pool so dramatically, and make it close to impossible for you to find any of your 26. Even if they did live.

Plus, the person would most likely be completely traumatized. And so there would be that for you to deal with.

What I'm saying is: never listen to me. I have no sense of direction, and no idea what I'm talking about.

Unless you're my husband or my son. Then I'm always right.

A plethora of completely unrelated topics

Face to Facebook
So I went and made a Lemon Gloria Facebook page. Like 15 minutes ago. I know this sounds idiotic, but I'm still not so clear on how it works. But I did finally figure out the Like button. So, uh, could you like me?

I'm not sure if it's helpful for LG to have its own page, but then I figure, it's like plastics. Not that I'm Mrs. Robinson.

Armpit twitch
I'm having this weird twitch on the side of my chest right at the edge of my armpit. The hell?

IUI
So the IUI was really easy and fast and we talked about New Orleans. It was kind of surreal, having this between-my-legs conversation about how my doctor is from an old NO family and goes to Mardi Gras every year.

And then he stood up and said, "OK, this went beautifully, and tell Nick he did a great job!"

And then I got dressed and went to Trader Joe's.

Oh! Which leads me to: How to make my day
So I was on my way to the checkout line and couldn't decide if this very attractive woman was trying to get in line so I deliberately walked out of the way in case she was...when she said, "Excuse me. Are you Lemon Gloria?"

And then we had this wonderful chat about online dating and marriage and babies and sleep and lack thereof. She showed me pictures of her gorgeous son. It was this totally unexpected little treat.

I've had a handful of people email me and say that they'd seen me somewhere but thought it would be weird to say hi...and I always write back and say, "Oh, I wish you'd said hello!"

Of course, if you do, you'll probably be subjected to a lot of enthusiasm and a hug, so if you're not so into that kind of thing, I'm probably best avoided.

Marry an orphan
That's the best piece of advice I can think of to the single people of the world. I mean, if you're interested in marital harmony, simplifying your life, and not having to remind yourself to breathe when you've just gotten out of an IUI and your SIL attempts to dump her rather dour youngest child on you for a day of free babysitting.

Eighteen months

Dear Jordan,

On Saturday you turned 18 months old. That's a whole year and a half!

You continue to be the biggest joy in our lives, although today you're being kind of a screamy little tantrum-throwing crankpot and while I still love the tar out of you, I'm sure hoping it's because you stayed up too late last night.

Because if this is a phase, we are just plain screwed until it's over, because this sucks.

But on the whole, you are so much fun. You walk and you run, and your run is actually hilarious, because you careen around like a little drunk, not really minding that you bounce off walls or door frames. You fall down and pick yourself up and keep going.

You have to explore every little thing. You've discovered sticks in the park, and rocks, and holes to put them in.

You stand in the front window and watch the world go by. You wave at people. "Hi man! Bye bye man!" "Hi doggie! Bye bye doggie!"

When we walk down the street you point out cars, and every once in a while you head towards one you want to pet. "Nice car."

You did this with a Porsche the other day and your dad totally agreed with you. I think he wanted to pet it as well.

One of the things I like best is seeing your language development. It's just so interesting. Like, recently you've started using verbs: look, eat, go, walk, sit, kick.

Of course, these are all said with exclamation points, as everything is urgent. Look! Walk! If we don't respond immediately, it becomes WALK!

And you add them to other words. "Down!" is now "Down go!"

You keep surprising us with the funniest things. The other day Dad asked if you wanted to read Go (Dog Go) or (Mother) Goose and you said no, walked over to the book basket and said, "Haaw bout..." and chose a book.

You loooove books. You love being read to. And you have very definite opinions about what you want to read.

And really, just about everything.

The one thing you absolutely hate is getting your teeth brushed, and I'm not going to lie to you, you make it a tremendous chore. You suck on the tooth brush a little and act all compliant.

And then you do things like brush your knee. And stick the toothbrush down the drain.

When I take over, you scream and flail and wail and act like I'm ripping off your toes. I encourage the yelling, because it means your mouth is open wide enough for me to actually brush those little teeth of yours.

This leads you to try to wail with your lips curled over your teeth. It's rarely successful.

But it's a low point in our relationship every day.

That said, I love you like crazy and if I could clone you and have another one just like you, I totally would.

Except I read Pet Cemetery and even if I know that wasn't cloning and I wouldn't have to bury you to see if you'd come back the whole idea is a little creepy and I don't actually think they're up for doing it on humans yet.

But that's how much I love you love you love you.

Mama

Prime and punnishment

Last night Nick kept saying things like, "Boy, tomorrow is going to be a long, hard day."

And, "I'm just going to be pulled in so many different directions."

And so on.

I woke up this morning and he was gone. I didn't even hear him leave.

The phone rang at 8 am.

"Hello?"

"Emission accomplished!"

Follicle la la la, la la la la

So I went in this morning for a sonogram and blood work to see how my body has responded to this month's fertility science experiment.

The sonogram made me think of a friend of mine who recently started charting her basal body temperature (BBT).

This BBT charting, if you've not done it, entails taking your temperature first thing in the morning, at the same time every day, before you do anything else.

I tried for a month, but I would wake up at 4 am so anxious about forgetting that it just wasn't worth it. I'd have dreams where I got up and brushed my teeth and then remembered the BBT chart. I failed!

I'm sure the anxiety was raising my temperature. It was certainly ruining my sleep.

But my friend, she said she kind of loves it. She loves seeing the numbers and lining up the data and keeping a nice, organized chart.

I told her she's totally the valedictorian of charting.

So I got to the RE's office and the wait wasn't bad. I think Mondays are the worst.

The nurse called me in and she was like, "I can't wait to see what's happened!"

She's this beautiful, probably six feet tall, Nordic looking woman who is so incredibly nice. She talks to you like you're her favorite person in the world. Totally sincerely.

She makes me feel like the two of us are Team Get Lisa Pregnant.

I mean, of course, yes, I have a husband that figures somewhere into this equation. That somewhere being downtown at 7:30 am Sunday morning.

If that doesn't turn you on, I don't know what will. (Sorry, Nick.)

Anyway.

So I'm up on the table, naked from the waist down, and she's holding the sonogram wand which really just looks like a big dildo, and we're both all, "Oooh! I'm so excited to see!"

Which struck me as funny, but I didn't laugh because I was also in my head all, man, I hope I don't fail...

and then she was like, "This looks good!" and showed me one 21 mm follicle, and then another, and another that might get big enough in time for the moment of magic.

(Follicles, if you don't know - and I didn't - are the sacs inside which your eggs mature. Clomid, as I understand it, pushes you to release more follicles, so you've got a better chance of sperm meeting egg and doing a baby dance.)

She said, "You want them to be at least 18 mm, so these two are absolutely big enough. And you want two or three, no more than four. YOU DID GREAT!"

I may not be the valedictorian of this getting pregnant business, but I walked out of there all, "She gave me an A!"

Hardy boys

If you call our home phone - which there is really no reason to do, as we only have it for the alarm system and in case a zombie attack takes down all the cell phone towers at the same time - but if you do, odds are Betty will answer.

She will greet you with the following: "Hardy boys!"

Because this is how she answers it. She's been doing this for months.

I learned recently that while this makes complete sense to me, Nick has no idea why.

So. We have very simple old phones with wall mounts and cords and they totally serve their purpose but they do not tell you who is calling.

This is fine, because we do not give out the number. Nobody calls it except the alarm company, solicitors, Hardy middle school, and sometimes one of us.

You know when it's the alarm company, because you've just set off the alarm.

This leaves the rest of us.

So the other day Nick said, "You know, when I call, your mom always says, 'Hardy boys!'"

"Yes."

"Does she do this at her house?"

"No. Why would she?"

"Why does she do it at our house?"

And I was all, "Seriously? Hardy middle school."

Duh.

This is how I feel about you

I don't know how I lucked into blogging, but I feel so grateful for all of you.

When my heart feels heavy and I'm bent low, I reach out, and you reach back with kind words and virtual hugs and sweet notes. Thank you so much.

Yesterday I was very down. And then Betty called in the afternoon and said, "Jordan can say I love you!" Apparently he'd been running around saying it over and over to her.

It was perfect timing. It was like sipping sunshine.

I didn't see him last night because I worked late, and then Nick and I had a drink at the Tabard. The first date location, the couches and the fire, the gentle atmosphere - all were exactly what I needed.

The only thing lacking was a back to the couch. I called it a stupid couch with no back. Nick called it a divan.

Divan shmivan. Couches should have backs.

Anyway, here's my boy sharing the love this morning. I hope you enjoy.

Hugs to all of you.

A kiss with a fist is better then none

The Fairfax County police department contacted my mom last weekend.

They had some of my father's belongings. Could she come and pick them up? They were very kind.

I don't know why I didn't expect letters. I thought there might be clothes, or a bag. Or an umbrella. At least once he had an umbrella with him, which I've always thought was interesting. I took it as a sign of not being totally sure of his course of action.

But what did I know? What do I know?

There were three letters: one to Betty, one to my brother, one to me.

She brought them over last night.

He wanted to stay. He wanted to meet baby Jordan. He wanted to be here for us, with us. And he just couldn't.

All I could do was sit on the floor and sob. It's so unfair.

The world is unfair; I've long known this. It's a lesson best taught early, I think. Although perhaps not so drastically. Life is not fair.

And yet I cry, and repeat myself: I hate it. It's just not fair.

Is it better to get a goodbye note nearly two years late, or not at all?

I don't know.

The fart machine

I feel like since it's Valentine's Day, I might as well tell you about the fart machine.

So, those of you who've been around a while know that Nick and I got engaged within 10 weeks of first laying eyes on each other. It could have gone very badly, I know.

Anyway, he was sure from like, minute one, and we started talking marriage pretty quickly. And then we looked at rings. And got engaged. It was all very fast.

We had a lot to learn about each other post-engagement. But I knew some very fundamental things about him from early on.

For example, he has this awesome fart machine. It's remote controlled and it makes realistic, juicy, embarrassing fart sounds.

Also, I recognized that he had many stellar personal qualities. And my lack of filter didn't make him twitch.

So. he wanted to wait until he had the ring to ask my parents for my hand. (Which, now that I've written it, gives me the terrible image of him walking around with a severed hand.)

So he and I looked at rings. Then I went with Betty and looked. Then Nick was scheduled to go with Betty to her jeweler. Nick started joking that we could get the neighbors in on the rotation. On Tuesday, he could go with Martha, and Wednesday I could look at rings with her husband. On Thursday we could regroup.

Anyway. Back to Nick and Betty.

I told him he should bring the fart machine with him. So he did.

He'd met my parents maybe three times at this point.

So he went to my parents' house and picked up Betty. And as he drove, he'd occasionally press the fart button.

BBBBPPPPPHHPHHHPPPPPPTT!

And then he'd say, "Oh, excuse me!"

Betty, being very sweet and polite, just said, "Oh! No problem."

Until the third one. At which point she knew something was up. He fessed up to the fart machine. She asked if she could borrow it.

So they went up to the jeweler, and then Betty went and bought Nick a sandwich, and he bought the ring.

Afterward, Nick said they all sat in my parents' kitchen, him eating a roast beef sandwich, nobody mentioning rings or possible engagement, just pretending it was a totally normal day.

Awk. Ward. Why he didn't bust out the fart machine for that, I do not know.

And then he left. A couple hours later, he got a call from my mom.

"Oh, hello! Nick! Your machine keeps farting! We can't stop it."

Turned out to be on the same frequency as a neighbor's garage door opener.

I wear two hats

By that I do not mean, oh, I wear the Mom hat when I'm at home and the Professional Woman hat when I'm at work! Look how I juggle everything!

No.

I mean: when it is cold, I wear two hats.

Go ahead. Make fun. You won't be the first.

You can see the one hat peeking out from under the other. I do this because the furry hat, it fits my head, but the straps are too long. And so it's not tight under my chin. So the wind gets up around my ears and they get all freezy.

I like this not one bit. But I love the big fuzzy hat. So I stuck the other one, which I also love, and which is great for cold but not windy days, under it. And together, they are perfect.

And easy. When I go into stores and such, I tend to just slide the fuzzy one back, and leave it hanging around my neck.

However, I have nearly lost the wool one multiple times doing this, as it slips out. So I need to remember to put it in my pocket.

And so yesterday on the way home I found myself running around Whole Foods (there on a frozen wheatgrass! mission, but this is another story) frantically, trying to find my lost hat.

I'd reached behind my head, and there was only one hat. I took it off and looked inside. One hat.

I love that thin wool hat! How could I have been so careless?

I scurried up and down aisles, retracing my steps. After searching a bit, I went up to customer service and said, "If someone found a hat, would they turn it in here? I lost my hat!"

I saw her eyes go to my left hand, with which I was gesticulating with a large, furry brown hat.

So I added, "Oh! But not this hat. My other hat."

"Oh."

"I have two!" I added brightly.

As I said that, I stuck my hand in my pocket and realized that I had, in fact, put the hat in there for safe keeping.

So I said, "Oh, nevermind! It's right here in my pocket! Hahahaha! I thought I hadn't...haha! Thank you!"

I pulled it out. Waved it for proof.

And fled.

Although I'm gonna bet the crazy is just right around the corner

OK, so we talked to the doctor yesterday.

It was a conference call that Nick set up, and it felt very official. In situations that make me nervous I do a lot of figurative hiding behind Nick, who has no compunctions about pushing his agenda. This was one of those times.

(Side bar: I totally benefit from it when I want to, and then I resent the shit out of it in our personal relationship. It's how we wound up with this expensive ceiling lamp that I no longer hate but would never choose. For example.)

Basically, the doctor said that no, Clomid is not perfect, and you could argue for injectables, but they are more expensive and take a lot more monitoring. You could argue for going straight to IVF and skipping this. But trying the Clomid will give us a good idea of how I respond to these stimulation drugs.

So Nick and I sat down and talked about it, and this is what we decided: Take the Clomid this month, at the prescribed dose. Get the IUI. See what happens.

Maybe we get all knocked up (best case!). Maybe we learn that this is not the way to go, and it's a lost month and some money down the drain. But it gives us data.

Worst case - and this is truly terrible - your ovaries get hyperstimulated, and there's a whole list of scary side effects. But I'm thinking positively and not focusing on those. Except that I maybe have a printout so I know what to be on the lookout for. I'm pretty sure I'd notice weight gain of two pounds a day, for example.

Which is to say that I am looking at this month as an experiment, a hopeful experiment. I know it will shock you when I say I am not Zen about this. Because as soon as I took the pill last night I was all, "I feel all weird and tingly!"

I was certain my left ovary was tingling. And maybe my face.

Since it had only been about 45 seconds, Nick gave it no credence.

So far, all I have is a headache. I don't yet have the mood swings that've been promised to me, and I haven't turned into a raging bitch. There's still time.

I warned Nick that could happen, and he said, "You were completely out of your mind for about nine months. I can manage."

And then he asked about The Timing of The Sex.

And I reminded him that this month is The Cup and The Wanking. And how, considering what I have to do, he gets off easy with this one.

I didn't mean it quite that way. You know.

I'm in the phone booth, it's the one across the hall

The other day my phone rang at work. I glanced, and it was Nick's office number.

So I picked it up and breathed, "What are you wearing?"

And then there was this long pause. Long.

Long enough that I started panicking that maybe it wasn't actually him.

And then finally a familiar voice said, "Saran wrap underwear. And they're surprisingly comfortable."

Oh, thank God.

Soup to nuts (ha!) and everything but the kitchen sink. I suggest a drink and a snack before you commit to reading.

My main problem is that I read stuff on the Internet.

I know, hilarious coming from a blogger.

Also, I've been dancing around this fertility topic, and I do a crappy job when I half-tell. Plus those of you who haven't ever been on this train must be bored as all get-out.

So I'm going to write this all down and then throw it out into the world and the MOVE the fuck on.

OK, I just cracked myself up with that line. Move the fuck on. I totally have a fertility Karate Kid in my mind. Fuck on. Fuck off.

Hahahaha!

Um?

So, here's how I get myself 73 kinds of worked up every day: I read all this stuff about infertility and age on the Internet.

Because technically speaking, we haven't actually been trying for an unreasonable amount of time. Nobody (as in, professionals) seems terribly concerned.

It's just that Jordan happened immediately, and I suppose I had these unrealistic expectations. And, as is my wont, I quickly jumped into fertility forums. I googled fertility and age and related topics.

I still do this on the daily. It makes me apoplectic ever time. And yet, I cannot seem to stop myself.

So I saw a reproductive endocrinologist (RE), because all Internet recommendations are, if you are old - and at 41.5 you are! - get yourself to an RE! Stat!

So the RE was all, yah, your insides look fine, and let's get a look at your husband's sperm and you go have an HSG, which is this test where they inject iodine into your uterus and see if anything is blocked. And here, have some Clomid.

They hand out those prescriptions like lollipops, it seems. I declined.

So, the HSG was kind of interesting, and my uterus and tubes are stellar, it turns out.

Nick was a little surprised by his need to prove himself, because Jordan, of course, was due to his mega-powered baby missiles.

While I, on the other hand, was all, "Maybe they're stuck in bacon grease. Maybe they're just gasping to get through. Here's the address and phone number. Use the Force, Nick."

And so, like the good man that he is, he called immediately. He said they showed him to a room and were like, "Read the instructions on the wall. Here's the porn."

It wasn't easy. But as I said, he's a good man.

It took some effort on our part to get the RE to call back with results, and when he did, Nick said he was clearly reading them as he spoke, and said, "So, Mr. Gloria, normal sperm amounts are X, and yours are...oh, hahahaha! Well! Clearly that's not a problem!"

Yah. So Nick is the proud owner of rock star baby missiles.

So then, the more I thought about it, the more I decided that it's scarring on my cervix, which is why it didn't budge one tiny bit when I had Jordan. Like, without exaggeration, the OB stuck her hand in my vagina, worked at it with some serious effort, to the point where her gloved hand was completely bloody when she pulled it out. And nothing.

Horrifying.

So now we're going to try IUI, which, if it is my cervix but not my eggs, will shoot the rock stars up past my cervix and put them on the path to meeting some nice egg and settling down.

Insurance doesn't cover it. And if you've ever looked into IUI or IVF, IUI is a relative bargain.

What they suggested is also taking Clomid, which tricks your body into making more estrogen, thus having you make more follicles, and upping your chances of squeezing out a good egg.

As I understand it.

But yesterday they surprised me with a prescription for a lot more than I feel comfortable taking. And I spent hours at the RE, and it was like a cattle pen there were so many women. At one point - that point being after I handed the financial counselor my credit card and authorized a large charge - I returned to the waiting room and all seats were taken.

I left close to tears, with the sense of being on an assembly line, hyperventilating because I just don't feel right about what seems to be a very cavalier approach to shoving hormones into my body.

So on the one hand, I am like, look, women all over the world have babies well into their 40s, and I'm healthy and I should just relax (hahaha!) and see what happens.

And on the other I am like, maternal age is the most important factor! Time is of the essence! Maybe I should just jump on the goddamn assembly line and hope for the best.

Nick has left a message for the RE. We are going to conference call him and ask for the rationale.

This brings us all to the present moment.

I don't know why it scares me so badly, but it does.

Wanting redux

OK, so the fact is that I never used to want anything, because if you don't want and you don't get, you are not disappointed.

Not wanting is safe. You think you are fine because you are as long as you operate within fairly narrow parameters.

But then, as I got more self-confident and more self-aware, I began to be able to admit to myself that there were things that I did want, and things that I could work towards and have. And deserve.

And now I find myself in a position of wanting, of very public wanting, and of not being sure if I can have...without a whole lot of control over it. It's not about effort, it's not about deserving. It just is. Or isn't.

I hate it.

The sparkle moments

One of the things that never occurred to me about having a child was how much joy creeps into your life and envelops your world, twinkling in unexpected moments like fireflies in a field.

When I got home last night, I could see Nana and Jordan sitting in the living room, reading a book.

The photo is all hazy because of the flash on the window, even though I mashed it up close. But I stood outside, peering through the window, because it was just so sweet. And I knew that when I opened the front door, the focus would shift to me and the spell would be broken.

I stood for as long as I could in the cold, watching her read, and seeing them giggle together.

They were reading a book called, "I Want My Potty" - one Jordan loves, and one we've all read to him approximately 72 kabillion times.

The plot, as you might imagine, is rather thin. But the illustrations are charming and it's really gotten J interested in his potty.

Not in using it. More in saying, "Potty! potty! potty potty!" and carrying it around and such.

I'm using this as positive propaganda for when we eventually start potty training. I mean, the princess loves her potty, after all.

They read the book a couple times. And you could see Jordan sort of elbowing my mom, being all, "Here's where she wants her potty and they have to find it! The admiral has it! Hilarious! Oh, this part always kills me!"

And they'd snuggle into each other and laugh.Especially once you have a kid, so much of life is so prosaic and you can get so caught up in breakfast-lunch-dinner-bath-diapers-grocery-shopping-getting-enough-sleep-no!-don't-touch-that!-and-let's-wash-hands-and-blah-blah-blah.

For someone uninterested in routine and unskilled at consistency, this can get rather tedious.

But then you have these moments - and they actually happen with great frequency - that just fill your soul and make you want to laugh out loud and clap your hands. You expect pixie dust to fall around you.

I wish I could bottle the sparkle moments so that if you were having a bad day, I could share one with you.

And then you have to go and bring up the chicken carcasses

Apparently there are people who can just enjoy the moment and focus on one thing at a time, and don't get all distracted by thoughts of other stuff or I wonder if it's cold outside and hey, look, a squirrel!

Yah.

So this morning Nick awoke all amorous and I had this fleeting thought of how far past potential ovulation we are. And then I reminded myself that task-based sex does not a happy marriage make.

In fact, if you want to turn one of the funner things on the planet into drudgery, go ahead and make a schedule. And stick to it.

And then send your husband calendar items with notes attached like, "Hold for DOING IT. NO conference calls!"

But sometimes you have to remember that it used to be fun, and you love your husband, and you've got a wee bit of time before you have to get up.

And so you go with it.

And then you cuddle up all schmoopy and husband says, "This is such a warm, comfortable bed."

And you say, "I know. I wish we could live here."

"Yeah."

But then you remember some terrible article you read about a morbidly obese man who was basically confined to his bed because he just couldn't get up.

And so you say, "It sounds good, but then think about the obese man who was stuck in bed surrounded by roast chicken carcasses."

At which point your husband, who was having a fine time basking in the happy, is likely to recoil and say, "No. I just...no."

Nice is as good a reason as any. Shut up.

The thing that constantly astounds me is how much of the world passes me by.

I mean yes, I know what's going on in Egypt. But I just learned last week that the Superbowl was coming up this weekend.

Yes.

I am, however, surprisingly unreluctant to talk about that which I know absolutely nothing about.

And thus, as Nick and I walked to work the other day, I casually mentioned that as the Superbowl is this weekend (ha! I know sports things!), we should time any terrible errands we might have for Sunday evening.

I have married one of the only American men I've ever met who cares nothing about football. I consider this a huge win.

One of the things I find impressive is that he can talk sports with people, and speaks with enthusiasm, and knows what he's talking about. When things don't interest me, I gloss over them entirely.

Which is why I thought the Dallas Cowboys were in the Superbowl. Because it's in Texas.

Yes. But I am also the same person who thought fantasy football meant men dressing up like their favorite player and playing football with their friends.

So.

So I said I was going to choose the Green Bay Packers over the Cowboys. Because Midwesterners are nice.

"Because Midwesterners are nice?"

"Yes. I've never been to Wisconsin, but everywhere else in the Midwest, people are so nice."

Truth.

Turns out, it's in Texas because they have better weather than Wisconsin or Pittsburgh. Anyway, that's what Nick said. When he clarified which teams would be playing.

So I was in a quandary, because I have some good friends from Pittsburgh.

And Nick was all, "I can see how you'd be torn. Now you're going to have to rethink your completely arbitrary criteria."

I told him sarcasm was so unattractive. And then started singing, "Oh XYZ Prep!" because that's where we were on our walk, and also, that kind of thing works better with Nick than, "Hey, look, a karate store!"

On a side bar: What also works is to say, "Watch out for the dog poo!" This is a sure-fire distraction.

Anyway.

Then last night we were at a dinner with my boss and his wife and several other people, one of whom has regular contact with football management.

So I asked if he has any inside scoop on the Superbowl. Because of course it's my new topic now that I know who is playing.

And he said no, and who was I rooting for?

"Probably Green Bay."

And Nick snickered and said, "Tell him. Tell him why."

Recognizing, of course, that a gynecologist would be unlikely to do a good job with layering and highlights

So, here's what I'm wondering: If forced to choose, would you rather go to the gynecologist or the dentist?

I realized yesterday that I'd choose the gynecologist, hands down. Sure, you're in stirrups, ass on the edge of a table, hoo-ha forward for God and everyone. Or anyway, your gynecologist and maybe a nurse if your GYN is male.

And sometimes it's pinchy. Or cold.

But you can carry on a conversation, even if it's odd, and it's all over quickly. And there's no noise associated with it.

This occurred to me as I was sitting in the dental chair, sweating profusely as the hygienist scraped scraaaaaped SCRAAAAAPED away at the tsk tsk tsk! do you floss? (I do! I do!) plaque buildup.

It's not that it hurts, except for one or two spots where I have recessions, and then when she hits those I flinch and it's like a cold clammy bolt of electricity covers me like a film from head to toe, and I'm left with a damp sweat on my hairline.

So, yah, that kind of sucks.

But mostly it's the SCRAAAAAAAAAPING.

"How have you been?" Scrape scrape.

And your mouth is wide open, you know, being scraped, so you're all, "Hiing, hankh. Ooo?"

I realize now what a wreck I was after Jordan was born, that the dentist seemed so relaxing. I suppose everything really is relative.

But there I was, thinking, Jesus God, I would so much rather be poked and prodded naked from the waist down.

Seriously, as I sat there, I ranked stressful routine-ish medical situations. So, the childbirth C-section would of course top the list. But then I'm gonna say dentist. Then gynecologist. Then everything else.

Am I missing anything?

I was going to put getting your hair done in there, because you know, a chunk of your self-esteem is put in someone else's hands, and now instead of feeling more attractive after my Saturday appointment, I feel like a boy. A boy with beige hair.

Then I remembered that hairdressers are of course not in the medical profession.

But now I'm all, I hate my hair, and, matter of fact, I think I'd rather have gone to the gynecologist.

I don't know how this suddenly became my default comparison.