Dear Men,

I am writing you as a representative of the female gender. I hope this letter reaches you in good health. May your balls not itch nor your hairline recede.

The purpose of this letter is something like a general inquiry...I must know...I think the best way would be to put it to you bluntly...Here goes...What IS it with the penis?? Please, please enlighten me.

The fascination seems endless. As a baby, Spencer, my first son's favorite plaything was the afore-mentioned objeto de la fascinación. He actually had trouble when he first started walking...I call this Al Bundy Syndrome, or metal-penis-magnet-hands disease. And when I first changed my second son's diaper in Spencer's presence, fugghedaboudit. A BABY PENIS! He squealed with delight. It's SO CUTE!! (I swear he said this, you can't make priceless gems like this up.) Julian looked adoringly up at Spencer like, Please, kind sir, tell me more of this "penis" you speak of.

I'm also curious, dear male gender, as to when in addition to why. When can I safely tell my SO, Significant Other, or Sperm Operator, in this case, that I am going up to bed without him hearing Oh my GAWD, you big dirty nasty So'N'So, I've been so terribly naughty lately, I DO believe I should be punished, and then would you mind doing me all night long? If dreaming of throwing you out the nearest window is bad, then yes, in fact I have been terribly naughty lately. But I honestly meant I was going upstairs to SLEEP, crazy as that may sound. YOU tell your penis, I don't feel like arguing with him tonight. He's still pissed at me for nicking him with my tooth that one time.

I suppose this penile obsession has just been brought to my attention recently, when I heard the strains of that lovely little ditty "Peeeee-nis, my peeeee-nis, oh peeeee-nis..." wafting down the hall. You know this one, sing along. I think I'd be more concerned if my 3-yr-old HADN'T yet come up with a beautiful tribute to his favorite anatomy.

So I must know, men, when does it end? When will the testosterone in my house drop to a safe, inhabitable level?? WHY the fascination? Is there anything I can do about this? Is there some gold-plated diamond-studded rattle toy of the future that could possibly distract my baby from becoming obsessed with his junk? Or am I doomed to forever be the lone island of estrogen-driven logical common sense in this sea of testosterone and all things penile??

In closing, I thank you for your time and attention to this matter. I know you are quite busy. It's been 10 minutes you've spent reading now; your penises must be SCREAMING for attention.

Sincerely,
Cera
President, Mothers Against Senseless Fondling

I had two full paragraphs written on the demise of the ozone layer due entirely to my bosses driving SUV's for no apparent reason whatsoever. Funny, funny stuff, if I do say so myself...Could you imagine YOUR boss off-roading on his way to work? Or hauling loads of manure, or a gaggle of friends and family car-pooling with his cranky ass? Because THAT is what those vehicles are meant for, ladies and gentlemen. There is no kind way to break it to you. Do me a favor. Take a good look around tomorrow morning as you get ready to commute. Can you physically see your gas gauge dip down as you press the accelerator? Are you alone in the car? If you turn and yell into the backseat, do you hear an echo? These are all signs that it may be time to reconsider your choice of vehicle, dear reader.

So I had written up clever little nicknames for my bosses, and started to tell the saga of the hole in the ozone layer that travels directly above them and their ridiculously large fleet of SUV's...Then I remembered reading dooce recently (dooce.com) and how she got her big start blogging. She had been working at some corporate something-or-other when it was discovered she had been publishing wonderfully sarcastic little tidbits about her boss(es) on the Internet for the world to see...and have a good laugh at. She was promptly fired, which actually ended up working for her, but I got about halfway through my initial post when I remembered this and reconsidered my own situation. My paycheck still puts food on the table, literally, although Nathaniel does Ok in his own right (I'm still pulling for ya, babe), and while no one has ever accused me of being the sharpest knife in the drawer, I thought it might not be wise to hit "publish" like I really, really wanted to. I had the cutest nicknames.

I promised my friend Tiffany I would speak on the subject of gigundo SUV's and how ridiculous their solo drivers look. We had a lovely conversation last night regarding this and other irritants. We are best at being that for each other, the mitt to catch the other's venting and general frustrations. We are both highly committed to enthusiastic, therapeutic, equal-opportunity venting. I'm worried, however, that she is under the impression that people actually READ this little blog 'o' mine. Here's the true test, then, girly girl. If tomorrow on your drive in to work, you get flipped the bird from more than the average amount of commuters driving Expeditions...SUCCESS!!

I've been teasing JuJuBee about putting him on a diet...Alas, he inherited my thighs, poor thing...So today, I did just that. In fact, I made my best effort to starve him completely. I thought, Gee I enjoy this commute. And gee, gas prices don't affect me at all! What silly, inconsequential things, gas prices! What could be more fun than one commute? Two, two, two commutes in one (day)! I would say two commutes for the price of one but I believe I've touched on gas prices already. So my subconscious mind must both truly believe the Bee is looking a bit chunky these days AND enjoy my little half-hour commute so much that it allowed me to drive all the way here to work before half-heartedly tossing out that little red flag of wrongness...I'd forgotten to leave the damn bag 'o' bottles at daycare with my dear son who, guess what, needed them. Son of a BIZZNITCH.

So I got to enjoy a little extra fresh air this morning...Have I mentioned how expensive gas is today? I'm going to call my Congressman and suggest a return to the horse and buggy way of life. No burning of fossil fuels, no high-speed accidents, and if God forbid I should forget the bag 'o' bottles, my ass is going home for the day. Please point me in the direction of the Community Suggestion Box, dear citizens, I believe I've got solid gold here.

Things I love about my city: diversity. Overheard today at the gas station..."Get out da way, afore a car hits ya, idiot!" Spoken by a caregiver-type-possibly-the-mother to an approximately 8-year-old little girl. Fabulous. I'm so glad to see traditions like these being handed down from generation to generation, in no way whatsoever promoting any stereotypes. Keep it up, you high-class ladies, and we can simultaneously further our city's reputation and boost the self-esteem of the next generation of young women sky-high. Bravo.

Things I found while cleaning up the yard/driveway yesterday:

• A lone sock
• Enough loose change to buy a new mattress set
• Lego connectors
• Dryer lint
• A single allergy pill in the foil packet (a new asshole, just what Nathaniel always wanted)
• Firecracker shrapnel

I swear to you, it doesn't appear at first glance that we are living The White Trash American Dream, but spend an afternoon combing the long grass at the corners of the garage and deck and you shall find treasure! Treasure beyond your wildest dreams...If your dreams are to swim in a pool of filth and totally identify with the Jeff Foxworthy You Might Be A Redneck If list. Apparently, back in the dawn of time, shortly after the Garden of Eden was created, God empowered Eve with the one true, bright shining knowledge that has been handed down to generations of women over the eons...Where the garbage can is located. Men seem to be lacking this information encoded on their DNA, which, puzzling and frustrating as it may be, is better accepted than fought. My theory is that this knowledge was somehow contained in the rib that was given to Eve, forever after exempting Adam and the entire male gender from ever having to pick up after themselves. Ever. If I had a million dollars to stash quickly, I would hide it in the garbage can and pet it lovingly every time I visit said can, approximately 25.6 million times a day. The men would NEVER FIND IT. Mu-hahahahahaha!!

Why is it Mondays seem so dismal? The entire week stretching out before you seems endless, no escape from the tedium of 9-5...Excepting of course, children and family...Without them, I feel sure my eyes would permanently cross from staring at this damnable screen all day, a steady trickle of drool dribbling down my chin.

So that is the price I pay, this is the Great Trade, folks, the hunched back at 2o-friggin-4 from constantly picking up the trash my boys scatter as they go, like leaves from a tree, for the chance to watch them grow and thrive in relative cleanliness, amusing as hell with their random off-the-wall antics and comments. BOYS. MEN. Can't live live with 'em, can't live without 'em, sure as hell can't teach 'em where the garbage can is.

Nathaniel has the boys this afternoon...Daycare is closed a half-day, for God knows what. Hopefully it's a seminar on new-age techniques for deterring treasure hunters' little fingers from that mystical of all places, the nostril. Please God, let it be that. I'm finding it hard to muster up sufficient disgust to display when reacting to finding Spence digging for gold..."No. Stop. Don't. It's yucky. Sooo yucky. Super yucky. Seriously. Quit it." I would love some fresh insight on this.

So for whatever reason, those darling women (& man) have closed their doors this afternoon, sending the boys home to watch approximately, let's see, 4.5 hours of television until I arrive from work. Nathaniel does a good job, I will say...for a man. Let's face it, nobody quite equals Mommy. I have a little song that goes like this...Anything I can do, he can do...adequately.

They will be fine. The boys are at a GREAT age, the both of them, Spence with his endless conversations - "A plane! Look, a plane! A plane can fly. A plane has wings. A plane goes like this. What letter does the word 'plane' start with? Puh, puh, puh...letter...P! There's a 'P' in my name. My name is Spencer. I'm growing bigger bigger bigger. I can do this and this and this. I can JUMP higher in the SKY! What letter does the word 'jump' start with? Juh, juh, juh..." & so on, & so forth...& so on, & so forth...& so on, & so forth...it never ends, really. Just morphs to accommodate the current situation, until he falls asleep at some point, babbling til the last nanosecond of consciousness. Precious.

And Julian finds all this terribly amusing, from his perch in his swing, or his hip-as-hell Bumbo seat, or the walker...babbles right back. He is so sure they are having an actual conversation that he becomes quite upset when Spence goes about the crucially important business of being 3 and leaves the baby hanging mid-sentence. Which of course Nathaniel and I find HILARIOUS. Is it wrong to laugh at your baby's quivery little lower lip?? Are we horrible people?? I wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if twin bolts of lightning should strike us both down in our lawn chairs.

So here I am, stuck in this meat locker called "the office," so sure they are having a terrific time, the time of their lives, simply because I am not there...But in reality, it is CartoonFest 2006 at my house right now, I'm sure of it. There isn't a greater tradition Nathaniel can pass down, not a single male bonding moment wasted when Ye Olde Boob Tube is on. So plant your asses, guys, and try not to have too much fun, 'cause Momma's coming home.

We are honored to be hosting the Super-Special Olympics in our home this year. Come on down and sign right up! Events will include Marathon Horizontal TV-Watching, the Blame Relay, and of course Laundry Challenge. Anyone with the patience to referee these events will be sainted on the spot.

I, however, am running short on patience these days and you can find me in the 100-meter dash out the front door if I hear the words "fabric softener" ONE more time. Or if I should happen to come home again to find Nathaniel and Alden locked in a dead heat for the coveted Most Consecutive TV Hours Watched record. Practice up, boys, hone your skills for the upcoming Super-Special Olympics, and perhaps you will meet up with the loves of your lives, 'cause I ain't the one. If you see a foxy chick trying like hell to fold a fitted sheet or putting liquid fabric softener (YEAH THAT'S RIGHT I SAID IT) in the fucking DRYER, obviously a contender in the Laundry Challenge, well...you swoop her right up. It is clearly a match made in heaven, and if you need me, I'll be at the Vatican being sainted for not having thrown you out a window the many, many times I could justifiably have done so over the years. I wish the happy couple good luck, and good fortune, and may your children's clothes smell fresh as fucking roses all the days of their lives.

So come on down, folks, it's sure to be...entertaining.

For further evidence our prodigy is irreparably damaged, you need only see him dance. Sadly, he has inherited his father's groove thang gene. The latest booty-shaking move or a grand mal seizure? You decide.

As a parent, you always wonder if you're doing the right thing, or more importantly that you're NOT doing the WRONG thing. You try to create an upright, bright and shining environment for your children, so that they can grow and learn and absorb educational information, but more importantly so that they won't throw it all in your face later. Developed a taste for fast food? Thanks, Mom, I'm 300 pounds. Dressed me up as a girl for laughs? Great, now I need trans-gender surgery. Which would be fine except it's really, really expensive. Thanks. A lot. Hand over your credit card and tell me I'm pretty.

So I'm innocently watching tv the other night and my darling innocent 3-year-old son notices my shoulder is peeling from a recent sunburn. My little alarmist points this out to my by shrieking "Momma! Your skin is coming OFF!!" Yes, love, that happens when your idiot mother believes she is invincible and there is no hole in the ozone layer and spends 3 hours in the sun without a drop of sunscreen.

I explain this to my son in the simplest terms possible, leaving out the part about the ozone layer (we have gads of time to cover that) and foolishly believe I have been successful when he quietly contemplates it. Then, just as my unsuspecting ass has returned attention to the tv, said darling boy declares, "And when your skin comes OFF, you will be a LION MONSTER!" Oh dear God. Here it is, one of those moments when what started out being a simple life lesson has turned into a harsh one for this teacher. Damn it. This is that moment, when I realize that Nathaniel's obsession with the SciFi channel has warped our little boy's imagination beyond repair. Lovely. Now don't get me wrong, Nathaniel actually knows that watching giant trilobytes from Uranus (my favorite planet and yours) rip people's heads off isn't do-able during young ones' wakeful hours. He knows this because I told him to do otherwise would be detrimental to his health. Not Spencer's health, Nathaniel's, because I will take the bastard OUT.

So Nathaniel is hip to this rule, but the second that clock strikes 9:00 p.m., on goes the SciFi and off go little boys to bed. I'm thinking that HEARING the screams burbling through aortic blood and cries of, "Oh God, that trilobyte just bit my arm clean OFF!" have probably just as much, if not MORE, negative influence on said little boy's imagination as he drifts off to la-la land. It's amazing the child doesn't wake screaming with nightmares.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I guess I just wanted to share that hilarious tidbit of toddler imagination (I WISH I could shed this flaky mess in one big sheet, like an alien cocoon, and be done with it) and also offer a helpful hint on what NOT to do when young minds are placed in your care. Go forth, and be ye not afraid of lion monsters.

Ahh, depression, my old friend. I've missed you, where have you been? I've been far too happy for far too long. Something just didn't feel right and now I realize...I haven't been depressed for some time now. It's like a lot of crest-y little waves with no undertow to pull you down and how can that be good? To be "up," all the time? You would glide over the waves with a glib smile pasted firmly on your face and no clue of the very real dangers below. To be consistently happy, or at least not unhappy, for such a long period of time that you forget how it used to be...dark, warm, familiar blanket of sadness that I pull around my shoulders like a long-lost friend. I feel more intelligent, this way, honestly, that by understanding the cruel downsides of reality I am more in tune with it. Because you can't go traipsing through life without paying the piper something...Nobody has the perfect life. Nobody has absolutely no problems, no worries, no mistakes etched in stone to haunt them...Except maybe Paris Hilton. That bitch needs a reality check. What does she DO, anyways? What is her OCCUPATION?? I'm desperate to know. Desperate and...sad. Sad, but this a comfortable sadness, familiar tears and slumped shoulders and shadow of a voice.

So wish me luck finding my lost bottle of St. John's Wort, how very like you to go missing in the heat of battle, St. John, and I'll see you tomorrow...Who knows? I could wake up tomorrow my dryly sarcastic old self and we'll revisit the topic of foreign translation on U.S. soil.

Hola, chicos and chicas. No habla espagnol, by the way, I just like to throw that out there for those who are obsessed with the idea that there be NO public translation on U.S. soil, EVER. Those errant bastards who can't read good ol' Ay-mer-i-cayun can just be shipped back to wherever it is they came from. There are points to both sides of this argument which I'm sure I'll touch upon later...Muy, muy later.

I have my idea for a book, finally, since I believe I've hit on THE main reason for divide between men and women. And the title shall be...drumroll please...Women are from Ethiopia, Men are from McDonalds. What do you think? My theory goes a little something like this...Women have such a blatant disregard for men because THEY SUCK. A woman on a diet is a force to be reckoned with. Corner deli clerks & candy-bar-hocking coworkers are in equal danger of an otherwise-mentally-healthy dieting female biting their heads clean off in an effort to locate a reasonably healthy snack that won't go straight to her thighs.

A man, on the other hand, after watching his hard-earned beer belly expand beyond reasonable waist size, has merely to put DOWN the potato chips, walk around the kitchen island twice, pour himself a glass of water and WATCH the flab magically melt away. So once again, the male gender skates through life without having to really THINK about much of anything. Nice. Now once that man thins down, you will be able to make out behind him a woman tiptoe-ing stealthily towards him with a butcher knife raised above her head. And who could blame her, really? I mean, how infuriating. She's been eating bean sprouts and sunflower seeds for six months now and has lost approximately .25 pounds. That's not guilty by reason of temporary debilitating hunger if I ever saw it. How DO you get picked for jury duty, does anyone really know??

All I'm saying is it's unfair. If you say LIFE isn't fair, dear, to me right now I'll start screaming and never, never stop. It isn't fair that the women are the ones who bear the children and deal with drastic changes to their bodies beyond their control. What sort of life-changing experiences do men go through? Getting an oil change? Losing their wallets? Come now. I mean really. If I could be anyone, just for the day, like on those reality TV shows where you can do that, I'd be a guy, a real man's man, just so I could hit the drive-thru without a care in the world, certainly not worrying about Big-Mac-sized saddlebags with a side of mayonnaise under my arms.

So that's my book, and I'll get started on it. Any...day...now. I'll be writing from the trenches, dear audience, so stay tuned.

Breaking news...Oh my God, we have been invaded. Of course, by "invaded," I mean I have seen more than a half dozen in the past two weeks. And by "oh my God," I mean WHAT THE FUCK is the world coming to when my home's WALLS aren't enough to stop an invading army of the worst sort of critters??? And by critters, I mean...I hope you're sitting down...Actually if you're reading your screen standing up I'd be very interested to hear your story...These critters are in fact SQUINCHY BUGS. Although I'm sure they have some 5-worded latin name, I have neither time nor patience to Google "long wicked-looking beetle bug + ass pincers" and find out what it is. You know what I mean...They have those curved pincers coming out of their ass that make your stomach feel all...squinchy when you look at them. Hence squinchy bugs. If you don't know what I'm talking about, count your lucky stars that you've never had the misfortune to gaze upon their hideous squinchiness, let alone be INVADED by them.

SO assures me it is no invasion, merely a visit, a polite showing-their-friends-around type thing due to the season and...multiple other factors I zoned out of. I was drifting off on thoughts of the eventuality of a SciFi Channel original movie where pot-smoking teenage babysitters and their boyfriends are chased screaming through the house by the asses of 8-feet-tall squinchy bugs, pincers gnashing nightmarishly. Teenagers can never just catch a break and make out in peace, can they? Sheesh.

So I've downgraded house alert status to orange. We are carefully checking shoes, toy baskets, and drink cups before gleefully jumping in. I know I've heard somewhere they bite, or sting or something, but SO swears he heard the opposite, that they're harmless (the old "don't bother them and they won't bother you" addage, HA!), so we're at a standoff with said squinchy bugs. If you see one, don't let him smell your fear, move quickly, and SQUISH the sucker with nearest squishing device ASAP. I'm considering hanging the next one up on a little toothpick cross as a warning to his friends. I'm afraid of PETA though, those people see everything. Or maybe hanging a teeny "Beware of Teething Baby" sign. Wouldn't that just send them screaming?? Bitches. Let's all move on, shall we?

Well I'm off for the day, darling reader (I know there's got to be ONE of you out there somewhere), so if you don't hear from me after the holiday, you'll know the squinchy bugs have won. Remember me fondly, and don't shed a tear, for my life was one of blissful ignorance.

My son has a goal. This is good, something I would want for him, the ability to set and attempt to reach goals. Wonderful! I can add this to his list of attributes...My smart, talented, beautiful and now goal-oriented 3-year-old son. If only his single goal in life were not to see how many times he could say my name in a 24-hour period, I could die a blissfully happy woman.

I know you think I'm exaggerating but I'm NOT. His teacher (daycare provider, caregiver, you pick) has told me that he'll lapse into calling her "Mama" several times throughout the course of a conversation! I've tallied his current record at 10,285 times a day. With "Dada" a close second.

I have discovered an underground cult. They could be your sister, your bus driver, that little old lady innocently clipping hedges across the street. They are...bum ba BUM...coupon clippers! The advent of the Internet has opened up wide new avenues to those who before simply dutifully clipped the coupons their families might need that month. Today you can visit entire websites geared towards the sale and trade of that priceless commodity, the coupon. At first I gaped, then I scoffed. Now...I trade. I'm a blatant abuser of the Sunday paper's insert, and if I see the word "FREE" my heart does a little hop-skip-jump. Newsprint gold. Invaluable on the open market. I remember a commercial about some guys in an Internet cafe, trading stocks and bonds or something, and the one guy has to warn the other to duck, because there is money flying in the air over their heads. The virtual trade. Well, ladies and gentleman (not a typo, I think there's maybe ONE guy out there doing this), you may want to duck again, because the coupons are FLYING, baby.

I can just imagine when my children are older and asking me about "back in the day," I can tell them about that thar new-fangled thang called the Intry-net and how I used to trade coupons across the country to keep them in name-brand diapers and bath soap. I'll be one of the Google Generation, a proud Ebay parent and a WebMD-certified Dr. Mom. The more I think about it, the more I realize just how heavily I rely on the Internet. Which begs the question...What did we do BEFORE said Internet?? Did we really wait til family functions to brag about our kids? Did we really wait til the 6'o'clock news for our updates, or even, crazily, the newspaper the NEXT DAY? Ludicrous to think how stale that news seems when compared to the instant gratification of CNN.com. But the dinosaur we call the common newspaper survives for what I believe may be one reason, and one reason alone...that damnable coupon insert.

I'm so sad. I'm weaning my baby, who may very well end up being THE baby, since he may be our last child. Ask me on a peaceful spring day, when the breeze is blowing just right and everyone is fed and rested and happy, and I will gaze off wistfully into the distance and say that we don't know if we're "done," that another would be really nice, maybe a girl...Then come back another day, when one is inexplicably crying and the other is actively trying to crawl inside my butt while the third starts a bonfire with the classic literature I've bought him and I will scream NEVER AGAIN! This is too many right NOW!!

So I am in the process of weaning, which currently means my left boob is 3 times the size of my right one...Good times. A blocked milk duct is JUST how I wanted to spend my final days of breast-feeding, thank you God. I'm considering a mastectomy...I won't need them anymore, right? SO doth protest.

I sincerely hope the average passerby can't tell one boob is dramatically larger than the other. I suppose I should enjoy these last days they are large at all...Once I am truly done, finito, with breast-feeding, these puppies are going to be SHOT. I'll need a WonderBra 5000 and a commercial lift-truck to get these guys anywhere in the NEIGHBORHOOD of perkiness.

So this is the trade, my youthful body for 2 beautiful children? Its worth it...Most days.

Hmmm, back up and running, are we now Blogger? Excellent.

I think I'll have some people over on the 24th for SO's birthday...Actual birthday falls on the 28th, but who wants to party like its 1999 on a Wednesday? So I'm thinking cookout, since the weather's lovely and everybody loves our ribs...I say that as if we come together in beautiful symphony, he the melody and I the harmony as we whip up some masterful creation and rub the ribs with spices picked from our organic herb garden...In actuality it is Open Pit. On grocery-store-bought pork ribs. But SO is a master at the grill, flipping and slathering and looking good in general with his button-down shirt blowing in the breeze. The grill is his domain, and he rules it like...a ruler. Of manly things.

So would it be wrong to ask him to grill at his own party? Its something he enjoys, but also a bit of work, sort of like sex so I'm going to say no, no it wouldn't bother him a bit.

Our get-togethers are always successful when I just call friends and ask them to "stop by." When I go to the trouble of making out invitations and making food (or food arrangements, rather) and cleaning and whatnot, people's baby-sitters mysteriously fall through, people forget the date...How silly. Maybe there's something about informality that attracts people. Whatever...That's what I'll do.

We'll put the babies down to bed and drink wine and practice the lost art of karaoke and tease each other mercilessly...We seem to be at our best when we're entertaining. And who wouldn't be when filled with good conversation and good food? Mmmm, ribs. 24th it is.

Talked to my friend Tiffany yesterday evening...The woman is insane. She's got more guys lined up than a strip club opening and she still isn't happy. I tell her I am dating vicariously through her (what is more fun than being young and single, be-bopping about the clubs and whatnot?). She always laughs and tells me SHE is jealous of ME. To have the man, the family, the home life...How funny that *cliche alert* the grass always looks greener on the other side. Of course I'm happy with where I am, I just think, how fun! And she looks at her life and thinks, how irritating! I just want to be settled down. So there we are. The Great American Stand-Off. We need a reality tv crew to follow us around and document this bizarre twenty-something angst, including our chats late into the night where, God forbid, we start laughing and may or may not end up peeing our pants. Ahhh, just like the old days. At least I can say I have holdover pregnancy incontinence. Don't know what her excuse is. Tiff, you know I love you dearly.

So today is the last day of school for Alden...Report card time! I used to dread this time because if my parents deemed my grades unworthy of a summer off, they would just ground my ass for the whole 2 months. Its so hard to find that balance, somewhere between not making the mistakes our parents made and the Cleavers. Somewhere in the middle is that ideal childhood, the one NO ONE you know had. We're trying our damndest here, cut us some slack, kiddos.

Well I'm off to check out other blogs. Will my blog be wildly successful, a runaway hit (Coming to a link near you!) or are 25,000 other bored working mothers rambling exactly the way I am? Methinks the latter. Have a wonderful day, faithful readers (ha) and I'd like to take this opportunity to raise my coffee cup and toast the arrival of summer! Wish us straight A's.

Good morning! Welcome to my very first blog entry. I am at a time in my life where I've realized a) I feel a burning need to WRITE and b) everything that's anything is online anymore, so why not start here? Pen and paper seem so...Archaic. Even typing in a word processor format leaves much to be desired. I don't claim to be the most tech-savvy person out there, so I Googled "blog" and here I am. Now I feel so...Interactive. SaWEET.

I've wanted to write...Forever, it seems. And have been brainstorming for years now. I'll get my story line together...Any day now. And then I realized...I have characters! There is my significant other, soon-to-be fiance (fiancee?) any...day...now. Then there is his son, who resides with us, Alden. Also doing their part to fill up our tiny house in the city are my sons, 3-yr-old Spencer and almost-4-month-old Julian. We make for a ragtag clan, the five of us...Ooo, what was that show? Party of Five. Shoot, I should have titled my blog that. Damn. Yes, I swear, no, not in front of my kids...I have this crazy idea that I can be both a mother and a person with her own identity. A swearing, blogging, neo-hippie momma. Stand back.

So here it is, my first entry. Once I hit "publish post," is there any way to take it back I wonder? I hope this is the first of many entries...I feel I have so much to share. The daily antics of my children, my work (think Office Space), and of course a dramatic look at the inner workings of one male brain...My significant other, who, God love him, can be the most confounding creature. Stay tuned...