When I turned 12, my sister and I took a course on how to babysit. She and I learned the tricks of the trade: how to change diapers without getting poop everywhere, how to save a choking child, how to be the afternoon's entertainment.
What the class never touched on, however, was how to send the kids to bed and sneak junk food out of the pantry without getting caught. This was an artform, one that was perfected over time. One that I still put into practice at my parents' house when we visit.
I had to teach Adam the Way last week when we had the munchies before dinner. My mom was taking care of our daughter, and my dad was out of the house altogether. The perfect opportunity.
Adam immediately went for the chocolate.

"No, no, no - you can't just take THAT one. There are only 3 Reses Peanut Butter Cups left - he'll know someone took it."

He reaches for the York Peppermint Patty.

"That's better because it's under the those plates. But you can't throw the wrapper away because what if he sees it in the trash can? You have to stuff it in your pocket.
See, you can eat some of these marshmallows because the bag's already opened... and those Craisins on the top shelf. But not too many, because they'll KNOW. You can get a few of each. But put them back EXACTLY where you found them."

I want something big, something substantial.

"See that pudding? There are 2 stacks, 3 in each one. There's a different kind over there, just one though. But I really want THIS kind. I think I can eat one of those, and then put the other kind in the same stack. It gives the illusion that nothing has changed. I'll wash the spoon and put it back. No one will ever guess. Good thing I brought in my bag for the container."

After too many months of thinking that I was going to sit on the couch throughout the remainder of this pregnancy, I had a breakthrough on Cinco de Mayo. I cleaned my house. It was no stellar Merry Maids job, but I made an attempt, I set some goals, and I accomplished what a bachelor in his mid-twenties might assume meant "clean."
So then I thought to myself, "Oh my GOD. If I can clean, I can BLOG too!!"

But then there was more TV watching, and here we are ten days later, and instead of blogging, I've only gotten better at the cleaning.

Really it's just that my brain has gotten lazy, and I always think, "Geez, what in the world would I blog about? Maternity clothes? Cellulite? Dancing with the Stars? I thought back to when I used to blog, about the stuff that people aren't REALLY supposed to discuss in actual conversation. Like farting. And placentas. I figured out that all the television has sucked the sick thoughts from my head, and all I can think about is, "Oh MAN. It's 8:05, and if I don't hurry, I'll totally miss who is in the Bottom Two."

So here comes the sacrifice. Less TV, more sick thoughts about my life as a Kung Fu Fighter. Thank goodness the season finales are almost here. I'll be alone with my thoughts again.

Remember how one time I wrote that my daughter figured out how to match the mood of the day with the type of music we should listen to? Of course you do, because you're avid readers.

This week? The Beach Boys. Everyday. Every. single. day. Sometimes twice a day.

It really is the very perfect 4-year old music: easy to dance to, easy to learn the words, simple concept. For most.

Adam and I recently discovered that even though our daughter is some sort of super-hero reader person, she has big lack of street smarts. When we went to the playground last week, she told me beforehand, "I bet I can find some really good girlfriends here!" And so she directly said to one little girl, "I bet you'd be a really good friend to me!" The little girl touched her arm and yelled, "GOOD! You're IT!" Meanwhile, Amaris slowly, happily, naivly crossed the bridge where the other kids were trying to escape her. And here we are yelling at the top of our lungs, "You have to RUN after them! You have to get her back! It's like chase, but where you GET people!"
Our only hope was to take her aside and explain step-by-step the rules of the game and gave her a full question-answer period. By the time she fully understood the ins and outs of Tag, the kids were on the swings.

After having listened to the Beach Boys for the 1000 millionth time since the CD was found in her easter basket, Amaris had to know exactly WHY the Beach Boy wanted Rhonda to get her out of his heart. "Do you mean that his heart was broken in half and spilled?" The conversation lasted about 15 minutes, included question after question, each one expecting a detailed account of the relationship between the Beach Boy and his ex-girlfriend. Just SING the song! It's not deep! It's fast! Just dance! Enjoy its simplicity!

I'm convinced that my next child will be lazy, not at all inquisitive, and will most likely occupy some future profession where he can hone his street smarts, such as a gambler, undercover agent, or thief. But at the same time as being very good looking and enjoying his role as a mama's boy.

I keep hearing these little voices that say, "HEY - it's been since February that you haven't updated your blog." They just appear. Mostly from my good friend Lisa.

It's been a long stretch, this last month. I've turned into a weird science experiment. I have weekly ultrasounds because I'm now in some sort of "danger zone." My doctor said to me, "Oh, don't let that term bother you. It's mostly for insurance purposes so that we can monitor this weird fluid sac next to your baby."

Huh?

So they've ruled out any problems with the placenta, and also that I don't have 2 uterine cavities. That second guess would have been kind of neat, because it was featured on Grey's Anatomy once. Oh, well. The most likely cause of this sac, and therefore intermittent bleeding, is because there may have been a twin at some point.

WHA??

Despite the "danger zone," the baby looks good. And it likes to show off on camera, which is fun. It's out-growing most babies at this stage, so I'm hoping for a real fatty. With my first pregnancy, I was hoping for an Asian. But this time I don't prefer one race over another; I just would like to see one big fat baby.

It's amazing to me just how little I care about these days. I care about the couch, the TV, and the blanket to keep me warm. And things are starting to bug me, too. Like when people wear perfume, when they eat in front of me, when they are being too positive for anyone's benefit. I've made an effort to say as little as possible throughout the day, because that's energy wasted that could be invested in watching TV. So when I DO say something, consider it very thought-out and important for your well-being. Such as, "Gee, I'm not feeling very well today." And I'll get a response like, "Awww, you're not? Poor you. Well, it's all for the good of the baby! Isn't that great?" "No, you idiot. I've never thought of it that way. Really? The BABY is making me feel this way? Take your positive thoughts and shove it, because you have no idea how I'm feeling right now."
Or when someone's in the middle of gossiping about a person, and I throw in the benefit of the doubt, and then Miss Gossipy tries to compensate for her own negativity by agreeing and then adding something nice about the person herself. "Excuse me, are you trying to out-positive me? Are you trying to OUT-positive ME? Because you're wrong. You're mean."

The moral of the story: don't piss me off when my hormones are raging.

I woke up to my daughter trying to convince my husband that Cat Power was "too sad" to listen to this morning. It was sunny, Adam was cooking breakfast, and Amaris was drawing. There's no sad anywhere in the picture.

Hooray! She's caught on to the notion that music fits a certain mood we're in. Last night on the way to a gallery reception, she wanted to listen to very upbeat, singable tunes. In the backseat, she's beating her hand against the door like a drum, and shouts periodically, "Let's get slammin', GIRL!"

And when she was dressing up like a princess and began awarding Adam and I with treasures (coins and jewelry), Adam played what Amaris considered the most inappropriate music of all. Loud, fast, hardcore. And this is what came next:

"Not THIS music! My TALENT! I have to do my TALENT! MYYY TAAALLEEEENNNNNTTT!!!"

I'm not sure if harcore will ever fit Amaris's mood in the future, but her firm stand against it now suits me just fine. When trying to decide between eating, sleeping and regurgitating, I'm almost never in a loud, fast mood.

Last week proved to be the most exciting Super Bowl Sunday I've ever experienced. Both my sister and I announced that we're pregnant. WHAT? Is this a TV show? It felt like it for about an hour, but then my mind wrapped itself around the idea that I AM PREG.NANT.

Do I sit a certain way? Are my hose too tight around my abdomen? I'm totally obsessing about sleeping only on my left side - it's the safest, right? Should I REALLY be lifting that? BLAH!

These are the thoughts I keep mulling over day and night. Then I wake up to pee, stay awake with the thoughts again for another hour, then get too hungry to sleep, repeat. I actually tried to think of a list of things that I've been productive with. I folded clothes Thursday and showed up for work this week. That about sums it up. I've proven to myself that one can really get by in life by being a complete lazy ass.

But, good news from the ol' doctor's assistant yesterday. It looks like everything is going much better than the last time around, so I have something the size of a sunflower seed inside me, that looks like a tadpole, that is developing a brain. This is crazy. And... fun.

And with that bit of news, I can concentrate again being creative, spend a little more time figuring out exactly which Luna Bar sounds good, and prepare myself for a week with the in-laws.