"Oh, I felt so much more comfortable with myself in my thirties," they say. "Phooey," I say. The whole thing feels like an elaborate trick. Where are the hidden cameras?

(Simon points out that this is my Jesus Year and that if I'm ever going to die for a cause, now would be the time to do it. Instead I've decided to have enchiladas for lunch and dinner today and then just wait and see how the next 365 days unfold.)

And yet (of course) it's hard to obsess about my own weirdness--or rather, the weirdness of being me--when I'm surrounded by such wonderful and generous things and people. Wombat is delighted that I am thirty-three at the same time he is three and a third, and Simon surprised me this morning with strawberry and pancakes for breakfast and a book (because Wombat asserted that I would like a book much more than a CD, and he was right), and then a bouquet of flowers came from Nintendo (and, I suspect, Brand about Town; thank you!), and then there were cards in the mail and @s on Twitter and messages on mostly-useless-for-everything-else Facebook, and DAMN, curled at the edges as I am, I just feel so lucky.

We've been busy and I have a lot to say, but the past week or so has been one long stutter in this space as I've grappled with how to capture what I hesitate to call "blessings" even though I can't think of a better word for all this bounty. Sure, I wake up with excruciating rib pain, spend most days frantically working to keep us out of medieval debtor's prison, and then go to sleep with the world's rowdiest fetus practicing what can only be in-utero jumping jacks until he has exhausted himself into a peaceful, thumbsucking slumber. It's full-on spring here, and the sun is shining and the flowers are blooming and the veggie garden is in, and I just want to hug everything. See? Weird.

But oh, thirty-three, you are going to be fun, I can tell.

The three of us spent last week in Salt Lake, and by "the three of us," I mean myself, Wombat, and The Belly, which at 28 weeks yesterday is busting forth in full third-trimester shamelessness. (I cannot believe we're at the third trimester already. I CANNOT BELIEVE IT.)

We went on a preschool tour a few weeks ago and at the end of the hour we mentioned the new baby coming in July and the administrator lady's reaction was, "Oh? Wow! How great! Congratulations!" My outward reaction was one of appropriate gratitude for her kind thoughts and well wishes, but inside I was like, "COME ON." Now, I know you can never be too cautious with this stuff, and it's almost never safe to assume, but when the pregnant woman in question confirms what most seeing people would have to admit was already an obvious suspicion, you don't really need to act surprised. I mean, thanks, I guess, but really, I'm pretty sure we all know what's going on here.

Our next door neighbor saw me grunt my way out of the car yesterday post glucose test (yay) and noticed for the first time that I was pregnant again (I think because I've been wearing coats and jackets for the last six months?). "I see you made her swallow another watermelon seed," she said to Simon in her particular drawl. I love her.

Simon likes to say to pretty much everyone, "Oh, she's not pregnant, she's just a fat piece of crap," and the only way he can get away with that is because he is THE most kind, respectful, attentive expectant husband and practically waits on me hand and foot--even without my asking, and even when I'm not pregnant. The only problem with this trade-off is that strangers don't really know that side of him, or that he is 75 percent sarcastic across the board, and so they tend to react with visible horror when he says to me in line at the burrito place, for instance, "Enchiladas again, fatty?" with a completely straight face. I love him too.

That said, he has his...dim moments. A few weeks ago he asked if I needed help putting on my shoes, and when I graciously accepted such a sweet offer, he painstakingly untied them and loosened the laces and then...set them down on the floor in front of me and walked away. Uh...that wasn't the part I needed help with, but thanks?

Other pregnancy updates, since it feels overdue:

--YouI know you'reI'm pregnant when: youI want to order free mulch delivery, even though the last load of mulch, delivered two weeks before Wombat was born, took THREE YEARS to clear off the driveway. And yet...I really think we need some mulch.

--How many times am I getting up to pee at night? Once...a month. It's pretty awesome, and that's all I have to say about that.

--I'm not the type who can name a baby I haven't actually seen (although I get why some people do it), and a few weeks ago I suggested sort of offhandedly an ex-utero name for Mompth (we've finally convinced Wombat that an alternate name is a good thing; he has suggested "Lorax"), and Simon's response was, "Yes. That's it. It's great. Done!" With still three months to go, I'm not yet ready to commit, but I can say that thinking about this kid as X instead of "Mompth" feels as significant an event as finding out the sex. All of a sudden, it's not Generic Baby Boy anymore starfishing against my internal organs, it's [probably] X. [Probably] X! My son!

--Simon still razzes me about the time I was pregnant with W and my usual longwinded babble of nonsense sleeptalking took a turn for the brief and clear with a single word: "baby." Wombat's a sleeptalker (and -walker) too, and a while back Simon picked out, in one string of his mumbles, this: "baby brother." Aw.

--I remember being at a friend's bridal shower at just barely 7 months pregnant with Wombat and admitting things were starting to get a bit uncomfortable now. So yes, we're right on schedule.

--At my latest OB appointment, the doctor mentioned my blood pressure was going up a bit (normal at this stage, but something to keep an eye on), and when she threw out the phrase "We might consider modified rest if we need to," my response was, "Doc, if I rested more than I already do, I'd be dead." On weekends I unchain from my desk chair and usually make an effort to Go Out and Do Something, but even then it's limited to just walking (hobbling) around, not, like, going to spin class. If anything, I figured I needed *more* exercise, not less. (One round of Just Dance 3--thanks, Nintendo!--was more exercise than I'd gotten in the last six months.) With Simon home these past few weeks, he can vouch for how much rest I'm getting (and even more now that he's here to do ALL the dishes and laundry and vacuuming and kid-schlepping.) Seriously, I sleep around 9 or 10 hours every night and then I sit in my chair from 9 to 5, getting up only to add or remove liquids from my body. How could I possibly do less than that? Is all this typing putting a strain on my system? I hardly think so.

--I'm constantly exhausted too, and that's while doing only ULTRA-lite parenting and almost no squalor protection whatsoever (although reader Books SENT ME A STEAM MOP, Y'ALL, so that's about to change). "You're tired because you have a preschooler to chase around!" everyone says, at which point I remind them that my preschooler is at daycare eight-plus hours a day, during which I'm either (a) sitting in a desk chair or (b) sitting on a toilet.

--Six pounds in three weeks? Six pounds in three weeks! I'm taking applications for volunteers willing to push me around on a handtruck for the next twelve weeks (and maybe a month or so after that). Perhaps this explains everything.

--There is no excuse for me. For real.

I've reviewed Olay® products before, and all the usual praise applies to the most recent item they sent me (it's quality, it's affordable, it's available at normal places I already shop), but this latest product, I think--no, I KNOW--is my favorite by far.

Introducing the Total Effects Tone Corrector UV Moisturizer.

I hate to start with a negative, but right off the bat I need to say that my main complaint is that you can't see how inventive the product design is unless you open the box. IMO, the outer packaging should have a clear window so you can see how fancy the actual pump bottle is. The soft-serve twist-cone effect of the contents looks so delicious cool I want to eat it wear it all up in one sitting. Yum.

(Okay, even though product design doesn't mean squat if the product itself is subpar, I will say that I DO appreciate it when my beauty products are...beautiful. Might as well go all the way, right?)

So, how do I like the actual moisturizer? Perhaps a better question would be: "Olay tinted moisturizer, how do I love thee?" Shall we count the ways?

No, let's not do that, but here's what I'm digging about it:

The vanilla and chocolate in this swirled-together formula are (a) moisturizer with SPF 15 and (b) tinted moisturizer, which comes in a range of shades. (I wear Fair to Light.) The fact that one product combines moisturizer AND tone-evening tint AND sunscreen makes it a total time-saver. And yes, those extra thirty seconds DO count for me because on some days the prospect of spending an extra thirty seconds on self-beautification is all it takes for me to decide I'm simply entirely too lazy for this whole "look good, feel good" racket and I seriously contemplate leaving the house either (a) bare-faced or (b) wearing a paper sack on my head. Since having this product on hand, I've been wearing it even when I'm not leaving the house; that's the best endorsement I can give anything, really.

Olay says the product "minimizes the look of spots instantly, helps with the appearance of discoloration, and fights the seven signs of aging." Check, check, and I sure hope so! It definitely evens my skin tone and balances my color, and it does so in a way that doesn't look or feel heavy the way foundation usually does. It's noticable coverage but it's light and natural coverage. Just my style.

The moisturizer itself feels rich without being thick, and it absorbs into my skin without feeling goopy or sticky or greasy. The SPF works wonders; I unexpectedly spent a few hours in the sun recently, and later that afternoon my forearms turned pink with sunburn but my face had been completely protected. Yay for products that do what they say they're going to do.

I was already primed to love the product when I read that it was a three-in-one, and now that I've used it and seen what a great job it does in place of (not just in addition to) several other staples in my bathroom cabinet, I'm a huge, huge fan. Hey, lazy people deserve to look great too!

For a chance to win a $50 Visa gift card, tell me in the comments how you expedite your beauty routine and you'll be entered into the sweepstakes.

Rules:

No duplicate entries.

You may receive (2) total entries by selecting from the following entry methods: (a) Leave a comment in response to the sweepstakes prompt on this post, (b) Tweet about this promotion and leave the URL to that tweet in a comment on this post, (c) Blog about this promotion and leave the URL to that post in a comment on this post, (d) For those with no Twitter or blog, read the official rules to learn about an alternate form of entry.

This giveaway is open to U.S. Residents age 18 or older. Winners will be selected via random draw, and will be notified by email. You have 72 hours to get back to me, otherwise a new winner will be selected.

The Official Rules are available here.

This sweepstakes runs from 4/9 to 5/16.

Be sure to visit the Olay TE page on BlogHer.com, where you can read other bloggers' reviews and find more chances to win! While we're on the subject of looking good, you might want to check out the "Looking Your Best" posts in the Life Well Lived section of BlogHer.com. There are some great tips and expert posts!

I was compensated and provided free product for this post. The opinions expressed herein are my own.

What I did do was help Wombat Mod Podge some strips I'd cut out of the latest phone book, which PacBell so doggedly keeps delivering to our doorstep. Don't stop believin'!

I blew out four eggs using only a paperclip and the power of my lungs, after which point I was fairly certain I'd also blown out my eardrums, so four eggs was the limit, sorry boys, no more, you'll have to make do with what we have...Guys? Hey, is anyone even paying attention to the sacrifices I'm making on behalf of allowing you to make secular crafts in honor of a religious holiday? Guys?

*crickets*

I may be deaf now, but whatever.

Wombat did help me, at least, and although his attention span only lasted for as long as it took to complete one and a half eggs, I'm nonetheless blaming him for all imperfections in the final product. They are definitely not my fault, although I will admit that my own attention span topped out after two eggs, which is pretty weenie. Easter is not a holiday for the lazy at heart. At least there are Peeps.

Simon's out of town until Sunday night, but we're doing a bit of celebrating without him: free egg hunt at a local park on Saturday, birthday party Sunday afternoon (the one at which Wombat will be the lone three-year-old boy among ten nine-year-old girls), and my first child's first introduction to the exotic ritual of eating dinner in front of the TV, which Simon and I used to do all the time but he vetoed in the name of "family values." Bah. Last night we watched The Wiz; I couldn't convince Wombat the Scarecrow was Michael Jackson until the dancing began, and then he wanted to know who all the other people were who had merely dressed up to play characters in the movie. (Major revelation like WHOA.) "Nipsey Russell? That's a funny name, Mom!" Indeed, son. Indeed.

Happy weekend, folks!

Trying something new! That there's an ad unit embedded in an unrelated post. (Although I do love me some Donettes on a road trip, yessiree.)

Also, comments are STILL BROKEN SMASHY SMASHY, but if you feel compelled to comment, maybe try Facebook?

***

I'm not sure I'd call it nesting. Nesters, I think, feel an incontrovertible urge to clean things Hyperbole-and-a-Half-style because some primal cavewoman instinct has convinced them that only savages would allow a new baby to live in a home whose packed-earth floor hasn't been deep cleaned in months. I, on the other hand, am just organizingcleaningsanitizing ALL THE THINGS;trade& because (a) the things need it and (b) I know from experience that it sure as hell ain't gonna happen once the baby's here, even if I chanced to find in some neglected corner of our humble abode a sturdy tree limb from which to hang Mompth's papooseboard so I could vacuum cobwebs from the ceiling fan. As mothers have been doing for millennia.

My birthday is in a month, and if anyone asks what I want, I have two requests:

1. a steam mop
2. opera-length gloves (matte black)

Because I am nothing if not magnanimous, rather than hog the spoils, I've vowed to share my gifts with my beloved spouse: He can wield the steam mop while I supervise at the other end of my new matte black opera-length gloves.

I'm pregnant and exhausted and the nerves in my back are constantly pinched, and Simon...well, Simon's tenure as whipping boy at the company he worked at for almost two years ended two Fridays ago, and although I'm completely sensitive to what this means for both our family's finances and its morale, I've probably made a few mistakes in how I've handled certain things.

Mistake 1: Not twenty-four hours after the job dramz went down, I insisted we blow $50 on giant plastic bins to facilitate my non-nesting frenzy of wild-eyed organization because IT'S FOR THE BAYBEEEEEE.

Mistake 2: Do you...I...Um...Is it perhaps a bit emasculating to refer to my newly unemployed husband as "my house gnome"? To my coworkers? In front of our son? I think maybe that was a bad idea.

Nevertheless, the house has never looked so great! Well done, Dobby!

Source

(That perfectly describes the usual state of things.)

I thought maybe when I had a baby, I'd become one of those people who could say she constantly sacrifices her own needs for those of her family. Say it with a straight face, I mean.

The reality has been that for better or worse I've remained plenty capable of sleeping in, taking solo vacations, and telling everyone to just leave me alone for ten freaking minutes--all of this without guilt--even if those personal luxuries only happen once in a blue moon. (Off to Google what the heck that idiom even means...)

Now that we've been a one-working-parent family (again) for a full week, I've been busting my butt to make sure all the balls stay in the air, and I'm finding that when a ball does drop, it's likely to be one labeled Me Time.

When BlogHer asked me to post a few words on how I put myself first, and how doing that makes me happier, it was an easy question to answer because right now there's only one thing I can count on a pure, uninterrupted, rejuvenating time to myself: my daily shower. Fine, my every-other-day(ish) shower.

Historically, the boys have had a habit of busting in on me, whether to ask a question, demand a snack, to just say hi. Last week I put my wet, soapy foot down. "I'm only in here for ten minutes. Whatever you need can wait. Ten minutes. That's all I ask." (That was my polite way of putting a KEEP OUT sign on the door; if I'd got that route, I might have included "Trespassers will be shot."

Ten minutes in the shower. It's not much, but it's mine all mine. And it really does make me happier knowing that.

***

This post is written as part of the Life Well Lived program and sweepstakes. Visit the main post on BlogHer.com and then go enter the contest to win a fabulous prize.

($10K/yr for preschool is LOW for the Bay Area. If we find a place for $10K, I will kiss its foundation with my open mouth. For $10K, you can bet your bippy I'm going to care what services I'm paying for more than I would if it cost $2K a year or was a casual co-op with some neighbor ladies. Even though I don't waaaaaant to.)

But get crazy about the process--overthinking and overplanning and overemphasizing things that should probably be emphasized not at all? Je refuse! And yet...you kind of HAVE to be crazy about it, whether you refuse or not. You HAVE to tour these places, you HAVE to fill out an application (and pay an effing non-refundable fee for the privilege), and for most programs you HAVE to do all of this a good six months in advance in order to even get a place on the waiting list.

And if you're us, you do all this as the couple who chose a daycare in one week after considering a grand total of two options, picking the one you did mostly because it was the more convenient and affordable. (And then turned out to be so awesome we never want to leave.)

In short: We are not cut out for this parenting crap.

I obviously care about my son's education and enrichment and personal development blah dee blah bleep blorp, but I'm also quite aware that he's THREE, and at three I was going to preschool in a variety of neighbors' basements and on a schedule best described as "brief" and "occasional." I'm pretty sure we mostly did crafts and sang songs, not sat in a locally handhewn desk for academic instruction six hours a day. Wombat is so beyond excited to go to "school," but I don't think that kind of school school is what he has in mind exactly. And neither do I.

We toured two places yesterday--a Montessori and a kind of Montessori-lite (or so it seemed to me) that they call "progressive." The first place we looked at (which is the second listed above--I probably could have planned this better) was lovely. I wasn't entirely jazzed about the age structure of the classrooms (the kids in the 2-3 and 3-4 classes were doing things that felt kind of babyish), but it was bright and cheery and full of activity and kid-noise and adorable little potties all in a row, bless their shiny porcelain hearts. In one room, Wombat sat right down at one of the tables and a teacher brought him a piece of paper and some paints, and when he was done he marched to the sink and washed his hands with soap and water and then moseyed over to the bookshelf, chose a promising title, and settled into a miniature checkered armchair by the fish tank. At the Montessori school, by contrast, he was told to "stay over here" on the playground more than once by someone who was NOT HIS PARENT.

We were assured, however, that the Montessori school has "produced many reputable students," so perhaps that is what's important. Except...eeeeeeehhhh, it felt weird.

Now, I'm sure you love your Montessori, and I'm sure the parents and children enrolled at the Montessori we toured yesterday love their Montessori too, but wow, I really (really, really) wanted to love that school too, and it wasn't until I realized the pro/con list was heavily unbalanced that I allowed myself to acknowledge it wasn't right for us. I think Wombat would be a great Montessori kid, l do, but I don't think either Simon or I is cut out to be a Montessori parent, especially thrown into the mix with people who are really into being Montessori parents, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

(No judgment! To each his own! Do what works for your family!) (But we probably won't want to hang out with you socially!)

We still have more schools to tour, but believe me, no one is as surprised as I am that we're leaning toward the school that seems more FUN. I'm a certified supernerd who adored school, thrived on awards and rewards, always tried to be The Best, etc. etc. and, yes, I did/do probably put too much stock in academic excellence, I know this to be true.

BUT...I also have a kid who needs to be challenged, who asks to be challenged, who should be challenged. He read us a bedtime story earlier this week. If you ask him whether a creepy-crawly critter is an insect or not, he'll count the legs, count the body segments, and check for antennae. ("No, this is an arachnid, Mom.") Last week I showed him a silhouette of a dinosaur and asked what kind of animal it was and he said, "An apatosaurus!" A breeze blew across my open mouth and made a low whistling sound.

(When the Montessori director told us one class would be doing a unit on nocturnal animals, I asked Wombat if he knew what "nocturnal" meant. "Um, actually no," he said. I explained, "It means you sleep all day and then wake up and run around at night. Nocturnal." "Yeah!" his lightbulb went ping! "Like a kinkajou! Kinkajous play at night and then sleep when it's daytime. Yeah." And they say t.v. will rot your mind. Ha!)

But what kind of preschool do you send that kid to? Any preschool, I try to convince myself. Any school where he will be safe and happy and loved and exposed to exciting things, whether that's natural wooden blocks all in a row or giant plastic climbing structures on a muddy playground.

What he doesn't get at school, I hope we can give him at home, and vice versa. (I'm keeping my fingers crossed that means they'll make his lunch; cooking is haaaard.) We're only choosing a school for a few years, not choosing a new set of parents. School is important, but it's not The Most Important. The world is his classroom, yadda yadda hippycakes, someone please tell me it's going to be fine, because it's going to be fine, right?

p.s. Simon no longer has a job (good riddance, ya bastards), which makes this process even more...special. (OH GOD VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER.)

Sources:

1. Late Show sweatshirt circa 1996, when David Letterman was my #1 high school crush. (Not pictured: Pink-rimmed hole in sleeve where bleach ate clean through.) See it in action here.

2. Pajama pants that are older than your middle-schooler. Notice how they both sag and taper!

3. Crazy-ass knee socks.

4. Red fuzzy slippers, slightly dreadlocked, harboring enough crumbs to assemble a single-serving pie crust.

5. Sally Hansen clear nail growth formula. Once a biter, always a biter, I'm afraid.

6. Frequently accessorized against my will with an off-season Trader Joe's sticker.

7. Hair elastics in assorted non-coordinating colors, worn around a high ponytail and around one wrist as a just-in-caselet.

8. Remnants of an Eating Right Lasagna with Meat Sauce microwaveable lifesaver.

Now would be a good time for me to figure out how to make a "Pin This!" button, huh?

At my OB appointment last week, my doc was reviewing notes about my last delivery and brought up that whole "oh, remember how you could have bled to death?" thing (which remains the engine that pulls my long anti-homebirth train; chugga chugga, chugga chugga, HELL NO). All we knew at the time was that I had some sort of major hemorrhage, which the team of experts took care of lickety-split, and only just this week, three-plus years later, did I find out the source was a high vaginal laceration, which I gather is kind of a big deal.

"What that means for this time is that..." my doc began--and before she could finish I sensed my body tensing to resist what I felt certain was coming: "...you need to have a C-section." That's NOT what she said at all (I just need to use some cream to make the area more supple and flexible), but even at the mere (imagined) idea of a C-section, it hit me like a sledgehammer how attached I am not to having a vaginal birth over surgery ("whatever it takes to get a healthy baby and mother" is my philosophy) but rather how attached I am to the idea that This Time be as similar as possible to Last Time. Because Last Time was awesome. I want to do Last Time again.

The more I thought about my reaction to this reminder of the obvious--that things might go differently this time--the more obviously obvious it became to me that this hangup is practically the same hangup that inspired so much trepidation about the idea of having another boy. You may not have picked up on this before, but I think Wombat is pretty much the best little boy on the planet. No, not "pretty much"...he's THE best. Faults and all, he is my perfect little manchild, and although I know intentions are all good when other mothers assure me that having two children of the same gender isn't like having two versions of the same child--"They're SO different! You'll see!"--I haven't actually been able to find much comfort in that idea because, at this point, I'm still unable to imagine that anything different from Wombat won't necessarily be less than. Does that make sense. At the risk of being dismissed as a hyperbolic jackass, I guess the conundrum is how do you improve on perfection?

Perhaps I have an unrealistic appreciation of the sheer awesomeness of my firstborn. PERHAPS. But regardless, most likely this is just one of those things I can't reconcile ahead of time, and the only thing to do now is busy my hands and brain so I don't spend the next five months wringing and wracking, trying to figure out how I'm going to raise sons that I won't always describe in terms of which one is ______er than the other.

Waaaaay back when I was still coming to terms with never parenting a daughter (what? two weeks is a long time!), I realized that one of my issues is that I don't trust my own ability to NOT compare sons. I thought maybe having a girl would make the sibling thing a more apples/oranges situation, letting me off the hook a little, allowing me to be a little bit lazy. But no, I see now that I'm either going to have to (a) work really hard at acknowledging these boys as individuals or (b) be completely surprised at how easy and natural it is to see them as separate, independent, individual people once they're both here.

Likewise, I need to believe that there can be two incredible childbearing experiences that bear very little resemblance to each other. And that there can be two sons in one family that, even though they may look exactly the same (or not), can each be incredible in his own incredible way.

Wombat is awesome, but I have to believe now that he's not actually The Awesomest. Awesome is not a superlative in and of itself. There are variations on awesome. There have to be, for everyone's sake.

There must be. There will be. There already are, I just haven't seen it with my own eyes yet.

[I think comments are still broken (grrrr), but I'd love to hear what you think. Email me at leah (at) agirlandaboy (dot) com and I'll get your thoughts up through some sort of technological magic I have yet to learn.]

[Okay, I was being cheeky re: "technological magic," but it turns out I actually can't figure it out, so here are your comments so far:]

From Beck, my brain-twin:

"At the risk of being dismissed as a hyperbolic jackass, I guess the conundrum is how do you improve on perfection?"

From Sarah:

I read your post and tried hard not to be jealous. And then I failed. You think and hope you'll get a birth like last time. And it allows you to do it again. I think I might get a birth like last time (3 years of infertility, a high risk pg, 8 wks bedrest, a 4 day induction, cesarean followed by weeks of bad recovery with jaundiced newborn) and it keeps me from doing it again.

I hope your next birth is as good as your first.

Sarah--I get where you're coming from (and am so sorry you had such a rough go of it!). I know a lot of people who have a second (or third) kid in hopes that the experience will be better. I'm like you, though, and if the first had been bad, I don't know what I'd have the will to risk it again. That said, I guess my best option is to plan for the worst but hope for the best? :/

From mamabub:

So, I couldn't help but comment on this same/different situation. I have both a boy, and a girl, so perhaps my opinion isn't valuable here, but this is my personal experience. 1. My labors were very similar in many regards: Same day of the week, in the same month, both induced, both beyond 40 weeks. However, my second labor was significantly easier than my first. My first was fine, but I had a nine pound baby and pushed for two hours. That's not all that unusual, but it was unusual for ME, and it wasn't particularly pleasant. Second baby? Twenty minutes of "push if you feel like it," then five minutes after the doctor arrived she was born. Why is it that we like to talk about our birth experiences so much?

Good point. Comparison is probably inevitable--I guess I just feel like there are so few things I'd have changed about Wombat that I worry he's always going to seem like the "better" kid. Again, all this is speculation that might have nothing to do with reality, and I guess the important thing is that however much I compare the kids in my head, I should be careful not to do it out loud, or in a way that would make the boys start comparing themselves. Being a kid is hard enough!

From Christine:

I thought that about my son, too. Then I had my daughter. The end. I really think that the sex has nothing to do with it - they'd still be completely different kids if she was a boy.

Comparisons are not always odious - they're unavoidable, but it all evens out. One reason I'd love to have another - but won't - is that I'd love to roll those genetic dice one more time and see what amazing result we'd get with number three.

From Bethany:

I had a fantastic L&D with my first child, even though it was unexpectedly four weeks ahead of schedule: I managed without an epidural, I labored calmly for 10 hours, and then after 15 minutes of pushing Annalie was born with minimal damage to me. It was better than I ever could have hoped. In fact, it was so great that it caused me to hesitate to have a second child, because I was sure I could never have that great of an experience twice.

Similarly, I have been surprised over and over and over again in the 16 months of Elliora's life at the ways in which she is not like her older sister. I shouldn't be so surprised, especially since I don't think my brother and I could be more different from each other, but I am. I think mamabub is right, that no matter what genders you have, you will compare your children, because you're comparing what you know with something that's new.

In fifth grade we were studying economics and commerce or something like that, and each student in the class was allowed to go into the business of our choosing, for which goods and services were sold and performed in exchange for play money. My best friend Mary and I were professional organizers. For a modest fee we would neatly arrange the contents of a student's tote tray (the bin that slid into the desk), and although we made enough sales to regularly buy the class newspaper (which I spell-checked on a freelance basis and for which I was able to negotiate a reduced rate to advertise my organizing biz) and to keep ourselves in candy (the most lucrative of all fifth-grade businesses, if you don't count that Melissa was spending real money on Snickers and Rolos in order to sell them for fake money), I remember being surprised at how many of my fellow students simply didn't care if their pencils weren't confined to an appropriately sized subsection of their tray and then lined up in descending order by size.

The world is full of slobs and neatniks and every type in between, and although I know the pure fly-by-the-seats-of-their-pants free spirits exist, I bet most of us lean toward wanting our worlds (and THE world) to follow predictable patterns, such that it only occurs to us in brief flashes that we're all just spinning through vast, limitless space and are nothing more than a speck on a speck of a speck of a speck of a timeline governed mostly by chance. Well, chance and science. I think deep down we all want to believe there's sense to be found in the great nonsense of the universe. I do, for sure. It's evolutionarily sound to recognize order (or invent it where none exists), but it's also just downright comforting.

That said, when people try to apply patterns or ascribe cause-and-effect logic to certain things, it makes me batty. To whit, sometimes the baby isn't teething, he's just having a bad day, the way we all have bad days. (People seem to forget that babies aren't just babies, they're also humans.) Also, sometimes women get upset not because of hormones but because a situation is--surprise!--upsetting. And sometimes I feel the need to EAT ALL THE THINGS not because I'm pregnant but because I'm just DAMN HONGRY. Sometimes things just are what they are.

But that said, sometimes the baby is teething and hormones are in control and pregnancy is the ruling force in your life. And that's the story I'm sticking to to explain why over the last few months I've become the clumsiest person in the world. Last week a bottle of Sun-in flew out of my hand and over my shoulder and dented the top of our brand new bathroom trash can. (Tragedy! We are not indulgent people when indulgence requires spending money--even $15 for an Ikea trash can--so what might have been a bummer to a normal person became a "THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS" melodrama for me.) I'm dropping things left and right and behind myself, I'm stabbing myself in the cheek with baby carrots while aiming for my mouth, and I'm seriously considering letting my armpit hair grow wild and free rather than risk accidentally amputating my arm with a pink safety razor. I can't even count how many wrong moves I made while fixing this morning's cup of tea, such that I am now dressed to play the role of a Jackson Pollack canvas during his experimental period of using media including 2% and sugar. I feel not "all thumbs" but "all elbows," and I'm totally blaming the baby for this one. It's his fault I gave myself a black eye trying to put on my rain boots.

If anyone comes looking for me, I'll be sitting motionless in this desk chair, trying not to fall off and crack my head open on the tile.

The space isn'tentirely put back together (most of what you see is now piled in categorical haystacks around the guest room), but it's heartening to see that the accessories I've been collecting to class up the joint are having a much better impact placed in thoughtful vignettes upon clean surfaces than they did when I was just wedging lampshades and vases into available crannies.

Speaking of wedgies, it wasn't warm enough for swimsuits or anything, but since 75 degrees is pretty good for us here at any time of the year, I went all out with the picnic planning for Sunday, so thank god for the Internet, where I can post pictures of my domestic accomplishments and at least pretend someone cares, since I know via both personal research and plain old common sense that the boys will accept or reject a PB&J just the same whether it's shaped like a loaf of bread or a bear cub frolicking after a butterfly.

I'm SO excited for summer, in part because I'm just ready for it to be warm and also, of course, there's that whole baby thing due to land in July. We pulled out the bins and bins (and bins and bins, MY GOD THE BINS) of baby clothes on Saturday, and this is, I suppose, kind of a weird fixation, but I'm really looking forward to seeing Mompth's little newborn thighs. Because Wombat was born in the dead of winter and our house is an icebox, we saw his bare limbs only at infrequent flashes during costume changes and bimonthly baths (BUT WHICH "BIMONTHLY" DO I MEAN?), so the idea of having an infant I can drop into a pair of shorts right from the get-go is stoking the summer-come-sooner frenzy. BabyLegs had a sale last week ($4 instead of $12!) and thoughts of meaty little baby hams ruled the day and my clicker finger. (This was, of course, before we got out The Bins and I realized we already have enough clothes to dress quadruplets so I might as well just spend that money on myself instead of miniature legwarmers.)

Random things:

--Are you clicking over to Mom365 now and then? I'm having a ton of fun writing posts for them, and I love that my blog there is a mix of personal stuff, tips/advice, news, and goofy little things I want to share. Being responsible for writing for a client every day has been surprisingly invigorating (content-production on demand has always terrified me because I'm not one of those people who can just "turn it on"), and I'm glad I took that leap and have been brave enough to follow the path where it's leading me. Yay for timid steps outside ones comfort zone that don't (as of yet) end as roadkill!

--Starting this Wednesday, I'll also be writing more often for Work It, Mom, where, if you can believe it, I've been blogging for going on four years. Same bat place, same bat time (just weekly instead of biweekly), still blabbering on about the ever complex intersection between motherhood and career, but of course things are about to get even more complicated as we try to reconcile two full-time working parents raising two full-time needy children when last time around we we both part-time and we outnumbered the children by a full 100 percent. Suspense!

--The post-holiday hiatus has come to an end, and I have two sponsored posts coming up this week, one for a product I'm LOVING and one that gave me an excuse to traipse around impersonating a style blogger. Stay tuned; there may be prizes involved.

--I might be speaking on a panel next Monday in Laguna Beach, which is...kind of nuts. I know this has become obvious by now, but blogging ain't just blogging anymore.

--Nice Things Now has survived to see its one-year anniversary, and although posting has gone from non-existent to very, very light since the new year began, I've been surprised to see it's getting more Likes on Facebook than it did when I was posting multiple times a week and pimping through every available channel. I thought at first it might be the result of reduced pressure--i.e., it's easier to be nice when someone isn't popping up in your feed reader every other day suggesting a project or performing a song-and-dance charity beg--but then it dawned on me that this is merely the result of Facebookers having discovered Pinterest. So we'll see how that goes.

Happy Monday, friends.

After securing another venue and allowing the headliner to become the opening act because they "couldn't stay out too late" (too old, not too young), Simon's bunch played to a Saturday-night packed house of friends, family, area hipsters, and other strangers, and they even earned an honest-to-goodness encore, which they had to turn down because the drummer's Vicodin was wearing off.

All night long, Simon was trying his very best to be a cool rockstar about it, but I knew full well just how giddy he was to be at last up on that stage, with a group he created, performing what he respectfully calls "balls-out rock-and-roll."

Here's ninety seconds of a cover tune, featuring my husband on slide guitar--the gold sparkly one I bought him for his birthday a few years ago, not that I can take credit for any of this.

Congratulations, hon. You did it! *throws horns*

(Unfortunately there's no singing in this clip, but the songstress is the awesome Mary, whom you may remember from our backyard concert.)

I'm trying out a new thing with BlogHer called the "Life Well Lived" series. Basically, a handful of bloggers are asked to write a few words on a specific topic in hopes of stimulating conversation over on the BlogHer.com main page, where we'll be hanging out in the comments section as well. The series is also paired with a sweepstakes, so don't forget to check that out too.

This week's question is: What are your favorite beauty tools?

That's easy. My beauty routine is fairly quick and simple, and there's only one thing I use regularly that I'd call a "tool": my eyelash curler. I no doubt got it somewhere easy and obvious like Target or the grocery store, and I've had it for...probably way too long, but it still works, so I'm not complaining. A crimp near the base of my lashes and another one about halfway up plus a sweep of my new favorite mascara--Mary Kay's I "heart" Black, which I got for a BlogHer review, actually--and my thin, blonde, all-but-invisible lashes look magically longer and more lush. Curled lashes are a must-do for me, right up there with a little color on my lips and cheeks.

What are your favorite beauty tools? Come join the discussion here (and don't forget the contest!).

Which isn't to say the death and destruction stuff never happens in our house because it does, oh it does. And being the peace-loving, bleeding-heart hippy-ass liberal GIRL that I am, I really wish it didn't.

For Christmas Wombat got a set of pirate action figures--ship, firing cannons, booty and all--and so what followed naturally was: "What do pirates do, Mom?" Well, they rape, murder, and pillage. They steal and kill. They guzzle rum until they tumble into a stupor. Or how about they just say yarrr a lot and dig for treasure and occasionally belt out a chanty to the tune of the merry concertina? Look, that one has a parrot on his shoulder! How utterly charming!

For his birthday Wombat got a cool orphaned-animal African safari/sanctuary-type thing (this). It comes with baby animals and food for them to eat and two ranger/handler guys, whose accessories include a camera and a pair of binoculars and a flashlight and a pistol and a shotgun.

Now, I'm the type of parent who rolls her eyes at things like this:

No GPun Play.

But I'm also the type of parent who will not give juice to a one-year-old, not because I think it will lead to childhood obesity or spoil him or rot his baby teeth but because a one-year-old doesn't even know juice exists and there's no reason he does need to know about it, let alone drink it when milk or water will do.

So what of the guns? Wombat doesn't even know they came with the set, and I'm wondering if we should just throw them away. Now, his pirates have swords and those spikey balls you swing around on a chain and I think even a fat old-timey pistol, and for some reason, that bothers me less than the other guns, even though my knowledge of pirates suggests they're more likely to use their weapons offensively as opposed to the safari guys, who are more likely to use them defensively against charging animals. (As far as I know, Playmobil does not manufacture a set of armed poachers.) When I was little my brother and I had a toy camera that transformed into a handgun and then back again (different kinds of shooting, get it?), and neither of us has of yet turned to a life of violent crime as a result of that exposure. So what's the big deal?

Here's what I think: My job is not to shield my children from these things, these guns, this violence, those parts of the world I don't like or agree with, the stuff that scares and upsets and frustrates me. My job is to teach them how to deal with all of that in a healthy, responsible way. (Hello, sex education vs. abstinence-only.) They need to know it exists, to know that life isn't all baby elephants and shoulder parrots, and no, they probably don't need to know that at age three, but eventually, yes, for sure. Because all of it--the bad stuff too--is part of life, and to pretend otherwise is to revel in ignorance. We live in the world as it is, not the world as we wish it to be.

So what do I do? Keep the guns from Wombat until he's older, old enough to understand what they are and what they do? I mean, when you think about it, that seems to make the opposite of good sense; why not let him play innocently with them now but take them away when he's older and knows exactly what guns are for?

Already I'm seeing Wombat pick up the stuff we all learn at some time or another, no matter how our caretakers might try to shield us from them. In the absence of guns, the kids make "shooters" of sticks or upside down plastic dinosaurs or their own fingers. Weapon education and weapon rules and weapon safety seem a smarter way to go than naïve weapon abstinence. Sex too. Race too. Poverty too.

If we don't know about these things, we're choosing to be powerless to change them. And besides, isn't there also a special kind of virtue in being a good shot?