Just because I'm planning a few days off, the kids have been nurturing some really juicy coughs over the last 72 hours.

Now that we're not allowed to give little children cold medicines anymore, I suppose the most certain way to chase off their illnesses is to cancel my vacation days. Sorry kid, tough it out.

I am tired. I mean, really tired. Perpetually not focusing on stuff. I don't know whether to attribute this to inadequate sleep, insufficient caffeine, or the fact that I really haven't had a vacation in over a year.

Maternity leave does not count.

Our trip to the mainland in June does not count. Two weeks in a minivan with two kids under the age of three for two family weddings isn't a march through Bataan, but it's not particularly restful either.

Since I returned to work in January 2006, I've endured nine months of morning sickness, an international move, a job change, surgical birth, and my daughter's "Two's". I got three months of maternity leave (six weeks to recover from surgery and six weeks to dread going back to work).

Next week I am supposed to get a few glorious Days Off. Monday morning I'm going in to the office to hand stuff over to my boss, who is at a conference this week but should be back this weekend. Tuesday and Wednesday are leave days. Thursday we get TurkeyFest off because the company is US-owned. Friday we're having the office fumigated, so everyone gets a day off.

That's four days where the kids are in day care and I plan not to be at work. I hardly know what to do with myself.

If my mother were here, we'd be cleaning out closets and moving furniture. Sorry Mom, I'm thinking one day on the housework, max. If the weather is good, beach and books will be involved. A really good haircut is in order too. We shall see.

Of course, the Ineffable One has a sense of humor, and I am also expecting this to come into play with my so-called plans for "vacation". It is because of this that I will not be attending my high school reunion. No, I won't tell you how many years.

And on that note, back to the steaming piles of housework that await. Tomorrow is trash and recycling day. Wish you were here, Mom.

Twitter is down, so I guess I have to blog for real, ha ha.

My husband, a.k.a. Captain Ketosis, keeps finding interesting things to do with low-carb ingredients. Tonight's invention by necessity was a mock Brandy Alexander, with melted low-carb ice cream. (The ice cream was melting, I don't know, I don't ask questions.) And if someone out there wants to point out what the actual carb count of cognac, do me a favor and DON'T tell me. It won't make me any happier or more sober.

Oyez, oyez, oyez: Take note of lawyers in Washington DC collectively doing something decent.

I'll let someone else remark on the ABA President's statement that "President Musharraf sought to justify his actions by citing the threat of terrorism. But shutting down a nation’s lawful institutions of justice will hurt, not help, the fight against terrorism."

Ahem, FISA, cough, cough. Patriot Act, herm, ahem, cough.

The bike is BAAAAACK!!! The cops called two weeks ago and said they'd found my bike in a church parking lot about five klicks from our house. I tried very hard to sound very cool, but inside was squealing with glee like a five-year-old at Disneyland.
When I got to the police impound lot, I was horrified to see how many remains of stolen bikes there were there. The island is not that freaking big, how many people have bikes? And how many thieving scumbags are on the loose?
So the cops had to keep my baby overnight to do their low-rent CSI routine. The culprits took the seat (whiskey tango foxtrot?) as well as my helmet, cargo box, and rain gear. Oh, and they siphoned out all the gas.
Next steps: Wait another two weeks for repair shops on Island Time. Shop delivers restored bike. Discover keys in bike sitting in driveway. Call up shop and ask them whether they realize that the bike had come their way because it had been stolen out of my driveway.
I have a new cargo box, helmet, and two kryptonite locks. Watch out, world.

Contents of my glass recycling bag, all carefully sorted and washed: one dozen baby food jars, a wine bottle, and a bottle of Jose Cuervo margarita mix.

Hey, the baby food jars outnumber everything else, so no Britney jokes.

OMG Cool New WebToy! The only drawback is that most of the people I owe beers to are probably not Twittering. The fact that I live on an island hundreds of miles away from them also makes redemption difficult.

But dude, on-line karma tracking. This is so much cooler than Blackberrying. And in terms of usefulness to the human race, an order of magnitude more worthwhile.

Ready Or Not: This morning, I hugged my girl and said "Happy Birthday Gigi! You're three years old today!"

She smiled and asked, "Whyyyy?"

Oh yeah. She's three all right.

What am I supposed to do now, with no baseball to watch?

Oh yeah. Blog. Read books. Visit friends on-line. Talk to spouse about contents of lunch bags and diapers. I have a cat somewhere around here too.

And gloat gloat gloat gloat GLOATY GLOATY GLOAT about the Red Sox. Whoo hoo!

Since I spent yesterday in town I didn't get to post: "Happy Thanksgiving, eh!"

I was joking with my co-worker from Vancouver that it should just be called Copycat Day.

For those who have not been tracking my Twittering, I repeat: Some jerk stole my motorbike. Bike, helmet, rain gear and cargo box all gone gone gone. I am furious.

I can hear my mother whooping with joy across four time zones. Don't rub it in.

Insurance says they'll probably take about three weeks to cough up.

Here's what I love about the travelers' support biz: the constant exposure to the extraordinary capacity of your fellow human beings to astound and delight with STOOOOOPID questions. Today's feature: "I need more pages in my [nationality] passport. Do I actually have to send them the passport for the Embassy to put extra pages in it?"

Um, yeah. Seriously, in post-9/11, encoded-with-your-freakin'-DNA, GPS-linked passport controls, they'll just send you a little insert you can staple in at home.

Actually, Scotty will just beam the new pages in while you sleep.

If that doesn't work, just nick some copier paper out of the machine at work, and use some rubber cement to glue that to the outside cover. Just don't inhale too many of the fumes.

I have said before that I tend to refrain from politics on the blog. This is in part due to my desire to maintain anonymity. But every now and then I come across something worth commenting on, as most of my regular readers are in the USA. So here goes:

I am one of the lucky ones. I have a white-collar job with a big employer in a reasonably modern industry. I had at least ten years under my belt when I got pregnant the first time, and I decided that I wanted a year off. It was unpaid, but I needed the sabbatical more than I needed the paycheck, at least for twelve months. I got to nurse my daughter for about a year. Closing in on three years old, she is happy and healthy and a blessing on two feet.

When I got pregnant the second time around, I knew I wouldn't be able to take off another year. I also knew that I wanted to breastfeed the second baby for as long as possible. I have enough seniority that I have my own office with a door I can close; I also have that rarest of all commodities: a supportive, family-friendly boss. I don't know how I could have coped with having two kids under the age of three if I had been told I had to pump in the bathroom (would you want to feed your kids in the WC, even if it was reasonably clean?), or if they'd said, "Hey, you want to keep nursing after your twelve weeks of unpaid leave, just stay home."

So I went back to work, closed my door twice a day when possible, and kept the Mommy Juice flowing. My son is now ten months old, happy and healthy and a blessing on four scooting little appendages. He still nurses twice a day when we can manage it, though if he keeps testing his teeth on me I might have to reconsider.

But Thank The Maker, I had the choice and I have the choice. Millions of other women are not as fortunate. This is for them. Read more about it here. Don't think of it as politics. Think of it as investing in the future.

You know deep in your soul that you are getting old when you get excited about the fact that you can buy your anti-nausea Drug of Choice over the counter in your adoptive homeland.

Okay, seriously. Ten years ago, when I lived Down Under, I found that you could get Tylenol with Codeine over the counter - you had to ask for it, but you didn't need a scrip. I bought a pack for my big brother, who had TMJ and accompanying epic headaches. In my first and only brush with flouting Customs regs, I slapped a form on the box Declaring that I was sending "non-prescription cold relief" across international boundaries. Got away with it, too. (Statute of limitations, anyone?)

The fact that I even have a favorite anti-nausea medication is enough to, well, make me sick. Fortunately, I can now self-medicate this condition at whim.

It's official! The Boy has a new nickname: Chipper. As in, "you've kept us up howling like a lunatic for the last two hours, you refuse to accept any kind of soothing for your teething pain, and you just passed out for five minutes and woke up chattering and smiling.
"So why are you so $*&!ing Chipper?"

My little girl was sitting across the table, picking at the buttered noodles that I had chopped up for her dinner. "Tummyache food" I called it. She wanted yogurt, she wanted chocolate, she wanted all kinds of stuff that I wasn't going to give her after the day's events. Between her and her baby brother, in the last twelve hours, I had been puked on, punched, kicked, pulled on, headbutted, clung to, drunk from, kept awake, garroted, smacked, and cried on. I was and am physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. So I wasn't in the mood for debate on meal choices.

Gigi: "Mommy?"

Me : "Yes, sweetheart?"

Gigi: "I'm your best friend."

Gut bombs all weekend. The Boy came home with something Friday, and he and I spent lots of time sick on Saturday. I will spare you details; let it suffice to say that my gastrointestinal tract conducted some really vigorous seasonal cleaning.
Sunday we appeared to be in the clear.
This morning, at somewhere around four o'clock, my daughter came down the hall, climbed into bed with me, and puked. She is soooo ready for college.
So far my husband has avoided the worst of it. He had a bit of a tummyache and felt a little woozy, but a nap and a few doses of Pepto-Bismol seem to have him sorted out.
I don't know what my husband's stomach is made of, but I suspect that if you sold it to North Korea, an international politico-military crisis would ensue.

Happy New Year! Party like it's 5799.

Cognitive Dissonance: Twice in two nights now I have heard Jim Lehrer use the expression "the straight skinny." It borders on the surreal. I would just as soon expect my father to drink malt liquor from from the bottle, or my grandmother to describe something as "the shiznit".
If he does it a third time, I'm calling the station.

Just realized something: I have been blogging, either solo or part of a team, for over five years now. Two thoughts: I am getting old fast; and hee hee hee hee I ain't been caught yet. Militant anonymity has its advantages.

The day before my mother left, my son figured out how to climb the stairs. This tells me two things. First, the boy knows his audience. Second, we are sooooo screwed.

Finally finished Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. It involved putting both kids to bed by 8:15 and staying up past midnight, but I made it through the last 200 pages, over a month after first cracking the book open. It was worth it.
I have an entire bookcase of unread goodies waiting for me. Nevertheless my family continue to give me books - and in some cases, big dense ones - because they know of my propensity to have two or three going at any given time, and they know that I will in fact read them. Now the only question that remains is what comes into the rotation, in between the rest of the Mayflower history and the Looming Tower (too depressing to read this week). I'm thinking something paperback, fiction, and frivolous.

The Boy's second tooth has come in. Ow.
He spent the day at home today, having come down with a fever and the pukes last night. He's now back to normal, thank the Maker.
Tomorrow is Mom's last full day on the Island, barring freakish weather or a nervous breakdown (note that I won't say whose...) Whimper whimper whimper.

My mom is visiting, which means that furniture keeps getting moved around the house. If there is such a thing as a living poltergeist, she is it.
"Halley" has a cough and a fever. "Gigi" is back at school this week, after ten days off (the motivator for Mom's visit). My dear husband is watching the Red Sox and debating politics on a sports blog, and I am wondering what happened to the acres of free time I was supposed to have while Mom was here.
She goes home on Saturday. I'm already scheming to get her back.

This is the photo for my Blogger profile, from my time in Baltic Europe.

In over ten years of working with the traveling public, I have learned a few things. For example, there are two types of people who lose their passports: Americans, and everyone else.

Okay, not really. But there are two types: the kind who wait at least 24 hours before reporting their passports lost or stolen - which usually adds up to six hours before they want to go to the airport; and the kind who call up FRANTIC the minute they realize they can't find The Precious - which usually means they will be in a frenzy until their replacements can be secured. Then they will recover the old ones.

Halley Update: He is nine months old today. He crawls and can pull himself up to a standing position. This is one of his favorite pastimes. His hair is the color of Gold from the Crayola "Big Box" of 64 colors, and his eyes are like mahogany. He babbles with great enthusiasm. He has one tooth that has properly broken the surface of his lower gums, like Sgt. Snorkel.
He weighs 17 pounds and is 27 and a quarter inches long (fifth percentile and about 25th, respectively). He eats all sorts of pureed stuff and has little to no interest in Cheerios. He also likes watching Dora and Diego with his big sister - heaven help me.
Oh, and he is just about the cutest thing imaginable. I have several corroborating sources. Trust me.

Ooops, I read it again. I picked up HP7 again. I've also been plugging away at Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, which I started a month ago. Then two nights ago I watched The Prestige, which has insinuated itself into my dreams, mingling with Potter. I woke up the other morning thinking I had just watched the most horribly lame HP movie ever.
And my husband, bless his heart, is reading The Mists of Avalon (one of my favorite books of all time).
So all of this is to say that I am English-magicked-out at the moment.
As an antidote, I periodically pick up the Mayflower history that my brother sent me for my birthday. It's a paperback, conveniently sized for reading while nursing a wriggly baby. All the other books mentioned above are in hardcover and none is under 600 pages.
I'm also working my butt off at the office - it's high season for tourism, and the Island is abuzz with all sorts of traffic. And all my Islander colleagues ask the same question, "Why call it 'Tourist Season' if we're not allowed to shoot them?"

Still recovering from HP7, which I devoured within the first 24 hours of purchase. I pretty much read from 8 p.m. to 4 a.m. straight. I am in awe of those who have the discipline to put it down between chapters.
I don't think I'm letting out any spoilers when I say that I found the outcome satisfactory. But dang, Ms. Rowling, that is one wicked gangsta body count.

Not Ready For Prime Time. My husband had a stunned-bunny look on his face the other day. "You should know," he said in a very calmly modulated voice, "that our daughter has told me that she has to be married soon."

Bear in mind that Daddy would sooner give Matsuzaka away to the Yankees for free than admit that someday his daughter might go on a date. The notion of her getting married is simply too awful to imagine.

Then our little girl came up to me and announced, "Mommy, I have to be married soon." At first I thought I'd woken up on the wrong side of the 15th Century. Then I asked her who she planned to marry. She had to think about that for a minute, then she said, "Swiper."

So my two-year-old plans to marry an animated kleptomaniac fox. I can handle that.

Oh, by the way, "Halley" has started scoot-crawling. He can sit up unassisted too. And he giggles like the goat in the AFLAC commercials.

Waiting, waiting, waiting... Once it became clear that I would not see HP&tDH for several days, I picked up my paperback of Book One for a fix. It helps, but it also reminds me that I'm jonesing for a children's book. So to bide my time, and remind me that I'm a grownup, I've picked up the copy of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell my sister-in-law gave me. I am blessed with abundantly cool sisters-in-law.

Deep down I know I did the right thing, establishing domestic tranquility and all that on Friday evening. But I really really really wanted to go downtown, get that ruddy book, and Twitter or phone my peeps back home with "Chapter One..., neener neener." I would have stayed up all night reading and been a wreck the next day.

Now you know that you're getting old when staying up all night and being a useless pile of junk the next day involves reading a book rather than ingesting recreational chemicals.

ARRRRGGGGGGH!!!!!
The four most miserable words in the English language are "SOLD OUT - Pre-Orders Only".

Okay, seriously. I am a reasonable person. I know that there are hundreds of millions of people on this earth in more dire conditions than this. And I complain about closet mildew and the water running out and insects the size of Shetland ponies, but I tell myself that these are blessings compared to the life I could be living.

Then this happens.

I could have had one of these books several hours before the rest of my family. The Island's closest-thing-to-a-metropolis had a street fair launch party, kicking off at midnight London time (i.e. while it's still daylight here Friday night). I wanted to go. But nooooooooooooooooo, I decided I was going to act my age.

I stayed at home, put the kids to bed, cleaned the kitchen, did a load of laundry, took the box fan apart to scrub and soak the mildew off of it, and got a good night's sleep. The next morning, I dropped off a donation at the hospital board's charity shop (is this not good karma, I ask you?!?!?) and went to my morning appointment.

And when I got downtown at 11 a.m. Saturday morning, every book that wasn't spoken for was sold. Gone. Nada. Zilch. Niente. Bupkes.

Who runs the bookstores on this lump of rock anyway?

I even saw people on the street walking around with their copies, and only refrained from jumping them because they had the kids with them.

So I suppose I can only blame myself for not having the presence of mind to pre-order the thing, for expecting that there would be copies aplenty of the most anticipated book of the year, and not adapting my mindset sufficiently to Island Mode.

And I should get a grip on myself, because it is just a book - and one written for people one-third my age - and I will get a copy eventually.

But I am compelled to maintain my media blackout for at least another week. And the last two e-mails that my mom sent me had "Harry Potter" in the title, so I don't dare click on them. (Sorry Mom, better call me if it's important.)

And I repeat, anyone who spoils this book for me meets a nasty fate: I will lock you in the water tank under my house. You will either drown, die of thirst, or be devoured by something with six legs and no conscience. All are warned.

Echoing my Big Brother here: I am jumping on the Hogwarts Express tomorrow, come hell or high water or horcruxes. I am entering a media blackout for the next 72 hours. Anyone who even dreams about putting a spoiler in my path had better wake up and apologize. Then they'd best run for cover before I open a can of Sectumsempra on their sorry behinds.

I fully realize that I should know better. I am closer to 40 than to 30. But deep down, (again, borrowing my bro's words) I am just two thirteen-year-olds and a twelve-year-old.

Even the mediocrity of Movie Five can not kill the buzz of giddy anticipation. See you all at the Burrow.

Happy Birthday to Me! I took the afternoon off work yesterday to take in a matinee of the new Harry Potter movie, because I am not really almost 40, I'm two thirteen-year-olds and a twelve-year-old.
This is the theatre where we went to see "The Departed" last fall, and the film broke about ten minutes before the end. So this place is just full of bad karma, but when there are four theatres on the entire island you can't be picky.
So of course it makes perfect sense that my skiving buzz got killed when we went to pick up Gigi from school, and her teacher said, "We've been trying to call you since 3:00; she has a fever, we've sent four other kids home today with temperatures."
None of this surprises me, of course, because the last time I swore I was taking a "mental health" day off, both kids got sick. I suppose this time the only reason Halley got off lucky was that I spent the first half of the day at work.

How did I spend July 4th? Eating red meat and watching a Spielberg flick about robots beating the crap out of each other. Sounds appropriate enough...

Best Headline This Year.

I'm going to be up half the night giggling over the concept of "too ignorant to be Canadian."

Really, it's going to take Dick Cheney getting his nipple bitten off by a beaver to top that one.

Our fearful trip is done, and I have fallen on the deck, cold and dead. As soon as I've recovered, you get the recap.

You know it's time for a vacation when...
Three nights in a row, you catch yourself just shy of locking your home computer with Ctrl-Alt-Del.

Vacation, gotta get away...
People ask, "where do you go for vacation if you live on The Island?"
Well, so far, I haven't. We've been here just shy of a year, during which we've moved in, lived through two hurricanes, had a baby, taken a painfully short maternity leave, and waged asymmetrical warfare against the resident insect life. My husband left The Island for all of 48 hours for a funeral two months ago.
So now we're taking a trip. I won't call it a vacation. We're flying to New England, where we will go to the woods to live deliberately with my in-laws -- including my husband's Euro-grandparents, with whom I do not share a common language. They seem to like me well enough; but last time we visited them, I broke one of Oma's plates; and when they visited us in the Baltics, Oma broke her clavicle. If we get through a visit together on neutral territory with nothing fractured, I will consider it a big win.
Anyway, at the end of this week, Gigi plays flower girl at Uncle Mikey's wedding. Then we'll make a trek down the coast. I used to love road trips, before they involved minivans and a matching set of preschoolers. This is undiscovered country: here be dragons. Or freakish purple dinosaurs. If only one of us drives, the other one can drink, right?
We'll stop at various midAtlantic points, until we reach the next wedding, my cousin's.
I remember this cousin as a baby. I held him up to my grandmother's apartment door and taught him how the locks worked. The kid could probably wipe the walls with me at chess by age five. He's now approaching the quarter-century mark and will probably be lending Bill Gates money before he's forty. (At the very least, he could kick his @$$ at bridge.) I say this out of admiration, not jealousy. I can not begrudge him his good fortune in avoiding our common ancestry's disastrous math genes.
But I digress. I'm going to be doing that a lot over the next ten days.
And I probably won't have regular access to the internet. See that whole "live deliberately" bit above.
So by the time we get back to The Island, I will probably need a vacation desperately. And I'll be back to square one, where people say to me, "Oh sure, you need a vacation - Duh! You live on The Island!!!"
Oh fate, how you mock me.

Potty Training Vignettes:
My husband looks bewildered. He says, "I've just been handed a piece of poo wrapped in tissue."

I'm too busy laughing to ask whether there was a card.

So it turns out that "Bastin pheromones" should really be rendered "Bahstahn" pheromones. My correspondent was referring to the fact that I married into Red Sox Nation, where people "pahk theah cahs". He seems to believe that I am unduly influenced by an atmosphere redolent with RSN vapors. No, dearie, it's not pheromones; that's the smell of Nine Games Up.

The <&*^%$> dryer is electric.

So how have I found an hour just now for blogging? In fact, I am hiding from my children, who are howling in stereo. At six-months-and-change, The Boy is both teething and reluctant to fall asleep without being nursed into dreamy oblivion. Gigi, at this moment, appears to be having a Night Terror. Google it yourself, I'm too tired to hyperlink. Wikipedia has a good article too.
Our little angels have set aside any latent sibling rivalry in favor of solid tag-team relay work: The Boy is home from the hospital, sleeping without sound effects, and back in school, so it's Gigi's turn to have a fever. I blame the fever for precipitating this current episode. I went in to check on her about 30 minutes ago, and she not-quite-woke-up and started pitching a fit. Think about reel one of the Exorcist, minus puke.
So while the kids wear themselves down, I have to stay away - but close enough that I can tell whether they are in any real danger. So I can't avoid the screaming, and I can't quite tune it out.
Anyone with kindly suggestions about coping with this situation without locking anyone in a closet, imbibing Night Train by the case, or violating a Commandment, drop me a line at purplescareblog@gmail.com. I'm going to go fold some laundry, see if sticking my head in the dryer gives any comfort.

To Twitter, Not; Two Twits
Arguably, an opening line like that is reason enough for me to seriously reconsider a course of action.
Since I put that little badge in the upper right hand corner of Purple Scare, I've had people asking me Why Oh Why Would you do such a thing???

To which I have generally responded, because I can link it to Purple Scare and update more frequently and quickly.

One of my more loyal readers (perhaps the only one who is not a relative by blood or marriage) replied to me thusly:

Allow me to be the voice of reason, or at least a
stocky robot with flairing arms crying "Danger!
Danger Will Robinson!"

Blog. Do not Twitter, do not pass go, do not collect
$200. In your blog posts, you can riff on life,
politics, philosophy. You can vent, cheer, ponder,
mourn. And it affords you the opportunity to do it
all with style and humor. Your insights and
personality are what we crave, not the banal details
of your physical life.

Twitter is a slippery slope to such posts as:

... is peeing. Slight cloudy, primrose yellow
(PANTONE 13-0755 TC)

...is writing on Twitter right now

...is thinking about her next Twitter post


I'll chalk up this momentary lapse in good judgement
to an overabundance of Bastin pheromones in your
household, and we'll never speak of it again.

And what I wrote back was this:

"[...]find me an extra hour a day to compose worthwhile banter and insight, I'll personally hand you your Nobel Prize.

"If I start Twittering about bodily functions more intimate than food cravings, then by all means, feel free to put a bullet in my head.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go Google 'Bastin pheromones'."

I have met my alter ego, and it's a cartoon character. At least I'm somewhat better looking.

Mixed News about The Boy The good news is that they are pretty sure it's viral, not bacterial. The bad news is that they don't want to send him home yet. One more night in the hospital, whimper. I miss my baby.
Last night I stayed up way too late, playing with the new feature you see in the upper right hand corner of my page: Twitter! Between the lack of sleep and facing another day with my baby in the hospital, I was pretty useless at the office today. I am resolved to get to bed at a decent hour tonight. Which is looking less and less likely, the more time I bugger around on Blogger, I suppose.
Yeah, the whole "thinking clearly" thing just isn't working for me. The only thing keeping me out of bed right now is the certain knowledge that I will have an even harder time getting out of bed tomorrow if I have to face a ginormous pile of dishes first thing in the morning. Ugh.
My husband is enjoying a well-earned night out, his first in weeks. His primary social outlet - a floating poker tournament - has been shut down while Powers That Be try to figure out whether it violates local gaming laws. Fortunately, he has alternatives. All work at home and no play outside the home makes Dear Husband a tad stir crazy.

Little man turned six months last week. This boggles my mind.

I am way behind on the blogging. Here's how insane I am: boy got sick over the weekend. If you've seen Intolerable Cruelty, you no doubt remember the character "Wheezy Joe" - that's what the boy sounded like. Add in feverish, inconsolable, unable to sleep for more than two hours at a stretch, and you have a pretty good idea of what he was like.

The pediatrician put him in the hospital for IV antibiotics and nebulizer therapy. I am really very calm about this. Either that or I am too exhausted, after 48 nearly sleepless hours with a crying infant, to register anything other than relief.

I was packing up a little bag to go to the hospital so I could be with the boy overnight. My husband talked me out of it, assuring me that I would sleep much better at home. Still, I was this close to taking my laptop to the hospital so I could stay by my son's bedside and catch up on drafting posts. The hospital doesn't even have internet connectivity. But I could at least compose in Notepad!

No, readers, I stayed home and let the qualified professionals stay up all night worrying about him. When it comes to staying up all night worrying, I guess I just have to settle for being an ambitious amateur.

It's very late now, and I should be in bed. At least I know that when I go to work tomorrow, everyone will understand why I look like a panda bear with a meth jones.

What else have I been up to? Introducing Gigi to the Potty. I will spare you gory details. Let it suffice to say that her ability to tell us about her bodily functions is a mixed blessing.

Happy Mothers Day! Have you missed me?

Yeah, me too.

Let's see, where have I been and what have I been up to?

I was sitting shivah for Molly Ivins.

No, that's not it. Plausible, but inaccurate.

I've been on a quest for the perfect ginger beer.

Better, but still...

Okay, here's the truth: I've been working, coming home and cherishing my children, playing chew toy for my teething son, studying the pantheon of Dora the Explorer, sleeping when I can, and struggling to retain vestiges of an independent personality.

For a real treat, I occasionally have read fragments of books that don't involve rhyme schemes or cartoon critters. The trouble is that some of these non-kid books concern contemporary politics and current events, and every few pages I want to throw something heavy through a plate-glass window.

Seriously, if you finish a chapter of this one without having to suppress a primal scream, have someone hold a mirror under your nose. You might be dead.

To cheer myself up, I read Barack Obama's first memoir. He seems like a nice guy to have a beer with, and would probably be a decent U.S. President: compassionate, committed, self-made - kinda like some other guy the Democrats fielded a while back... But the guy freely admits to having smoked weed and having inhaled.

I'd go on more, but the baby is crying. Time for a feed.

So this is what it takes to get me back to the Blogger: an easy link, courtesy of my brother.

Again, I stand accused of blogslacking. Mea culpa, but it's been bumpy of late. In sum: Mom went home.

Okay, things are a little more complex than that. But there's a good start.

Impressionable: I was feeding Little Guy when his Big Sister Gigi came up and said, "I feed my baby too!" She climbed onto the couch beside me with her baby doll, took off her PJ top, and held the doll to her chest.

Now I understand why Sylvia Plath got up at 4:30 every day to work on her Ariel poems by candlelight.
Right now, it's 2:00 in the afternoon. My husband is used-book shopping at the local charity thrift store, my mom is reading a book, and both of my children are napping. I have a load of laundry spinning down and a Cornish pasty warming up in the toaster oven. This would be an optimal time to write a Work of Staggering Genius and Blinding Insight. However, what I really want to do is put my face in a pillow and leave it there for about a week. I'm drinking nearly a pot of coffee a day and I can still fall asleep in a blink.
I have little enough time for myself during the day. At night I'm wiped out. Getting up early - which used to come to me as naturally as photosynthesis - will likely become my sole source of "me time" of any use.
Just proving my point... It's now 7:30 the following morning, and I'm getting back to this post. The coffee is almost ready. The sun is above the ocean and behind some clouds.
I adore my family, but I also require periodic peace and solitude. I'm not out to write volumes of brilliance, I just want to reassure myself that I have a personality beyond "Mommy" and "Colleague". I couldn't do this every day of the week for the rest of my life, or at least not getting up at 4:30. Hey, much respect to the late Mrs. Hughes, but no thank you. The Ariel collection is extraordinary, but the net result left something to be desired.
My mother is awake. Time for me to get some coffee and help her unload the dishwasher. And I am going to need a nap if I'm going to make it through Oscar night.

Covet, covet, covet!

Go ahead, ask me how my first day back at work went.

Little Man threw me off my game early by waking up for a feed at 4 a.m. rather than his usual 5:30. I never really got back to sleep during the next two and a half hours.

Then I had to get two-year-old Gigi to school. She isn't used to Mommy frog-marching her out the door before 8 a.m. anymore, so this is going to take some readjustment. I left behind my son, snoozing and farting in his grandmother's arms.

I got to the office and had over one thousand e-mails in my in-box. This is NOT an exaggeration. Fat lot of good the Out-of-Office reply did me.

Before I could unpack my briefcase, Day Care called to ask me to come get Gigi, who had diarrhea again. I got her home, then had to turn right around to go back to the office. But Mommy going back to work doesn't really mean much to a sick Gigi, who picked up her favorite book and asked plaintively, "Mommy read Bedtime?"

It wasn't even 9:30.

Then I got back to work, and my colleague tells me it's time to go to the hospital to visit the guys who arrived on a Search and Rescue vessel at 5:00 this morning, having spent the previous 24 hours tossed around on what was left of a small boat in 50-knot winds with 45-foot waves, and having watched their companion go overboard, lost to the sea.

When we least want it and most need it, the Ineffable One has a way of smacking us upside the head with a little perspective.

Baby Update: At six weeks, he weighs ten pounds. At this rate, he'll be bigger than his sister before his first birthday!

It's Not My Fault, Hooray!!! My mother has been staying with us for nearly two months now, God love her. Yesterday, Gigi hit a new milestone, with Grandma's help.

Grandma was fixing Gigi's breakfast, you see, when she encountered a daddylonglegs in a corner of the kitchen, and reacted the way many of us do when we see an unexpected arachnid: "HOLY CRAP!"

And from across the room, Grandma heard "Howey kap!!!"

Yeah, we were extra pleased to unleash her on her daycare classmates that day.

File Under "Island Life/Sticker Shock": One head of cauliflower, US $ 9.56.

Milestone Alert: The Boy grabbed a toy today. Not too shabby for six weeks. He's currently lying down on one of those gym/playmats with zoo animals dangling overhead, and he keeps swatting at them, so, wait for it...

My son has spanked his first monkey.

Maybe I should have stayed off the Blogger a bit longer...

So Happy New Year everyone.

My first thought on seeing this headline was, "Anyone who loves me, send me a bag." Then I read the actual reviews and thought better of it. Too bad, it sounded so promising...

Notes from the Sick Ward: The day I had hoped would mark Gigi's return to nursery, she decided to puke on the kitchen floor. So much for that. Her infection ran its course in time for a cold to settle in, and that's been working its way through the house. Poor kid was stuck at home for two weeks all together, and couldn't understand why she wasn't being allowed to play outside (even as she was running a fever and blowing snot). By Christmas Eve, we were all climbing the walls.

Being at home with a sick toddler leads one to desparate measures. By Day Eight, I caved in to the Electric Babysitter, aka TiVo. And yes, I let the Little Red Freak into my household. Elmo and his buddies bought us a few minutes' peace between naptimes and dose-of-Advil-time, so the rest of us could guzzle hot tea and honk up the contents of our nasal passages. Ugh.

We all seem to be over the worst of it now, but it was a heck of a way to spend the week before Christmas. We all got pretty punchy by the time St Nick was due for his rounds. For examples:

Me: "Hey Mom, what do you want to watch: It's a Wonderful Life, or Reservoir Dogs?"

Or, try this:

Husband: "Hey, this burp cloth is really bad. It's too small and doesn't really absorb anything."

Me, and Mom, (simultaneously, from different rooms): "HEY! You burp the kid with the cloth that you have, not the the cloth you wish you had!"

Or:

Mom: "How about moving this chair over here? It'd really tie the room together."

Me: "Great! Now all I need is a Chinaman to pee on it."

So you can see why I stayed away from the Blogger for a while...