Take a walk through our newsroom

Listen to the reporters' conversations. You'll understand why I'll never be fit to work in any other environment:

"... and so for the next 24 hours, you have to pee in this bucket ..."

"... caught trying to steal a sheep from the zoo ... said he thought it was his mother..."

"OH NO!" [Thud, thud, thud] "I just wrote this email about how I was worried I might be pregnant and that I forgot to take my anti-depressant this morning and then accidentally sent it to one of my sources..."

" ... he used Dippity-Do for WHAT?!"

"... So should I send another email apologizing for that first email about the anti-depressants?"

" ... used a garbage can to steal that sheep from the petting zoo ... no, the sheep wasn't injured ..."

" ... guy said the strippers beat him too hard during a birthday spanking ..."

[Religion editor walks by, pauses at a reporter's computer screen and notices a man wearing a thong.]

"What website are you on?"

"Go Fug Yourself."

[Editor looks hurt.]

"... Um ... OK."

Normally, this time of year...

...we'd be planning our annual trip to Big Bend.

We got married there April 29, 2001, and try to make it back for each anniversary.

This year, however, we'll be celebrating here, with plans to head down to Big Bend in September.

Already, I'm anticipating the trip, in spite of last year's series of truck-related disasters.

I mean look at this --



That was taken from the Lost Mine Trail, one of my favorite hikes at the park.

Most nights, we camp. Always, however, we begin and end each trip with a stay at the Gage Hotel. Here's a shot from our last night there, taken in the bar.



You would assume, looking at the photos from most of our trips, that I'm vacationing alone, as Hubs rarely appears in any pictures. I would offer one that reveals his ever-so-pale legs, but since mine (equally white, and also stubbly after three nights of camping), are also visible, I'm keeping it to myself.

In the old days...

...I would have been holding someone's hair out of the way as she puked into a toilet only a third of the way into the party.

Now, I'm wiping a 4-year-old's butt only a third of the way into the party after she did something very scary in the hostess' sole bathroom.

In the old days, I would have been climbing a fence and leaping into the swimming pool at an apartment complex at, say, 2 a.m. (Said apartment complex would not have been home to any of my friends, just one that happened to boast a pool.)

Now, at the same party that has an unusable, smelly bathroom, I'm watching the bottoms of my son's feet vanish through the doggie door as he climbs, in and out, in and out, never pausing until he comes face-to-face with the beagle who has a legitimate need for the doggie door.

In the old days, I would have awakened at 7:30 a.m. and called Girlfriend A in the midst of hangover paranoia to ask whether I really did what Girlfriend B, who called in the midst of her own hangover paranoia, says I did.

Now, I'm thinking I should apologize to a girlfriend for the fact that one of her beagles ate sidewalk chalk during her party because my children left the chalk laying on the patio -- or, sigh ... did they deliberately FEED it to the dog?

The sisters

Look at C. and Tootie sitting in the daffodils of Wye Mountain.

Would you think, even for a second, that they have different mothers? No, you wouldn't, not even if you met them in person -- because in both cases, the Hubs' genetic imprint is readily apparent, right down to the freckles on each of their little noses. Not so with the maternal contributions. (The only thing that marks Tootie as mine are the middle two toes on each foot, which, like mine, are slightly webbed.)

Now the boys -- they're a whole different story. T. looks like his mom. And you can certainly see me when you look at the E-man.

Some days, however, I have to recheck Tootie's toes, just to make sure I didn't imagine that whole nine months and birthing scene.

A torn ... what ...???

Apparently I have a tear in my ... labrum? ... (which is so not what I thought the doctor said at first) and some fluid and some sort of something-or-other wrong with a bicep tendon ... or something.

I have a tendency to not hear what a doctor is saying because a.) I'm trying not to be too grossed out by his graphic explanation of whatever I've managed to do to myself and b.) I'm already thinking of my next question, which likely stems from something I Googled.

When Molly was just a few years old, she ripped a toenail lengthwise. The vet gave her something to sedate her, but it didn't take effect immediately. So he muzzled her and started cutting. I felt a little woozy during the process, but it wasn't until I was writing the check that I thought I might pass out. Naturally, that's when the sedative finally kicked in and Molly oozed to the floor. I wanted to ask for whatever they gave her, but figured a woman seeking drugs from her dog's vet might appear ... well, desperate. So I lugged my 50-pound dog out to the car and sat there with my head between my knees.

Yesterday, I actually considered -- in the midst of a fully loaded panic attack -- asking the doctor if he could just not talk about the injury itself and maybe use very general terms to describe what needed to be done, like, "exercises" or "minor surgery." No descriptions of torn cartilage, please.

Thankfully, he thinks the shoulder will heal on its own.

I have vowed to keep wearing the flip-flops. But those stepping stones? I've asked Hubs to remove them.

Evolution (de-?) of a klutz

Life as a clumsy person is difficult, especially when you're forced to explain to the doctor how, as you were dashing from your car to the house, your flip-flop caught on the edge of a stepping stone, catapulting you into the air before you landed on your belly, arms extended.

I have injured a shoulder before (due to a poorly executed foward roll in a college self-defense class), but really, I don't remember the kind of holy-hell pain I experienced yesterday afternoon, this time in the opposite shoulder.

I bawled and cussed as I hobbled into the house. A glimpse out of the dining room window revealed that E-man, contentedly eating a Happy Meal cheeseburger in the car, had totally missed the spectacle of his airborne mother.

These things always happen to me -- never a normal or understandable sort of accident.

(Ever bonk yourself in the middle of the forehead with a pair of pliers while trying to zip up a pair of skin-tight jeans in high school? Yeah, me neither.)

As for that shoulder injury in college...

We had been instructed to disable our "attackers" and then roll away from them. (Someone, please tell me why, after knocking a gun out of the bad guy's hand, you would somersault across the pavement? Wouldn't you just run like hell?)

That time, after causing a bit of a scene in my class, I ended up in a sling on the very first day of my internship at the Dallas Business Journal.

That time, when I discovered I couldn't put on a bra, I just didn't wear one. Oh, 21-year-old breasts, how I miss you... This time, I've had to ask Rick to deal with the bra (and soooo not in the context or setting he would prefer), or I've had to awkwardly fasten it myself in the front before sliding it around, one-handed, into the proper, hoisting position.)

Am awaiting the verdict as to what I've done to myself this time. Last time, it was a partially separated shoulder.

My final exam for the self-defense course involved warding off three "attackers' in a dimly lit gym. These guys, then, would be the ones to determine my grade.

The instructor told them to go easy on me. I, however, was caught up in the moment, eager to prove that I'm not a one-woman disaster. But as I whirled around to administer a fake kick, I accidently nailed one of the guys in a particularly vulnerable area.

Gasping, he fell to floor.

He beckoned the instructor over, then motioned limply toward me.

"Give her an A," he wheezed. "Just give her an A."

In her new starring role:

Molly, aka Princess Rarity of My Little Pony's Ponyville. (Or was Princess Rarity a unicorn...? Hmmm... regardless ... )

Does the dog look resigned? Pitiful?

Does Tootie care, so long as Molly doesn't trample over Ponyville?

Baby got no back...

...and it's becoming a problem, finding pants that won't drop to his ankles by 9 a.m.

We're talking no booty whatsoever, nothing to hold his jeans in place.

I don't understand. Even when I was a mere wisp of a high school student (sigh...oh, for the days of size 6), I had a butt. Rick has a butt. Amanda -- butt accounted for.

My poor E-man, however -- well, the only thing that hugs his waist are the pants sized for 12-month-olds. He's 2. And tall. So we're talking about some serious high-water ramifications here.

Today, I put him in 18-month-old pants.

"He can't wear those anymore," Hubs informed me this evening.

Apparently, when Hubs arrived at the day care to pick up E-man, my poor boy was waddling down the hall, clutching at his jeans, pleading, "'Elp! 'Elp!'"

I offer as evidence this Christmas photo. My butt is clearly in evidence. E-man, however, is in danger of losing his pants.



And so I wonder, even though it's only mid-March, would it be inappropriate to make shorts the staple of his wardrobe?

A glimpse into my paranoid brain

This morning, I found an email from a childhood friend:

Subject: Dog poisoning -- never feed grapes to your dog!

My patient was a 56-pound, 5 yr old male neutered lab mix who ate half a canister of raisins sometime between 7:30 AM and 4:30 PM on Tuesday. He started with vomiting, diarrhea and shaking about 1 AM on Wednesday but the owner didn't call my emergency service until 7AM. I had heard somewhere about raisins AND grapes causing acute Renal failure but hadn't seen any formal paper on the subject.

The skeptical-journalist Cathy thought: Silly urban legend.

But then the easily freaked-out hypochondriac Cathy countered: Better Google this.

And I'll be damned if I didn't find a jillion articles on this subject, including this, from the one website I can count on to discredit scary emails:

Comments: Dog owners should heed this alert, which echoes a similar warning issued by the ASPCA Animal Poison Control Center in 2002. Veterinarians are not sure why, but grapes and raisins have indeed proven poisonous to dogs in a significant number of cases reported over the past 15 years. Symptoms, which include vomiting, diarrhea, anorexia and lethargy, can last for days or weeks. Without prompt treatment, severe kidney damage and death may result.

And right as I was commending myself for never having fed my 13-year-old dog grapes, memories of the previous evening skidded through my mind:

Tootie and the E-man, on the deck with boxes of raisins, quite possibly hurling them over the railing to a hopeful Molly.

Immediately, I called Hubs.

Cathy: Hey, last night, when you were outside with the kids, did they give Molly any raisins?

Hubs: Ummm...

(After nearly six years of marriage, Hubs is well aware that such questions lead him into the danger zone. So he is always cautious in his reply.)

Hubs: No ... I don't remember seeing them trying to feed the dog.

Cathy, to herself: He is just pacifying me. For all I know, she ate a whole box and even now is on the brink of kidney failure.

Hubs: Why are you worried about the dog eating raisins?

Oh silly, silly man.

I am the woman who Cloroxed her yard after adopting a puppy from the Humane Society that arrived at my house with Parvo. (I was worried that any future dogs might catch the virus, which, according to my meticulous research, can live on surfaces, such as grass, for a YEAR.

I am the woman who called a vet one night after discovering that Molly had eaten -- gasp! -- CHOCOLATE.

I am the woman, who, in 1996, wrote a story for the Odessa American about how you should never feed your pets scraps from your table during the holidays. The article was stripped across the top of the front page on Thanksgiving Day. (Happy turkey-eating, dear readers. But first, let me tell you all about yakking dogs.)

How did I not ever hear about the deadliness of raisins?

I've spent the hours before and after work observing Molly for signs of renal failure.

Meanwhile, she's eaten a bowl of dog food and treated me with the canine disdain that a paranoid freak of an owner deserves.

That crazy woman...

...you saw the other day, the one who honked at you when you came racing out of a parking garage in downtown Little Rock?

That was me, the proud owner of a nearly-paid-for Cavalier.

I've got just a few months to go, and then I'll lose that car payment. This has evoked both great euphoria and paranoia, as I'm now convinced that A.) Something expensive is going to break/fail/fall apart or B.) Some idiot like you, gabby-cell-phone-woman, will came flying out of a garage and hit me. (Put down the damn phone, lady. Clearly, you cannot multi-task.)

Hubs doesn't understand my joy/fear. Because, you see, in the seven years we've been together, the man has owned and driven a:

Jeep Wrangler
Chevy Silverado
Yukon
Dodge pickup
Ford Escape (not his choice, but he had to humor me in order to get something new)

I, on the other hand, have bought only two vehicles -- ever:

An Isuzu pickup, purchased my senior in college and driven for 10 years.
The Cavalier, going on five.

(If any of my old college friends are reading this, well, right now they're shaking their heads, murmuring to one another,"Oh my God. Remember that truck, the one with the stick shift and no power steering? She drove that for 10 YEARS?!")

My devotion to the Isuzu and Cavalier has alternately fascinated and horrified Hubs, who has been known to run out on his lunch hour and buy a new truck.

We started dating in September 2000, married in April 2001. So it took him awhile to figure out that the Isuzu's air conditioning hadn't worked for two years.

July in Arkansas proved revealing.

And so my poor little Isuzu, which had withstood a decade of travels -- from the backroads of West Texas to the logging roads of the Piney Woods -- and even a rather gory encounter with a flock of stray sheep (eight dead, after the Red-Rover-style collsion), lasted only a few months into our marriage.

Oh, how I loved that beat-up Isuzu.

And oh, how I loved the five years of no car payments.

Now, nearly six years later, I'm excitedly counting down the days 'til I mail off the last check for the Cavalier, even as I fret over all the what-ifs. My paranoia is well-founded.

You see, the sheep incident occurred just before I was due to pay off the Isuzu. Luckily, the insurance adjuster forgot to add in an $85 part, thereby sparing my truck. I even got a new paint job out of the deal because the Isuzu's original color no longer existed. The body shop guys laughed their asses off every time I talked to them, just because they couldn't believe they were actually fixing and repainting this thing.

(In case you're wondering -- that thing with the sheep happened right after a tornado. I was on assignment with a photographer (HE was driving) when we came upon a flock of sheep crossing a two-lane highway. Take a moment to imagine not one, but eight -- EIGHT! -- fluffy sheep bouncing off your hood. Oh, the carnage. Awful, I tell you, especially if you happened, as a child, to raise pet sheep: Holly, Dolly, Ellie and Sherman. But I digress...)

I drove that truck for another two years with an oil leak that required me to keep a permanent stash of Pennzoil on board -- until the day my Isuzu finally went dry and burned up the engine in downtown Houston.

No problem. I had the engine rebuilt just in time to drive the Isuzu to a new job in Arkansas.

And then I drove it for another two years before I started dating the man who made it his mission to get rid of the truck.

I am my father's daughter. He also clings to vehicles, a trait that has long infuriated my mother.

I still remember watching the blurred asphalt through several holes in the floorboard of his old Chevette.(Those holes first appeared when I was ... maybe a sixth-grader? And guess what? When I turned 15, I learned to drive a stick on that same Chevette.)

I also recall the day Dad finally got rid of our Mobile Traveler. I can still see him pacing the driveway, looking mournfully at the spot it once claimed. I'm quite certain that at the very same time, my mother was in the house turning cartwheels down the hallway.

My dad and I, however, both strongly believe that if it still works, you drive it, regardless of a lack of -- aesthetics...?

Hubs has talked for months of getting rid of the Cavalier, just so he will have a new truck for deer season. Won't happen. He did away with my Isuzu. He's not touching this one.

I will feel no pity, not even when I picture him cramming a dead buck into the back of a Ford Escape.

While my wee ones sleep...

...I study their sweet faces and see the babies they once were.



When they begin to stir, hungry and eager to be cuddled, I hold them close, breathing in their sleepy scent, treasuring this fleeting, precious glimpse back into their infancy. Then their eyes flutter open and the moment is gone.

Behold -- the Mollydog...

...in all her reclining, furry gloriousness.

Don't be fooled by her stately bearing. This is, after all, the dog who allowed herself to be draped in Mardi Gras beads by a little girl determined to turn poor Molly into a dancing circus elephant.

There is no photographic evidence of that indignity, however, because I didn't yet have a camera.

No, it doesn't bother me...

...that Tootie walked out the door in an adorable winter skirt, thick ribbed tights ... and her grubby, worn-out, too-small Elmo sandals from last summer.

Nope, doesn't bother me at all.

Because, you see, someone else in her class wore sandals yesterday. And because it's almost spring, right? I mean, it only dropped into the 30s last night.

It's good for a child her age to develop her own fashion sense, to assume some independence when she enters her closet.

So, no, really, doesn't bother me at all that those icky, clunky Velcro disasters are encasing her cute little stockinged feet.

Really.

How small is my state?

You go to the bustling race track and, within an hour, bump into:

A woman about whom you wrote extensively for several stories two months ago.

The boyfriend of another woman about whom you wrote extensively for several stories.

Two people who work at the coffe shop you frequent each day.

Your realtor, the poor, patient man who spent all that time showing you houses with lots of natural light so that your serotonin levels wouldn't plummet after moving in. Only you don't recognize him because your 4-year-old is throwing a fit, something about how she wants a red drink like that lady over there -- at the bar -- has. Oh, the realtor also is Rick's softball coach. Trust me, I should have recognized him immediately.

Hubs' cousin Karen and her husband Derwood.

Some TV guy Hubs knows from various assignments.

Preface to today's most embarrassing moment: I've been to the track once, several years ago, pre-children.

Today's most embarrassing moment: As I carried a tired and whiny Tootie outside, hoping to distract her with hosres, she shrieked, "No, Mommy! No more races! I don't want to go to anymore races! Please don't make me watch more races!"

From the way people were staring it's clear they thought I was some gambling addict who hauls her poor children to the track every Saturday so that I can make them watch as I piss away their college education funds.

So not fair. If I were going to misspend the college money, I would put it toward a quiet room with lush white towels and a masseuse possessed with a sympathetic ear and strong hands.

Traits that I hope...

...to see my kids inherit from Hubs.

1.) Straight teeth (I had — in this order — most of my baby teeth pulled by the dentist; all of my canines surgically removed for lack of space; braces; and headgear. Wisdom teeth — also gone. Is is any wonder I would prefer to be dragged into a dentist's office already unconscious?)

2.) Normal feet. (Bunionectomy in 2001. Had both feet done at the same time, which required Hubs to fetch and carry and generally loathe coming home at night to find me parked on the couch demanding pedicures and toe rings for my birthday so that I could show off my new, much prettier feet.)

3.) Evenly matched legs. (My right leg is considerably shorter than my left one. What, you thought that hip-sway was deliberate?)

4.) The ability to eat a bloody steak without Googling the symptoms of E. coli.

5.) The thick, wavy hair he had waaaay back when he wore overalls and flannel and resembled one or more of the guys from the band Alabama.

So at a recent birthday party...

...this would be the one that involved a fire truck blaring its horn at a crowd of 2-year-olds until half of them were shrieking and inconsolable.

As the truck pulled away for a ride around the block, the last image, one that lingers still in the party-numbed recesses of my brain, is that of a small screaming tot who was forced onto the back of the vehicle with his determined, clench-jawed father. (Uh, dude? Your kid soooo doesn't want to be on that freaking truck. How 'bout shaking off some of the excess testosterone and we'll head over to the non-alcoholic beverage table, chug some apple juice and commiserate over our wussy sons, eh, pardner?)

Geez.

I wandered over to where the other mothers were standing. They were discussing how their 2-year-olds all see a speech therapist, who, apparently makes rounds at E-man's day care.

"Why?" I asked.

"My little girl says "nack" instead of "snack," one mom explained.

"Um. So does E-man."

"Mine says "berry" instead of "very."

"Um. So does Tootie, my 4-year-old."

Call me a bad parent, but I love my children's mispronunciations. They're the last vestiges of babyhood and on the day Tootie quits asking to go play in the "backlard," well, I'll weep over those pesky Y-words.

My favorite -- now vanquished by proper pronunciation, dammit -- was how "TR" became an F-sound.

"Mommy, there's a firef***!"

"Oh, how cute," I cooed to Hubs when it started. "Her first baby cuss words."

But back to speech therapy. For 2-year-olds.

Women. Sisters. Fellow mamas. What have we come to? Can we really not just enjoy the first couple of years when these little slip-ups are the norm? Can we not find humor in them? Must we run out to procure professionals who will deprive us of our kids'cutest verbal fumbles?

What happened to finding a little humor in child-rearing? Personally, I would have throttled anyone who tried to correct Tootie when she said "dumb f***" instead of "dump truck."

I love the way E-man says "Nack." Or "tink yew" for "thank you." Or the way he calls himself "D-man."

My little D-man doesn't need speech therapy. And he can utter all the tinks his little heart desires.

I've seen kids overcorrected so frequently that they have trouble verbalizing their thoughts. Because they know the focus isn't on WHAT they say, but HOW they say it. Sad. So sad.

Lest you think I consider myself above the fray, let me assure you -- I can hang with the party crowd.

Exhibit A:

I present E-man, forced to don a fire hat, just so we could document his shame.



And laugh over it later.

Kneeling before the porcelain god

This morning, the plumber came to fix the kids' bathtub, which, for several days, has refused to drain. (Tootie claims that E-man allowed the lid to his Aveeno body wash to go down the drain, but who knows what really happened. "E-man did it" is the most oft-uttered refrain in our home.)

Our house was built in 1955. The bathroom totally represents that year, boasting a pink octagonally tiled floor, salmon and maroon wall tiles, etc...

And, apparently, the original toilet, which promptly sent the plumber into raptures.

"Wow," he said on entering the Pink Bathroom. "Look at that toilet."

He dropped, almost reverently, to his knees and inspected it more closely.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing at the tank cover.

"Oh, sure," I said.

"A Standard," the plumber murmured as he peered into the tank.

He turned to me. "Do you know what year this is from?"

"Umm... no," I said.

"1951," he told me. "This is your home's original toilet."

Now if Hubs had been present, he would have offered the plumber coffee and they would have sat cross-legged together on the bathroom floor, rhapsodizing about the beauty of old things.

But this poor guy was stuck with me, the woman who, according to her packrat husband, really has it in for "old stuff."

(In my defense, I like old things that are functional. And attractive. It's just that most of Hubs' old things don't happen to fit either description.)

As far as the toilet goes, well, it's never done me wrong. And I've always thought it was kind of cute, in a retro sort of way. I mean, it certainly fits the theme of the bathroom.

But this guy was really ooohing and ahhhing over our potty. He looked at the base of the toilet and I swear, his eyes misted over when he saw the knobby little caps that cover four screws. "Wow, you still have these," he said longingly. "I used to collect these, but my wife made me get rid of them."

He also was impressed by some thingy in the tank, which also happens to be an original — and now, rare — part.

... And all I'm thinking is, "Well, hell, how much is it going to cost us if this 'original' thingy breaks?" (Answer: At least $200-$300)

I won't bore you with the carrying-on that followed when he started examining the sink, but apparently it's pretty old too.

Hubs called shortly thereafter, and I informed him that not only is our bathtub fixed, we also are the proud owners of a really cool toilet.

And I told him how the plumber used to collect the little knobby caps located at the bottom of the potty, and there was a long pause ...

... which kind of makes me wonder if there's another collection in our shed that I don't know about.

One of the more difficult...

....elements of motherhood, for me, has been the necessity of becoming a quasi-functioning morning person.

I lost the ability to sleep in long ago. And I don't really miss that, although every so often, I would love to stay in bed until 10 or so, reading the paper, drinking coffee.

What's difficult is having to rise quickly, having to throw myself immediately into the morning chaos that constitutes "getting ready" at our house, having to maintain enough of my wits to outsmart the two little people who know their mama isn't always on top of things first thing in the morning.

("Mommy, can we have fruit snacks for breakfast?"
"Oh sure, sweetie," says the woman groping her way to the coffee pot. "No, wait, Tootie, no fruit snacks. How about some yogurt?")

As you can imagine, such inconsistency doesn't sit well with a 4-year-old.

In an ideal world, I would have one cup of coffee and 30 minutes to find at least a shred of the consciousness needed to persuade Tootie that last year's Halloween costume really isn't an appropriate choice for school.

But when you have two small children, one of whom is an early riser -- a happy one, thankfully, but still early -- there's not enough time for these vital preparations.

E-man pops up the minute the first sunbeam passes through his window. I've tried to make it up before him -- but I usually fall into my deepest sleep around 4 to 5ish, so unless I use an alarm -- and we don't in our house, because Hubs also bounds from the bed at dawn -- I can't rouse myself until I hear a chirping "Mommy!" echoing down the hallway.

So I stumble to his room, pick him up and lay back down for a dozing sort of snuggle, usually interrupted after about 10 minutes by E-man's demand for breakfast.

I figure I've got several more years of foggy mornings. And then, perhaps, I can teach my little early bird to get up and rummage for his own breakfast. (And maybe to bring me that first cup of coffee.)

Grocery shopping: Exercise in humiliation

So you decide to do the weekly shopping after the gym, and you figure both kids are in a good mood -- so why not take them with you?

And only after you've been caught talking to yourself -- because the grocery store recently started playing Easy Listening Music and today's current selection is the theme to The Young and the Restless -- ("Don't worry, guys, this'll be a quick trip because this hideous music is going to drive Mama crazy.) -- by a young guy who snickers --

-- and after your son develops a neon-green ring around his mouth from the fruit rollup, fruit snacks and Yogos you've plied him with just to keep the peace --

-- and after you crash into a battery display because the children insisted that they had to ride in one of the car-carts -- "The RED car, Mommy!" -- and the damn things are so much longer and difficult to maneuver --

-- and after your daughter narrates the collision -- "Mommy, why did you run into that? What were those? Did you break them? What are those on the floor?" --

-- and after all the customers in the checkout line jump and turn to see what led to the mighty crash and see a frazzled-looking woman with wet hair and wild eyes --

-- and after you look down and notice that your son is holding an open box of frozen fish fillets and also that he is GNAWING on one, and all you can think about is how you just posted on your blog a month or so ago about a guy who was letting his baby chew on a bloody steak package and, oh, what a hypocrite you are --

-- only after all of this, as you pry rock-solid fish from your 2-year-old's fingers, laughing maniacally out of embarrassment, does your 4-year-old daughter say, "Mommy, baby brothers are silly. I want you to have a baby girl."

And you laugh even harder and flush a deep red, because by now everyone in line has watched you wrest away a fillet from your youngest, and from their expressions they think it's pretty clear that you can't handle the two you have, so you say, "Oh, sweetie, I don't think Mommy's about to produce another baby just yet" -- and the cashier is doubled over, holding her stomach because she's laughing so hard, as your green-faced toddler son beams beatifically and your ever-talkative daughter opens a discussion on how women with big bellies always have babies inside them...and you get the impression she's referring to your belly by the way others are staring...

Next time I will shop at midnight -- alone and hooded.

At a different store.

In another freaking city...

...where they don't play soap opera themes.

Brushing dino's teeth